It starts with the eyes.

Those dark, soul searching, god-forsaken eyes.

Those eyes are capable of anything.

Capable of loving, hating, tempting, repulsing.

Eyes that look warm until you look closer.

Then all you can see is cold.

Ice cold eyes.

Ice cold eyes that look unhinged, that draw you in.

One look, and people do as they say, don’t think about disobeying.

One look, and those eyes are puppet-masters, calmly handling the strings of other people’s lives.

And it sickens you, makes you nauseous.

Because those are your eyes.

Your ice cold eyes.

You’re the puppet-master

When you were a child, it was different.

Your eyes were warm and happy, laughing eyes.

And people couldn’t resist your loveable, puppy dog eyes, just melted at them,

those big, brown eyes.

Now, they do it because they fear you.

Because they don’t know what you will do when triggered.

The sane have patterns, controls, habits.

The insane don’t.

They think you’re crazy.

Maybe you are.

You don’t hear voices, or anything like that.

You’ve always felt in control of yourself.

But what do you know?

All that you know is that your mother and sister are dead, long dead.

What are you?

Are you the son, desperately seeking his father’s approval?

The much hated step-son, a constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity?

Are you the resident crazy, hardly a teenager, and already following in dear old dad’s footsteps.

Or are you a scared little boy, haunted by his mother’s murder, and the accident that took his sister, the one he could have stopped?

It depends who you ask.

Privately, he thinks that he is the last of those.

But that doesn’t matter to these people.

You know you’ll never fit in, not in this lifetime at least.

Because people hate, fear, and despise you.

As you peer into the depths of the river below, staring at your reflection, you now understand.

Understand why you’re hated.

Understand why you’re feared.

It’s because you really are crazy.

You certainly look the part, with your pale, sunken skin framing your eyes.

Your dark, haunted, insane eyes, the eyes of a madman.

The eyes of a killer.

The eyes of a murderer.

Ignore the fact that you’re generally a pacifist, and have only killed for defense.

The act is the same, no matter what the intent.

That is why you feel no guilt, no fear, when you walk.

Walk into the river, the deep black depths of the river.

Your reflection ripples, but you pay it no heed.

Your only concern is to keep walking, the calm washing over you.

The water rises, threatening to completely engulf you.

You hope it does.

You want it to.

Finally, it does, covering you inch by inch, creeping up your neck to your chin.

Your mouth is covered first, then your nose.

Finally, the water rushes over your open eyes, stinging before you lose yourself completely.

It starts, and ends, with the eyes.