dead eye - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Her dead eyes reflect the charcoal clouds above, their dark beauty lost to this victim of the night. No matter the cameras that move around her she'll never flinch, never turn toward the macabre attention. The girl who once fell off a high swing, the girl who was afraid of empty buses, the girl who worried about if her dog was lonely while she worked, is gone.
In life her eyes were every shade the sky possessed from dawn until dusk, in death they are black. Her pupils have exploded to fill so much of her eye. I want her to blink, to sit up and laugh at me for falling for this joke. She won't. Her eyes are so still. She was always moving with every part of her being, with her limbs, her facial expressions, her never ending fidgeting no matter what.
I never gave much thought to the custom of closing the eyes of the recently deceased until I saw Macy die. One moment she was there behind those woodland eyes of brown, the next they were empty. There is part of my soul that is bound to that moment, to the realization she had moved on, that it was never her body I was in love with but the person inside. I reached out with a hand of ice, utterly cold despite the warm autumn breeze, and closed her lids to give her the look of one dreaming, peaceful...
There's something about a dead eye that reminds be of a machine, albeit an amazing biological contraption. All those parts working in choreographed harmony to make an image of the world and translate it to a brain that by itself would be lonely and helpless in it's skull. It's just astounding. There's the delicate retina held on only by the pressure of the vitreous humour; the lens able to change shape to alter how it refracts the light rays and the iris with it's unique patterns.
An eye without the soul is merely a biological camera, a device for image transfer cast in collagen, fat and neurones. We are but machines born to die, machines that must learn to love and be humble before we can be rebooted into the real universe. Ever wondered why we've never had a reply to the messages cast into space? We aren't ready yet. But when we are they'll come as easily as booting up a new virtual reality game. This world is real, it is our reality, but in the levels above we are souls being trained to be the angels the first universe requires. Time to learn from our mistakes or have the reboot switch flipped.
Their bodies are no more than macabre confetti over the rocky ground, every eye flung wide in a final moment of terror, seeing nothing but blackness despite the lurid daylight. Some of these dead saw almost a natural lifespan, others no more than their mothers and their cribs. Had I known even one of them I would be broken inside, I'd turn traitor on my own for revenge. But I didn't... We did this to them, we are their monsters and for my own sanity I will believe the party line that they were ours. I already know my future; I'll be seeing their faces in every nightmare until I die, screaming in the night, killing myself with alcohol and prescription drugs. I'll be given a hero's welcome and cold metal for my chest while I struggle to make sense of a world in which murder is wrong but slaughter is so easily wrought with simple tricks of fear and patriotism.