Regret – Theme Response

I sat down in my chair, clutching its armwrests as though they were my only life support. This entire time, of course, my eyes were shut tight. I did not want to face my visions, but they were getting stronger. In the backs of my eyelids, I saw swirls of color, lazily blending and separating into a dark rainbow.

Suddenly, there was a white flash, and I cried out in agony 0 it was too late. I was face to face with his eyes again 0 his ghastly and haunted eyes.

My eyes were still closed.

I panicked, afraid of the strength of my own visions. Whose eyes were they? Why were they stalking me? I felt them upon me at all times now – clear, shocking blue eyes that insisted on holding my attention. What were they trying to tell me? 

I swear, sometimes, they looked upon me with pity. That was when I would rage back, yelling my insecurities out for all the world to see. They were staring me into insanity, those eyes.

Those cold hated blue eyes. 

"GO AWAY. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you want. WHY DO YOU INSIST ON TAKING AWAY MY PEACE? Leave me alone…leave – me – alone."

And always, though I started out strong and proud, at the end, I was reduced to tears, my threats and questions coming out in gasping sobs. I’m sure the people around me thought I was a deranged lunatic. And nobody believed me when I told them about the eyes. I didn’t know who they belonged to, but they seemed to be trying to trigger a memory. Who was he?


The woman behind me in the supermarket had cringed when I screamed that out loud earlier today, and then she had turned her cart around, walking nervously as fast as she could in the other direction. Ha, if only she knew that it wasn’t me she should be scared of. 

It was those icy heartbreakingly sad eyes. 


I used to be normal. At this point, I couldn’t help but give a bitter, sarcastic laugh. I’d started to classify myself as abnormal now too – it was only a matter of time before I succumbed to the world’s perspective of crazy me. 

I mean really, when I told people I wasn’t crazy, I was just being haunted by a pair of blue eyes, they gave me funny looks. Or ignored me. Or walked away, as that lady had. 

I don’t know why I’m recording this narrative. I know I don’t have the stamina left in me to write it in story form. That would require objectifying my pain, giving my protagonist a voice I don’t think I knew how to formulate anymore. How could I distance myself from her agony? It was searing into my own flesh, my own bones, my own heart, at all times. The eyes were becoming more and more anguished too, as if they knew I didn’t have much longer to live.

What was I supposed to do before I died? 

I ask the eyes for clues now. I whisper to myself as I walk down the sidewalks, counting and recounting the names of all the people I have encountered in my life this far. Or the names that I remember, at least. And each time, I ask: "Is this you, Carol? You, Michael? DO YOU EVEN HAVE A GENDER?"

One time, when I questioned them, they blinked serenely before resuming their eternal stare. I had shouted in triumph, but I guess it came out more as a strangled cry of momentary relief.

I found out later that I had passed out while walking.

They blamed it on dehydration. I was ecstatic – eternal sleep is how I would rid myself of their stare.

One of my psychiatrists had told me that they were the eyes of my victim. The small innocent boy I had killed ten years ago. I brushed it off, blaming her sudden psychotic rage on her frustration to understand me. How the hell am I a murderer now?



You know, I’m talking right now. Talking out loud in front of a mirror, pretending that there exists another soul who understands me. Talkng out loud like the crazy person that I am. But what can I do? It takes my mind off of the eyes. 

Sometimes, I suspect that they are capable of hearing me. Because just now, as I said that out loud, they seared into the back of my skull. OUCH. I’m almost afraid of putting my hand to the back of my head – I fear that there may be blood. This has never happened before – usually, they just watch. Why are they trying to hurt me?

Am I really a murderer? If I am, my brain’s done an excellent job in making me forget the whole thing. I’m testing my memory, probing deeper and deeper, farther and farther into my childhood, hoping to come across some badly patched segment so I can atleast know what my crime is. So I can atleast know for what I am being punished.

But these EYES, they don’t let me. They tire my brain, and I often sink into a lethargic sleep filled with scary nightmares. All the persons in my dreams have had those e yes for a few years now.

How have I even survived? I feel the eyes slash another cut into me, this time by the nape of my neck. I shut my eyes, not willing to look into the mirror. I am afraid I will see those eyes glaring daggers into me. I am afraid I will see those daggers suddenly materialize as they pound repeatedly into my skill, dashing my body little by little into pieces.

Such a gruesome thought. But I cannot help it. I envision another dagger hitting my collarbone, and scream in horror as I feel a responding pain. It’s just my brain. I swear, this is all just in my head. 


The daggers pick up tempo, and I know that I am losing blood fast. Still, I do not want to open up my eyes. My body is starting to go rigid with shock. 

Maybe I am numb to the pain now? More likely, I have lost so much blood that my nerves are losing sensation. Is that even possible? I knew I should have paid better attention in biology.

Now, even thinking that I am in pain is taking too much effort. I am floating away from my own body.

My eyes open with a jolt. I am ready to scream and close them again, as if in silent apology that my steady eyes-closed vigil has broken. But I have nothing to fear. The open-eyed me is staring down into a grotesque figure.

I recognize that the grotesque figure is a bloody me. 

And then I faint.

They say they found me, two days later, when a neighbor reported the odor of my rotting flesh. They say I had died peacefully of a brain aneurysm. 

How wrong they are.