“What do you mean by open eyes?”
The first time I heard the answer, it was responsible for the constant buzzing and lingering nausea. The desolating feeling of disconnect, the settling of my mind that could no longer find comfort in denial, that could not ignore the blurred lines, instead dragged to the streets and forced to recognize that I no longer shared the same basic foundation - reality - as others.
And on a humid day, in the midst of mud and dirt, I buried the man with his eyes open. I covered his body in dirt as his expression fell on me. I hit the headstone with my hammer at the rate his eyes were supposed to blink, but they stayed there, stagnant and attentive.
Days later I still feel watched walking through the cemetery, and I hear the cracking of his dry eyes rolling with my every move. I hope he rots soon.
On that day, I dreamed of the smell of rust again.
I dreamed of the day I buried Carolina.
All the moisture has rusted through her cheap jewelry, overpowering the doldrums of the musty scent.
I wish that all the city rotted away instead of her. All of the days since then have been humid, hot, like I was slowly boiling, cooking from within.
My eyes sting from the salt of my sweat and I wake up when I blink.
Blink, Caroline never blinked again. I wanted her to look at me one more time. I opened her eyes before closing the grave. Eyes open, not looking at anything.
I yearn for her to look at me again. To somebody look at me again.
Something is looking at me. As I water the flowers, as I sweep the yard. With every cockroach my boot crushes, with every candle I blow out.
I can not sleep anymore. At dawn in my room, outside the concrete walls, five hundred meters away, through the iron fences in the Santa Prata cemetery and 7 feet underground, he is looking at me.
I can’t take it anymore, my head throbs as I desecrate the pit in the night’s cover while all the stars retreat further into space, looking for meaning elsewhere beyond my reach.
Earth to earth, my shovel fend the mice, I covered 7 feets of earth, but dug it twice.
Just a little more.
Down here the wet shovel stinks of rust. I throw it to the ground when it hits something solid and I switch it to my hands. I scoop the body all out at once, just as his gray eyes meet mine.
The hoarseness, shaky voice rips my dry throat as it lets out a question:
What are you looking at?
The hit in my chest like a heart attack, when his jaw breaks its rigor but instead of his it’s Caroline’s voice that floods my within.
“Sorry for not using my own eyes, they’ve already rotted away.”
Her humor always made me laugh. I don’t laugh, but the night is young.