Myself? Himself?

         I roll the glass eye between my fingers as Dr. Vicara speaks to me. I watch the harsh lights of her office bounce off of the perfectly smooth, perfectly round glass and see the frost-blue iris take a sideways glance at me as he spins in my hand. Why will he never look at me directly?

         “Is it speaking to you now?” Vicara asks me.

         “No.” I say. “He usually only talks when I'm alone or when I place him in my pocket.”

         “I see. What does it say when it does speak?”

         “Usual stuff. Tells me to murder and maim. When he sees a girl he likes he tells me how I should rip off her clothes and hold a knife to her throat until she gives it up.”

         “You seem very casual about this. Doesn't this worry you?”

         “Nah. I bought the eye from an auction. Belonged to Milton Barrowes. A serial killer in Britain. Authenticated too. I wasn't surprised when he talked about ripping up some people. What else would he talk about?”

         “Nothing. It's just a glass eye. An object. Most would say that it shouldn't talk at all”

         “Stop calling him “it”. He's not just an object.”

         She jots something on her notepad. “Mister Vallen, I think we are done here. You will call me if you experience any duress, yes?” She hands me a small business card.

         “Sure.” I put the card in my pocket alongside the eye. After some paperwork, I get in my car and put the eye in the passenger seat. He turns slightly to look away from me.

         “Right bitch, she is.” The eye says. He speaks with a thick London accent, which only makes sense. “Nice body on her though. Wouldn't mind taking a swing at that.”

         “She's not bad. I liked Dr. Rogers better.”

         “The old balding bastard? Better than that little minx? I won't have it.”

         “I just liked him cause he tried to talk with you one time, remember? Showed an effort.”

         “Yeah well, you still should've jammed a biro in his fucking eye.”

         “Whatever. We just need to find you a body finally so that you can do that yourself.”

         “If you can get the bollocks to take one for me but you keep wanting to wait for the right person to die. I don't want an old codger body, mate. Not one that died in some fucking backwater nursing home. I need a fresh one. Something I can cut with. A butcher or a soldier maybe. Real youngblood, you know?”

         “I can't kill anyone.”

         “Well ain't you a saint.” The eye rolls to look away more.

         He doesn't speak to me after that. Not even at home. I position him with me on the dinner table and next to me on the couch as I watch TV. I even flip to the channels he hates most. Still he doesn't speak and he still never looks directly at me. I worry about him. He'll be fine tomorrow though, I'm sure.

         I sleep.


         I wake up on the bathroom floor. I'm naked and I've got a death-grip on the spoon in my right hand. Blood covers the cheap linoleum and the eye is nowhere to be found.

         “Christ no. Please no.” I mumble, standing up on rubbery legs. “Don't let me have killed someone.”

         My head throbs as I turn to look in the mirror. It is the first time the eye has ever looked directly at me. He's staring at me from my own bloody eye-socket.

         “Morning sunshine.” The eye says. For the first time, I can see his lips moving and hear his voice echo off the walls. I can see this because they are my lips and my voice. The accent remains.

         “What are you doing?” I ask, “Get out of me!”

         “'Fraid not, doll-face. You see, I got real tired of waiting. Didn't even have thumbs to twiddle and it's like my auntie says: You can't wait for Mr. Right.”

         I claw at my face. “Get out! Get out!”

         His hands fall and in the mirror he flashes me a sly grin. “Stop that now. Gonna ruin my boyish good looks.”

         I, he, mine, his. The words begin to blur and I feel myself slipping. Myself? Himself?

         “Getting a bit confused in there?” He asks me and then chuckles. “Well that's good 'cause I got a real clear view. Gonna clean myself up, shave and then call Dr. Vicara. You'll appreciate that. Invite her someplace secluded, just me and her. If she won't come then I'll just pay her a housecall.”

         “Stop! No! No! Please! Stop! Get out of me!”

         And those were the last words that Mr. Vallen ever spoke. Just me now and I'm glad to see Milton Barrowes staring back at me in the mirror again. Not a perfect body, I liked my old one better. Still though, the arms work for stabbing and the teeth will give a nasty bite. Everything downstairs works too in case I should find any “damsels in distress”. I smile into the mirror. Time to go ripping.