The Eyes Will Follow You Until _______

PIckAtTheScAB. pICKaTtHEhEALING.

pick at the scab pick at the healing

Pick at the scab. Pick at the healing.

Fidgeting fingers fought for focus as Ishikawa Masaru braced for the incoming crowd crush on the Chūō Line. May’s springtime winds had faded, and now June’s plum ripening rains were turning the Tokyo skyline purple with incessant precipitation. As Masaru flinched and shuffled his feet to welcome dozens of other commuters, he watched their distorted reflections bend against the raindrop streaks on the train window. Faces blurred and smeared into garish, stretched visages with darkened eyes and gnawing mouths.

Pick at the healing.

Razor burn and ingrown hairs lined his shirt collar as the rough edges of pressed white fabric pulled continuous friction against his aggravated neck. There was never a break. He shaved everyday and no matter what product he used, his skin stayed aggravated. Bodies filed in and his teeth chattered on themselves. Too many bodies. Too many days. Too many everything.

Cheap black and blue polyester gave semblances of conformity. Silence coated the air. He hated being touched. One of his eyes didn’t look in the correct direction. Arthritis was setting in to his wrists and shoulders.

Pick at the scab.

Hundreds of damp, humid suits crowded into the car and the interior temperature rose several degrees. Windows fogged with every second. His collar was always too tight. All he could do was close his eyes and try to ignore the breath of his neighbor who was inches away and now exhaling on his ear.

Last night he dreamt of his teeth all falling out and being replaced by mechanical keyboard keys. Pitch black ink bled from his gums and coated his fingers as he shoved plastic key after plastic key into place.

The train entered a tunnel and the car went black.

In the darkness he could feel them. Even when no one was visible, he could sense the bodies of those around him, and he wondered how he registered to them. Did they notice he was small? Did they feel his frail arms and trembling hands? What did he smell like to others?

Streaks of light bent and glared as they rushed by, casting their temporary hints of awareness onto the passengers as they looked down in silence at their phone screens.

No one ever looked at one another. No one spoke. Trains moved in silence as they hurtled thousands of weary souls to their daily rituals of labor.

Muscles spasmed in his face as a faint grunt escaped from his lips without his permission. Too many breaths on his neck. Too many bodies. Too many everything.

Pick at the healing. Pick at the healing. Pick at the healing.

His stop was coming up soon. Fifty-four minutes each way, with two connections.

The tunnel always seemed to last longer than it should.

Pick at the scab.

Creaks and screeches sounded out as the cars hurled along the tracks, still blanketed by dark.

Then the eyes appeared.

“Oh no, please no,” Masaru muttered to himself as the two glowing orbs bobbed in the depths just outside the window.

Though they were careening through the darkness at a pace well beyond any human or animal, the eyes were moving in tandem with them, just as they always did.

Bodiless.

Faceless.

Weightless.

Unblinking.

Masaru shook his head, begging for them to disappear, but to his great fear, they remained. It had been quite some time since those spectres had visited him. At least three years. But now they were there, peering relentlessly at him as they hung in the darkness. Something terrible was about to happen.

“Don’t look out the window,” Masaru whispered to the young children who were riding beside him on their way to school.

“Sorry?” the girl asked.

It was subtle, but her gaze settled on his lazy eye before looking at his good one. He was used to it. Light broke along the glass as the train exited the tunnel. Faint sounds thudded from the front of the train.

“Don’t look out the window,” Masaru repeated.

He didn’t know how or why, but he felt like whatever terrible thing was waiting, it would be visible from the window. Icy pricks of dread crawled from his liver and fingertips, clawing their way along his skin with pained slowness. Their embrace corrupted his arms and chest until the entire upper half of his body was numb and trembling. Up and up the feeling rose until it reached his throat, building into a guttural gagging growl that Masaru forced into submission with a choked gag.

The eyes grew brighter.

“Please,” Masaru begged.

Just like every other time, he didn’t know what was coming. He just knew it would be sad. No way to stop it. No way to understand it. All he could do was brace for whatever was next.

Then the red appeared on the window.

It was faint at first. Drops of rainfall were still gathering from the steady precipitation, but their presence was now being accented by foreign red lines that streaked and smeared. They’d come from the front of the train, one car up. Now, their remnants were making their way along the metal of the outside. Masaru’s stomach spasmed as the dread drilled into his throat and eyes. Chunks of hair and flecks of fleshy residue smeared along the window and he forced himself to look away.

Beside him, the girl ignored his warning and looked up. When she realized what was happening, she let out a faint whimper just before the overhead alerts began to ping.

“Personal Injury. Please Be Advised. Personal Injury.”

Many in the crowded car let out sighs of frustration. There was going to be a delay now. They were going to be late.

Pick at the scab. Pick at the scab. PICKatTHEscab. pickatthescab.

The edge of his shirt sleeve was damp as it rested on his wrist.

Pick at the healing. Pick at the healing. Pick at the healing.

Cotton tri-blend bit at his neck. Breaks screamed. The train slowed. There would be a delay. He was going to be late.

Late.

Late.

Late.

He couldn’t be late.

As the train came to a stop for servicing, the red no longer streaked in momentum. Now it began to smear downward, where it gathered in the pooling water that sat on the windowframe. Crimson and cadmium life force ran vertically along the place where the eyes were, but now they were gone.

Right side doors opened, smearing the remnants of humanity along rubber seals and metal rails. Whispers of annoyance and a few thoughtful prayers hung in the air as the passengers began to exit beside the incident.

“God damned train jumpers. They should at least wait till morning commutes are done,” a well-dressed young man snarled as he pushed by Masaru.

Pickatthehealingpickatthehealibgpickatthehealing

Officers and station attendants shooed them away as they unfurled tarps and safety markers. Masaru sighed as he bowed to the red streaks and braced himself to walk the rest of the way.

When he exited the station, the downpour had intensified. Soon, far more than his sleeve-end would be damp. Wetness on his collar always made his neck even more aggravated. His stop had a vending machine where he would get morning coffee, but this machine didn’t have his preferred brand.

Masaru resigned himself to head to the office. Another form of dread settled into his throat and the bottom of his liver as he contemplated what was waiting. Today was his annual performance review.