I can’t tell you the exact day when the world went crazy. Little implosions in the background – you never notice them at first, right? White noise, that’s all it starts as. Just slightly odd people doing slightly odd things – You can tell the odd ones by their eyes. Those with “the glaze” are generally harmless, but you can never be certain. The instant you’re certain is the instant they act unpredictably cruel. I’ve seen two classmates jump onto the desks and perform a sweet schottische together, and I’ve seen a boy cut out his own tongue and tie it around his head as a pointless eye patch, until he died from blood loss. There are always two conditions under possession of “the glaze”: the actions come from nowhere with no reason, and nobody else regards them.
But I do. And they notice me, too, staring back with thoughtless, blank eyes. I’ve trained myself to notice them as well, to steel myself against the expectedly unexpected. It’s exhausting – my nerves feel taut for hours on end, as if steel cords were passing through them. But keeping calm at the point of calamity is the only way to keep that white noise in the background.
I see the glaze now, in fact. Across the street, at the edge of a park, sits a lovey-dovey couple on a dew-coated bench. Their backs were turned to me, watching the pond – at first. Their heads swiveled to face me when I wasn’t looking, and now stare with the same glazed eyes my brother had. I can hear my heart picking up the pace as I stop to stand my ground. What will they do? I have no idea. They draw closer to each other…closer…stress like wires through my veins chokes off my breath…closer…
And flap their tongues together, like some sort of perverse handshake.
Breathe out. Walk on, but never break eye contact. Those with the “glaze” are generally harmless, but you can never be certain; they act so unpredictably. I’ve had two classmates jump onto the desks and perform a schottische while standing on their hands. I’ve seen a man cut out his own tongue and tie it around his head as a pointless eye patch until he died from blood loss. There are two conditions that always reoccur under this possession: the actions come from nowhere and with no reason, and nobody else in the area regards them. I’ve trained myself to catch their eyes, to steel myself against the unexpected. Breathe in, breathe out, move on.
Home is my sanctuary. I live alone with my older brother, who has not once been possessed with the “glaze.” Every day I am certain it will happen, but it never does.
“You seem tense lately, Kuriho. What’s the matter?”
A shrug and some generic “not enough sleep” excuse concerns him more.
“You high school students and anxiety. I tell you, I don’t miss it at all. When you graduate and have less things and people to worry about, you’ll wonder what it was all for.”
Sounds like a nice dream, made to be broken.
My brother laughs and picks up my bowl, offers to get me more potatoes.
“It’s much more manageable when you have a reason to care, too.”
He winks and heads into the kitchen. I can’t help but feel a little more relaxed, a little more optimistic. I’m grateful for my brother in times like this; at least I can be certain of that.
A few seconds passed before I pick up the sound of sizzling, the smell of burning. I dashed to the kitchen and beheld my brother standing rigid, his hand in a pot of boiling oil. His eyes…blank.
Recovering from shock, I leapt after him, tried to pull his hand out, screamed as loud as I could. But he was frozen, a silent statue as the apartment filled with the smell of bubbling flesh.
That was two weeks ago. Every night now, without fail, those eyes keep me up. Distant, strained as wide as they can without adding anything to his expression. No frown, no sneer, no grimace – just eyes. They looked down at me, as if to jeer, “You can’t stop this. But you can’t help trying.” My nerves tighten; it gets harder and harder to breathe, to think with clarity.
I’ve seen those eyes many times before. But now they’re in my own home. I can’t unsee them any longer. I pull the covers over me, but I feel a gaze… Waiting out there, through the crack in my door, peering at me behind the mask of my brother. In the morning he is weak from the loss of his hand. At night…Well, whether asleep or awake, there is no longer any sanctuary.
A few hours go by after my brother goes to bed. I pick up the sledgehammer hidden beneath my bed, bought today on a whim, and tiptoe over to his room. The only way to beat this new world’s secret madness is to beat it to the punch. Who knows when you’ll put my hand in the pot next, brother? You understand. You must know why I raise this sledgehammer above your head, if only you could just see yourself in a mirror right now. Are feelings even real to the glazed? Staring at me with milky, lifeless eyes as you do now – the eyes of someone who has no control, no desire, no awareness. The eyes of someone who isn’t really in there at all. So I know you will forgive me.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on his dresser. It is a relief to see myself clearly, and my eyes, which, though wild at this turning point, are still full of life and thought. I am certain of this, at least.
Something gleams in the moonlight. My heart skips a beat. Tied to my arms, my legs, my body, my head…Where did all these strings come from, rising up towards nothing?
No…not towards nothing. Those red cords – my “nerves” – dangle from two enormous yellow spheres. Pale waxing moons suspended in the darkness of the ceiling, but clearly eyes of some ethereal kind. They shine on me with dim pupils, the strings zigging along them like nerves. In a blink – they disappear.
All at once: the cords snap, my nerves tighten, the hammer is swung, the “glaze” persists.
Morning's Early Dark 