Every single day I die and live up again. Every single day I wake up and look into your eyes — and whatever is down there looks back, and it kills me, every single day, to look at it.
As Prometheus had his stomach destroyed by an eagle by morning, and had it restored by night, your eyes take little pieces of my soul, only to give them back when you smile. You are the reason of my death, my downfall — and yet you are the reason of my living, my rising.
While I get up from bed and open the curtains, I wonder if this is a way for one to live. I walk through the room in a cautious silence, open the bathroom door soaked with the fear of waking you up and seeing — and so I wonder how it is like to live without the breath of death behind your back.
Closing the door behind me, I let myself take a deep breath. I open the bathroom cabinet and convince myself that today is going to be different. This is no life! I should be somewhere else, somewhere far away from your eyes! I gaze into my own, while brushing my teeth, and my decision is final: today, we are done. No more, I think to myself.
I cross the room once again and head downstairs. I cook scrambled eggs (to gaze into those intact gems scares me) and sit down by the kitchen’s balcony. I look through the window, to all those green trees and blue sky (so much different from the devilish brown of your eyes!) and I erase the memory of you, like I do, every morning, during breakfast. On the peak of my confidence, I think to myself: today, I’m leaving. I think of my clothes upstairs, of the book on the table by the corner, of all the things that I am taking with me as soon as you wake up.
I may have thought too loud, because a creek comes from upstairs. The shuffling of mattresses, the silent search for the eyes of another — you are awake. A shiver goes down my spine, and in a gulp I lock my courage down my throat, to stop it from running away from me through a gasp.
Then there are the steps. Oh, those awful steps! So loud, so clumsy, so full of themselves, while I have taught mine to be quiet and careful. My fear gives space to anger, as I listen to the noise of your existence upstairs. I’ll throw on a fight, I think to myself. I’ll scream and send them away. I’ll never see those eyes again. I even thought of the knife by the sink, and the trash bags in the cabinet, and the yard behind the house. My scrambled eyes–eggs–started to taste like “no one would ever find out”.
But then your steps get louder, as you use the stairs, and louder and louder, until I can hear your hair against the wind, and your arms against your shirt.
You enter the kitchen and I keep looking down my scrambled eyes. You open the fridge, take out the gallon of milk and murmur a song while you pour it in a cup.
Anger and fear and expectation mix up inside me. How dare you be so noisy, and why am I so quiet, and why am I not standing and screaming the words that were so clear in my mind moments before. Why am I not running?
At least I have the courage to keep my eyes down, the bravery to ignore you while you seat down on the chair in front of me. I feel your face turning towards the window, and I wonder what you see, if everything looks brown to you, so self-absorbed you are in your own colors.
In a last gulp I finish my scrambled eggs, and wonder what the hell am I to do now, how is one supposed to talk without looking at another’ eyes. I wish I had a shield such as Perseus’, to protect myself from your deadly gaze, but I know reflections do not scare you…
I get up, still facing down, and head to the sink. While I wash my plate and watch the remnants of scrambled eggs get taken by the water, I think of the words I am about to say. I am always the first to speak, always the one to ask, while your eyes answer. I place the plate on the dish drainer and let it get out:
— We need to talk.
Silence. For what seems to be an eternity, there is only silence between us, as my words travel to your ears.
— Yes, darling?
I look up. I see your smile. Don’t you know what “we need to talk” means? You should be scared, you should plead for forgiveness, but you know what comes next. This has happened many times before.
My gaze freezes.
— What’s the matter? — you ask again — Look at me.
My gaze goes up: your nose, your cheeks, and then…
You kill me again.
