What You See

Mark didn’t like the way he was looking at him.

   He just wanted the bus to come already. He had been waiting there awhile when a stranger clad in all black strolled in and took a seat. This would not have bothered him if he had not immediately stared at Mark the entire time. After five minutes straight, he was starting to get very uneasy.

   The worst part is that he did not even know why he just sat there gazing. Was it as innocent as something on his face? Did his clothes get stained on the way from his office and there was a glaringly obvious spot? Or was this man just some creep who stares at people? What if he wanted to mug him? The bus did not look like it was coming soon, it was just the two of them, and the only source of light on this dark, moonless night was a little streetlamp that occasionally flickered and threatened to dim for good. He could be killed by this stranger right now, and no one would find out until far later.

   No, stop, Mark thought to himself. Negative thoughts cloud the mind, and reason is needed.

   Using rational thinking, he came up with some ideas. This man might be drunk. He could be high. It might be mental illness, and maybe he’s even psychotic. However, there is the worst possibility of all: he’s perfectly right in the head and has a purpose for staring . . . a dark purpose . . .

   “Enough”, he said aloud to his own surprise, since he only wanted to say it in his head. Too late to turn back now, he thought. Mark turned to his observer and aggravatedly shouted, “Why are you staring at me? You got a problem or something?”

   Despite Mark’s best efforts to look tough, the stranger was not fazed. If he was, he certainly did not show it; he stayed completely still, his sunglasses betraying no emotion that could be caught in his eyes (who wears sunglasses at eleven in the night? Mark asked himself). After a tense period of silence, the stranger remarked, “Just as I thought. A reaction of anger followed by an attempt to show strength and bravery. Interesting.”

   Mark was confused, but his anger overpowered his wish to ask what he meant. “You didn’t answer me! What’s with the staring? Cut it out!”

   The man only said, “Hmm,” and continued observing. Noting his checking of his Rolex, he said, “Don’t be so impatient, Mark. This is a good time for us. Yes, a good time, indeed.”

   The first thing Mark noticed was his voice. It didn’t sound natural, it sounded . . . fake? No, that wasn’t the word. Accented? . . . “Otherwordly.” Yes, that fit, Mark thought with an odd shiver. “If you say one more word to me, you little creep, I’ll - I'll wail on you so hard you’ll regret the day you were born.”

   The stranger chuckled. This guy is definitely weird, Mark thought. As if the top hat, black trenchcoat, and sunglasses in the middle of a warm night had not clued him in on that before. Then he realized . . .

   “Wait . . . how did you know my name?”

   “I know much about you. What’s important right now is that I know what you’ve done.”

   “. . . I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about …”

   “Last year. It still haunts you. Yet you have not corrected it. You have even strived to put it out of your memory.”

   “H-How? Who . . . wh-what are you?”

   The stranger grabbed his sunglasses. “Look into my eyes . . .” He removed them. “. . . And tell me WHAT YOU SEE.”

   His eyes were dark red. There were no pupils or irises or anything; just orbs that seemed to go on forever.

   The streetlight shut off, drowning the place in pure darkness save for the crimson glow from the stranger’s face. Mark screamed as he realized he couldn’t stop staring at the magnetic eyes that reflected his face and drew him to another time.

 

   It was twelve months ago to the very day, and it was a night much like the one when he met the stranger. No moon or stars were visible in the sky, and there were no lights for what seemed like miles in the intense darkness.

   The night was perfect for Mark to do what he felt had to be done. It was time for him to take his vengeance.

   He drove to an old tenement on the other end of the town, right on the edge. As he pulled up to the street, he took a look around. The old crack in the gravel that looked like two letter L’s, the tree with the names of lovers and graffiti artists carved on its strange stump that stuck out from the stem like a sore thumb, the view of the pier in the distance with its timeless neon-lit Ferris wheel, and finally, a somewhat aged but still familiar apartment building with a red, sloping roof and an unconventional porch where he had spent many an afternoon reading in the sun.

   This was home, alright . . . but did they still live there? The lights inside were shining, but was it really them living there?

   He parked near the corner of the block, snuck toward the house, rang the doorbell, and bolted. Hiding behind the tree, he poked his head out from behind the stump to see that yes, his family still lived there. He saw a grizzled man, barely recognizing him as his older brother, open the door and scan the immediate area. He grumbled to himself, “Damn kids. Gettin’ their sick kicks . . .” He shut the door.

   Mark trembled with excitement. What was once a daydream would soon come true! He could not help but grin as he pulled something out of his pocket.

 

   One match.

   That was all it took to free his spirit: a measly piece of wood.

   Just one match.

   As he watched from a distance, he still could not believe how little effort it took. He did not expect the entire building to be engulfed in flames that quickly. It reminded him of the butterfly effect, which stated that a South African butterfly’s pattern for beating its wings could ignite a chain reaction that produced a deadly Category 5 hurricane that devastates South Florida. He recalled that Dr. Seuss book he had read as a kid where an insect’s sneeze eventually led to a passenger boat capsizing, or something like that (he could not completely remember). Domino effect, chaos theory, whatever he wanted to call it. The material used to make it must have been highly flammable or dry, maybe both. No matter what the cause really was, one fact was certain: until that day, he had never realized how beautiful fire could be.

