The Narrator

By Sanya Mary Isaac

I checked the clock. Thirty minutes. The minute hand kept ticking away. The eggs were sizzling and spurting in the pan. The leaky pipe kept dripping into the basin, a thumping sound echoing every other moment.

I had tried to fix it. He asked me to try and fix it.

I checked the clock again. Fifteen minutes.

I could hear him moving around. He shuffled around in his room. He was probably deciding what he wanted to do that day. He never went out much. Always stayed inside. I yearned for the moments when he would go for a walk. It was the only time when I could move around freely. When I needn’t worry whether it was watching me.

The eggs were now on a plate beside two meek-looking pieces of toast. I placed it on the table in front of the chair which he always sat in. I debated again as I do every morning whether to move it to a different place. One that didn’t directly face me.

But, no. He always sat there. Even if I moved it, he would only move it back. I move it. He moved it back.

That was his place. He liked sitting there. The placement gave him good lighting and he could see the surroundings from this placement. He could see everything. But he acts like he doesn’t. Or doesn’t he?

Five minutes. The minute hand keeps on ticking. The toast had gotten a little burnt so I turned it over on the other side so he wouldn’t notice. Would he notice it? Even if he didn’t, I know it will. It never misses anything.

I place the jar of marmalade next to the plate and I grab a dishcloth to wipe the surface of the table. I wiped again. Until it passed for a mirror.

I heard his approaching footsteps. I quickly kept away the dishcloth and stood next to the table, waiting for him.

He shuffled in. The old man couldn’t walk properly. He sprained his ankle when he had gone for his last walk. The walls were dirty where he always kept touching to help him walk properly.

He looked up at me and smiled his pleasant smile which he always gave me. Always in the mornings. Always before breakfast. Always when we saw each other first. He sat down at the table with a grunt and pulled the plate towards him. Did I not tell you he always sits there? Every morning.

I tried not to look at him. If I looked at him, I would see it. If I saw it, my day would be ruined. But something like a magnetic field kept trying to pull my gaze towards it. But I kept looking down. I didn’t look up. He asked me questions. I answered. I didn’t look up. He asked me why I was standing. To sit with him and have my breakfast as he always did. Every morning. I didn’t look up. I reached for my plate which was kept behind me. I sat down opposite the old man.

The table wasn’t big. It wasn’t a huge table, no. Which was why even if I was sitting at the other end, I couldn’t miss it.

I shouldn’t have wiped the table. I shouldn’t have wiped it so clean. I couldn’t see it. I didn’t look up yet I could see it. Sweet Mother! It was looking at me. Through the table, it could see me.

I looked up and there it was! Looking right at me as if I had done something wrong. The old man kept eating his dinner. The yolk of the egg dripped onto his beard. But it was still looking at me. Those pale blue eyes. Those eyes were searching my soul for my darkest secrets. My darkest thoughts. It didn’t look away.

It never did. It was always watching me. The Vulture Eye. The world’s vilest thing.

My blood ran cold. My appetite was lost. My food grew cold until it wasn’t edible anymore. The old man finished his. He looked at me and noticed I hadn’t eaten anything. He asked me if I was okay. Every morning.

I did the dishes. The old man sat where he was scrutinizing an object he had found somewhere. But I could feel it’s gaze on me. It was as if it was expecting me to make a mistake. I half dropped the plate I was washing as my hands started trembling.

There was silence all around. The room was dark as it always was. The only proper light that came into the room was at the place where the old man sat. If I looked behind, I would probably see it staring at me.

What did it want? Why couldn’t it leave me alone? Why would such a thing exist?

I chanced a glance behind me, gripping the plate.

It wasn’t looking at me! No, it wasn’t! It wasn’t! No!

I grinned in relief. Then I wondered what it was looking at. I chanced another glance. Followed its gaze. Oh no! It found it. It found the drawer which I had kept it in. Could it see through it? I had closed it firmly. But did it see it?

The poison. The poison for the rats. Did it suspect foul play? There were rats in the basement. Did it think I had any other reason? The poison wasn’t usually kept there. I may have taken it out from under the cabinets and debated whether to use it on him. Did it know?

Suddenly it looked at me, knocking the breath out of me. It knows. Oh hell, it knows! It can see through me. That accusing stare knows what I did.

I clean the silverware. It stares at me. Watching. Waiting for me to make a move to sneak one away. But I don’t. I don’t want it. It still watches. It still waits.

The old man goes back into his room. I hear him sigh. The bed creaks under his weight. He is going to take a nap. Probably. Hopefully.

He doesn’t. Instead, he picks up the daily journal and starts reading it. One eye going over the text. The other looking away to someplace else. Watching the door maybe. Watching me watching him through the crack in the door. It couldn’t have heard me for I was stealth. So stealth, not even the rats below had flinched.

I could hear his breathing. His even, unsuspecting breathing. But he knew. He knew I was looking at him. Looking at it. He knew I was right there. I sneaked back. I went back to my chores then stepped out. I never stepped out of the house with the old man. No. The vulture eye was even more terrifying when the light was on it.

The neighbouring lady went back inside her house when she saw me. She ushered her kids in along with her. They thought I was mad. That’s what she told everyone. That I was mad. I never understood what prompted her to think of such a bizarre thing.

Only once did I scream at her kids for messing with the vegetable garden. It wasn’t my fault that the shovel I held landed on its head. It wasn’t my fault that he had to see a doctor to get eight stitches. The kid never should have been in the garden. I had been taking care of it to make a vegetable soup for the old man.

He wanted vegetable soup. I made him vegetable soup. The woman thought I was mad for harming her kids because of vegetable soup. I didn’t harm her kids. The shovel flew from my hand. If the kid hadn’t been in the garden, he never would have gotten hurt. She didn’t understand. Called me mad! Told everyone I was mad.

She wouldn’t get any vegetable soup.

I went back inside. The old man was there. He looked and smiled at me. His eye looked accusingly. I asked him once before whether he could see through it. Once when we were sitting down together and in the most casual way I threw it. He never answered.

He probably could. He didn’t want to tell me. He didn’t want to tell me he knew what I was doing. What I was up to. He wanted to make me miserable. He wanted me to know that he knew what I was doing and drive me into insanity. But he wouldn’t succeed. Oh no. I wouldn’t let him succeed in driving me insane. He could never drive me insane. There was no way that I would allow myself to go insane.

There was nothing wrong with me. He did not have any power over me. But his eye though. It sent chills down my spine.

Neither would succeed in driving me insane. I will not let it. I will stop it before it does.

And I have the perfect plan.

By Sanya Mary Isaac