Bloodshot Eyes

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
This short story is about a man that wakes up in a hotel room with a mysterious woman. He has little memory of what happened the night before, only his bloodshot eyes to tell the story.

Submitted: March 04, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 04, 2011



Bloodshot Eyes

Those bloodshot eyes. Whenever I see them, whatever mirror I may be looking into, they all say the same thing, and I’ve seen many kinds of mirrors. Round mirrors, silver plated mirrors, symmetrically square mirrors, oval mirrors, cracked mirrors, you name it, and I’ve seen it. Sometimes they’re dirty, or covered with stickers or notes, or even steam. No matter the shape or quality of the mirror, those big, bold, bloodshot eyes I peer into every morning show me my sin. They show my life draining away from me. It’s like streams of blood running through my pupils. I can almost feel my hunger for sanity.

What had I done the night before? What hotel was I in? Was I hungover? I would never know as I stared into the two gloomy rose-tainted valleys evenly spread above my nostrils. I loathed this feeling, though I could not escape it. I could not quench my desires. I splashed some chilled water on my torn, distraught eyes and grabbed a soft towel from the small rack on the side of the marble sink. It was ruffled, I hate ruffled towels.

After drying myself with the towel that felt like sandpaper, I glanced back into the room and saw the mysterious woman I had woken up adjacent to. I dropped the damp towel on the cool, tile floor and walked over to her. Her hair was a mess and her pale, blue eyes seeped through the bottom of her nearly closed eyelids. Her ears had multiple piercing. She had a small Gargoyle at the lower corner of her earlobes, Snakes in the middle, and some kind of a bizarre letter from an ancient language in the top cartilage of her ears. The earrings seemed to be the only thing balanced about her. Her hair was long and in strangely different lengths and colors. The bangs were a pale Blue that seemed similar to her eyes; the sides were a mellow,yellowish tone, not blondish, but very deep yellow, like a school bus. The back and top of her head were as red as blood, as red as my bloodshot eyes. Her entire head appeared to be dyed hair, in fact there was nothing natural about her. Her eyebrows with quite pretty and narrowly curved. Her lips were thin and chapped, and they had a light tint of black on them, probably from Black lipstick she’d been wearing. Her nose was small and kind of pointy, with a small, lone pimple forming on the side.

As I turned a little I noticed she had a small tattoo that was apparently written in the same strange language of her earring. The tattoo said “your“ in thin, crooked red letters. Looking at it almost made me want to wake her up and ask her its meaning. She had just yawned and it startled me. I’d thought she might wake and see some strange guy staring at her every feature, but she just yawned and presented me with a mouth full of pearly white, insanely straight teeth. It didn’t seem right. Such an abstract looking girl had a mouth of such grace, such beauty. I pulled the thin covers over her bare shoulder and walked over to the cheap wooden table in the corner of the room. On it were a few European beers, a glass of water, two used needles, and a lot of pills spilled across its surface. I didn’t know what they were, but Tylenol it was not.

“Who the fuck are you,” echoed off my eardrums as I spun around. Her voice was calm yet as piercing as her wide eyes. I didn’t want to tell her my name, so I formed an alias. “My name is Wink,” I hastily replied. She stared deep into my eyes as she held the covers over her bare skin, it was almost as if she was trying to look into my soul, like she was taunting me. “Is there anything left in those bottles over there?” she asked. “Yes, there’s a little left.” “Well what are you waiting for, give it here.” I handed her the near empty beer bottle and she snatched it from my hand and guzzled the remaining alcohol, then dropped it on the floor beside the bed. She wrapped the covers around herself, grabbed her clothes, and went to the bathroom. I sat there for a few minutes pondering about her identity, but more importantly, what she knew about me. What I might of told her last night. I had to know right now.

I walked over to the bathroom door and slammed it open. There was no one there. I looked under the toilet, under the sink, in the shower, on the ceiling, but there was nothing to be found. Oh wait, there was something beside the sink in the corner. It was a photograph of the mysterious women and me. We were smiling, and she was kissing my cheek. What was that on my cheek? I had a tattoo, but I don’t have any tattoos. I couldn’t make out what it said. How could I magnify it? Oh yes, the glass of water on the table. I ran over to the table, picked up the glass, and paced back to the sink to empty the water for a better look. I then held the glass over the photograph and squinted to make out the tattoo. It said “wife”, in the very same language the women had on her ears and face. I then looked up into the mirror and all I was left with were my big, bold, bloodshot eyes.

© Copyright 2017 Matt Maisano. All rights reserved.

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