ITS ALL ABOUT THE EYES.

You know, some ethnic folks call it something like the "window to the soul." I like that. It's all poetic. and it's true.

Everyone has eyes. Well, yeah. And I'm not talking about the rare ones. Though a bright blue or deep green eye is something to behold. No, the eye itself isn't what is important. It's what's in them, what's behind them.

Have you ever seen eyes filled with terror? Tears rushing out of them, while lot of blood out of their nose? It's indescribable. The fear is palpable. You can smell it, taste it, but for me, it's watching that light in their eyes flicker and dim that I crave. That I savor.

I know, some of us don't like our victims to see us. They want them to never be able to identify who they are, so they can strike again. I don't concern myself with such things. The dead tell no tales, as the saying goes. That's another one that I like. No, I want to see their face throughout. That's crucial. I don't let them turn their head. I don't let them close their eyes. Oh, some of them try, but a gentle suggestion that I'll cut their eyelids off always perks them right up. Only one ever made me do it. Poor thing. 

I also like the damaged, broken younger ones. The ones that just turns 18 and got kicked out of their home, the vulnerable one that dont know how to care on themselves properly, ¿You know?

The ones who think they have a bright future ahead of them. That way, when I steal it from them, I can watch that realization in their eyes. They aren't going home. They aren't going to college. They aren't going to have children. Every possible future, erased by me.

Its fun, don't get me wrong. But their eyes are already dead. You know, childhood trauma, daddy issues, mommy issues, yeah, fine shit.

Most of them weren't ready to go, but a few of them just fucking accepted it. Like they always expected something like that. It ruined the fun. It fucking ruined the fun.

I let them beg. Plead. They always tell me they'll do whatever I want if I let them go. They won't tell anyone.

They're ashamed. Humiliated. It's all written in their eyes. I only look at them. Deep cuts, blood stains, even exposed organs, none of that matters. I only watch their eyes. I just smile, and those eyes get so big. Huge even, as they start to realize that their words won't matter. That I'm not finished with them yet. I have to watch those eyes to the very end. 

I need to see their tears. I need to see their fear.

I need to see those big, beautiful eyes.

It's all about them.