Sincopation

03 - Kat's Eyes

"I've a sweet tooth and a thing for banoffee. And bacon. So... how about having banoffee pie topped with bacon for breakfast today?"

She looked at me sourly. Her eyes were empty, devoid of humour, hate, humility or that hanging feeling of too much alcohol and a late night followed by an early morning for work. I smiled, but it wasn't returned. Unperturbed, I continued as she scooped a dollop of slop into my tray.

"Maybe, if you don't have that, what about banoffee flavoured ba... no forget that. You can't mess with the flavour of bacon. That'd be sacrilege."

She didn't blink, so I had the opportunity to examine her face. It was something I had started to do as a sort of game. Something to break up the day. I had been caught out on more than one occasion, lost in my stare as I took in blocked pores, smooth skin, eyebrows in need of a pluck, dry bogies from a nose that hadn't been cleaned properly. Eyes full of fear. Eyes layered with the haze of sad acceptance. Joyless ones. Joyful ones.

Hers were different. They were empty.

On those times I'd been caught, where the person I was talking to had noticed me staring and had been made to feel uncomfortable, I'd made excuses of trying to remember something I wanted to tell them. I had been listening, and I had, but my attention was diverted to the variances of their features. I didn't want them to be uncomfortable. That wasn't my intention. I didn't want them to see what I was doing, but some had such interesting faces.

I didn't see much of the rest of her at first. Her dead eyes held me. I'd seen plenty that were dull. Plenty that drew you in with hidden depths promised. There were sparks and stars and secrets. Mists and mayhem. Other alliterative aspects. She had none of those. When I looked into her eyes, there was nothing.

The irises were green. A nice, bright green that shone when the merciless overheads hit them at the right angle. But there was nothing else. Reflections of the world outside, such as me, but no reflection of her.

If the eyes were the mirrors of the soul, did this mean she didn't have one?

"Come on, Rev."

Weymorth was behind me in the queue. He was tall and overly skinny, as if he'd one been average height and weight but had been tied to the bumpers of two cars going in different directions. He always spoke quietly, his voice running out of volume by the time it reached his mouth. He was a patient man, who would never speak out or lose his temper. He was one of the only residents not to have had need to pay a visit to Room 101. A model patient.

It was a stark contrast to how he'd been before entering the asylum. Then, he was, loud and brash and intimidating. A domineering man who would instil fear in all who met him. This person grew in intensity as t ok me went by, his ego feeding on the effect he had on others. When it got to the point his mother was too afraid to open the door to him and he broke it down, he realised what was happening to him and committed himself.

The change was remarkable. He was now pleasant. A friend. But, if he asked you to hurry, you did.

"Sorry, Wey," I said. "I was just having a little fun."

"You and bacon," he laughed. It was a dry and rasping and demanded irrigation. "A culinary love affair."

"Well, I'll take love wherever I can get it in here, mate."

"I like you, Sin, but love is pushing it a bit far. I'll let you have your bacon."

"It'd be better if Connors let us have some!"

"Good luck with that!"

Wey and I both laughed. You had to in the asylum. Make jokes of things that weren't funny. Otherwise, there were plenty of reasons, beyond the lack of bacon, to cry. I looked at the server, expecting to see her smiling at out interaction, but she wasn't. She was just staring ahead, not particularly seeming to see either me or Wey. It was unsettling, with her eyes as lifeless as the slop they served us.