To Be Seen...

"And here we are."

A dozen sets of eyes glared into the glass before them. A chorus of hands smacked against its surface—sticky palms suctioning, curious fingertips tapping and dull nails clicking and poking like needles into the remnants of his dream.

Black hate boiled up inside him and stuck like tar. He lifted his head and saw them standing there, staring. Let us see. Let us stare. He dragged himself, slowly and painfully, to his feet.

Time slowed, and all was silent, but his skin was aflame. A dozen eyes felt like a million, all fixated on him, gawking at the maze of sutures across his skin.

He did not look at them; he had seen it all before. Some peeked through fingers at the puckered seams of his back; others stared unabashedly at the crude silk stitches holding him together. But all those eyes, those thousands of eyes—all those eyes were malicious and hungry.

Still, he turned towards them, and let them stare. Their eyes ravaged his body and tore him limb from limb. They picked him to pieces with their eyes. And when he could not stand it anymore, he covered his face—that twisted, tormented mask of a face—with his hands and hid himself away.

No matter. No matter: They were done with him. Even now, he heard them walking away...

He turned and laid sight on the loveliest creature he had ever seen. His eyes ran across her perfect skin, unmarked by sutured scars, complexion even and smooth. He stared at her as she had stared at him. Her hand was still there, pressed to the crystal barrier between their worlds.

He matched his handprint to hers, entranced.

She spoke without looking at him, as though he did not deserve what he so dearly craved. There was such a difference in being stared at and in being seen. It was a gesture of pity, but a cruel actuality, as were her words:

"You poor, poor creature."

He tore his hand back, and turned away, "I can speak."

The words came out chopped and ugly. His throat felt dry, his tongue too big and his teeth terribly crooked. Crude craftsmanship. He had not been made to speak. Blood rose to his cheeks, but beneath the embarrassment, he felt a strange sort of heartbreak.

He turned back and found that she was gone. Her hand had left grease smudges on the glass. He stared at them and at his reflection captured beneath.

A memory, hailing from some long lost past, teased his thoughts. It called up the perfect way his skin used to contour to his skull, the way his hair used to itch against high-collared sweaters—the way his eyes used to laugh along with his mouth.

He saw his face now, in dreadful disarray against the memory of hers on the back of his eyelids. How beautiful she had been! A radiant light—a symphony of flesh. And what was he? A cacophony, a mutilation, a corruption of flesh, bone and life itself! A monster!

The mournful growling of his stomach aroused him from his thoughts. The door opened, as it always did, in the side of the cage. He saw his keeper beyond, beckoning him outside. Something was wrong:

Here was a familiar smell, and with it the sound of rain and the taste of blood in his mouth. His heart—that mess of flesh torn from some other chest—began to pound beneath his ribs. His nostrils flared with that sick, sweet scent.

Chloroform.

His keeper circled him, stared at him like he was a rapid dog, and came close enough so he could see his reflection in those dark, emotionless pupils. See his mismatched eyes wide with fear, focused on the black rag. See his head whip round in search of an escape route.

Panic pulled his wrecked body into motion, and he ran.

A jigsaw of other puzzles' pieces—two different eyes, torn from separate skulls. Legs of different lengths, with knees built not born. Those memories—those dreams—those delusions—of being whole were shadows from someone else's brain. Leftovers.

His dim, concrete world blurred past, his feet pounding against the cement floor of the underground, and all was void of sound but for the rasping of breath in his throat. Nervous tears leaked out of his eyes. He could feel the seams of his body pulling, straining. His breath carved raw stripes in his throat. The bitter tang of iron coated his molars. But he kept on.

He collided with something heavy, and tumbled out into a world that was cold and bright. His bare feet splashed through puddles of rainwater and touched lightly on the cold asphalt underneath.

The stitches were ripping loose, and he could feel the edges of sutured skin peeling away. His bones were exposed to the open air—steaming blood poured down his shoulders— but he kept on. He kept on down and out of the alleyway, into the street.

Into the sun.

He stood in its white light, breath heaving in his burning lungs. He stood there, all falling to pieces, and as he died, they stared.