   The building, now about a mile or so away from his vista point, crumbled into charred ruins. Sirens wailed in the distance, but the fire brigade was rumbling down the boulevards in vain. The apartment building, which had been his residence but not his home for most of his life, was no more. The only problem now was the thought that his brothers and their families may have escaped. He cursed himself for not locking in his siblings, who had fueled his jealousy with their high achievements and tormented him for being “a maggot.” The constant humiliation he faced always had that awful word thrown in there, and he would always insist that he was no maggot. Mark had always hated that comparison. It was an ugly little grub that eventually grew into a nasty fly, or something like that (Mark never looked it up). Ever since he was a mere child, he had resented his brothers and their tortures. Now, it seemed like he was finished with them forever. He could finally find peace.

 

   But he didn’t.

   Oh yes, there had been a brief period of exaltation and relief. But then he started to think too much about them and whether their fiery fate was really the right course of action. He had not seen them in many years, mostly out of spite. Then he asked himself the most dangerous type of question: “What if.” What if he had not killed them? What if by then they had realized their mistake? What if they could have reconciled? What if they could have had good times? His childhood with them was not all bad; for all the dark spots, there were brighter moments when they had fun together. Come to think of it, there were plenty of instances that he could count as positive parts of his life. What if he could have found it within himself to forgive them instead of making what may have been rash overkill?

   These questions and more kept him awake at night to the point that his work suffered. They drove him crazy; he became anxious and paranoid. Piece by piece, the crushing guilt caused cracks within his sanity. In desperation, he resorted to putting the past behind him and moving on. At least, that is what he called it to reassure himself. Mark was actually leaving the problem completely unresolved and trying to keep the worms from entering his brain – in vain. He suffered a nervous breakdown and was given time off from his job to recover.

   Despite this, Mark continued to keep himself from bringing up the topic. He thought that if he kept it out of mind, circumstances would resolve themselves, or at the very least he would one day forget his awful act. But try as he might, it always crept back to the front of his mind and occupied his thoughts often.

 

   His vision suddenly changed from the immediate past to far further in time: he saw a young, black-haired child he recognized as himself. He ran with two older boys who bore a vague resemblance to each other and to the smallest boy. Mark realized with a start that they were he and his brothers back when they were kids. The scenes kept fading into and out of each other, like a montage in a film. They all depicted fun moments, happy moments, moments when he laughed and smiled with his siblings. He saw games of tag and basketball, jokes being shared and laughed at, the construction of complex domino tracks that spanned the hallway between their bedrooms, toy Civil War soldiers fighting in imaginary scenes of warfare …

   Then he saw his own face, aging more and more until it became as it was in the present and tinted dark red. He was now sickened by what he saw: the pale skin that reminded him of how weak he was. The balding square head that was losing hair fast after the stress of the previous months. The scrawny arms that wouldn’t fight for him all those years. The stupid mug that . . . was changing form . . .

Suddenly Mark saw his face deteriorating in front of his very eyes. At last appeared a hideous, small creature oozing bodily fluids on its skin and thrashing on the floor. He recognized it at once and stared in agony and horror.

   It was a maggot.

 

   He pulled back his gaze from the glowing eyes of the stranger. Tears welled, and he crumpled to the ground.

   The stranger spoke first. “YOU SEE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE.”

   “Y-y-yes . . .”

   “YOU HAVE DAMNED YOURSELF.”

   For years-long minutes there were no words from Mark - only hands clenching tear-stained cheeks. Finally he sniffled and stared up at his new tormentor. “I-is there any cha-ch-chance for me?”

   “NO.”

Mark cried out louder and screamed, “No-no-no-no-NO! THERE MUST BE SOME WAY!” He resumed his weeping.

   There was only silence.

   He regretted everything.

   Ignoring the problem didn’t help.

   It only got worse.

   And now a demon is telling him there is no hope.

   He cried out to God, but God did not answer.

   There was only an ominous silence.

   An agonizing, contemplative moment of quiet.

   Silence.

   Pure, terrible silence.

 

   Suddenly, the stranger boomed, “THEY ESCAPED THE FIRE.”

   Mark looked up from his tear-stained hands. “. . . Wha?”

   The stranger did not repeat his words. It took a moment for it to sink in. “Bu-bu-but wh-wh-“

   The streetlight flashed on again. It illuminated the sign that read, “BUS STOP”. Mark saw and made the connection. As if on cue, a faint light appeared in the horizon, rolling down the road. The bus was finally arriving.

Mark turned. “But why –“

   Before he could finish, the stranger leapt into the air and howled out a ghostly wail. Mark collapsed to the ground, screaming for his life, while the stranger floated and released a light from within that grew brighter and brighter. At last, there was silence. Mark looked up and saw nothing. The stranger was gone, with not a trace remaining. He heard a beep from behind. The bus driver was getting impatient waiting for his passenger.

 

   In the distance, the stranger watched.

   He thought to himself, “Those people are strange. They do wrong, knowing that it is wrong, and yet it feels so right to them. It catches up with them later, of course. It always does, one way or another. Sometimes, though, they need a little push and a little harshness.”

   He adjusted his shades, lifted the collar of his trenchcoat, and floated away. Not all people are aware that an angel can wear demon’s clothing.