Her Veiled Gaze

Warning: this piece depicts scenes of assault. 

The world fractures through the lens of the kaleidoscope. Concrete and plaster become paper, folded by its refractions. They twist and turn, a scape of endless collapse. 

“It’s yours now,” comes my mother’s voice, hushed. “We pass it down through generations. I figure now’s a good time to congratulate you on your first job.”

My stomach twinges and I avoid her gaze by keeping my eye fixed on the heirloom. I haven’t told her the full truth about my employment. I’m not sure if I can.

Turning the scope toward her, I try to enjoy the feel of the cool metal against my eye socket, the intricate engravings beneath my fingertips. I expect to see the red of her blush, the raven of her hair, the brown of her eyes. But the mirrored fragments of the shifting world are 

purple as a bruise. Something is wrong. Is it broken? I’m too absorbed to pull away. I begin to make out a single image. A figure, hunched. 

Violet curtains frame the window ahead of her.

A whistle floats into my ears, but how can that be? Neither my Mum nor Vespera know how. The sound almost seems trapped within the kaleidoscope itself. Reeling, entranced, I watch on. 

The figure’s hair is a splash of ink across her back. She reminds me of my little sister, but when she tosses a glance over her shoulder, I see that her eyes are brown like my mother’s, not Vespera’s sage. People have always admired that while our hair is all the same, our eyes are different colours: brown for Mum, blue for me, and green for Vespera. 

I’m almost certain this girl I’m seeing is a younger version of my mother, as impossible as it seems.

Hovering over her shoulder is a woman—my Grandma, but at the age my mother is now. I can’t see her face, but her voice is soothing as she encourages, “That’s right, just finish that one and you can tie it off into a knot.”

The girl beams at the woman, turning back quickly to admire her unfolding handiwork: a patchwork embroidery of a raven, one wing outstretched, the other gradually forming. Strange. I never see Mum touch a needle these days.

“I’ll head to the store to fetch some green yarn for the grass underneath—I think we’re all out,” the woman mutters, rifling through one of the many sewing kits strewn about the house. Her sigh confirms it. “You just stay here and be good—I’ll be back before you finish.” She pats the girl on the shoulder and disappears out the door, taking the car keys with her. 

The girl continues her work. The needle dives in and out, and with it, black feathers creep across the fabric. I nearly forget that neither her nor the woman had been the ones whistling, until the sound peters out. 

The tune dies on the lips of a man in the next room, his attention now focussed elsewhere. Slowly, he descends the stepladder on which he had been standing. Above him, a light still flickers in the ceiling. Waiting to be changed. 

The contented smile drops from the girl’s face as she realises that her mother is gone. And she is here with the electrician, alone. 

He approaches carefully. 

Each step falls like a guillotine.

Until he enters the room.

And shuts the door behind him.

The girl jerks to her feet, embroidery in one hand, needle still hovering in the other. Her knees are bent. I can hear her heartbeat through her chest.

“Mum’s coming back soon,” she blurts, unsure why she’s so nervous. He wouldn’t… Would he?

Craning his neck over his shoulder, out the window, all around, the man lets his eyes roam every crevice. They’re black. Tarantula eyes. He makes a show out of taking a good, long look. Finally, he concludes, “But she’s not here now, is she?” 

His voice is low, a threat.

The girl swallows. 

“It’s just you,” he whispers, “and me.” 

The girl’s brown eyes are wide, locked on the door. “I’d like to go,” she pleads, voice tremulous. 

The man’s smile is a creeping cat, nuzzling its way along each of his teeth. “No.”

He lunges for her. 

“Stop!” she cries, as his hands grab. He pushes her over. Knee on her chest. Holding her down. She drags her nails down his arms. Twists out from beneath him. She’s on her feet, flinging open the door. Running, running, running. Her feet thunder up the stairs. To where? The attic door hangs open, ladder dangling like a life rope. 

She has never climbed so fast nor felt so slow. Behind, she can hear him growling, but has no idea how close he is. Her mistake comes when she fires a glance over her shoulder. As she steps off the ladder and onto the attic floor, she is grabbed at the ankle—not by hands, but something far sharper. Tripping, she falls into a mass of string and needles. They puncture her cheeks, drawing blood. It trickles, tickling like spider’s silk. With dawning horror, she makes out the scene—an upturned sewing kit, spilled in the darkness. 

Her scream unseams her. It tears like the metal in her flesh. She cries not from the pain, but because she can’t get away. Her clothes, her hair, her skin—she is hopelessly entangled, and her struggles only make it worse. And the man—he is cresting the ladder, black eyes hungry for the prey in his web. 

The girl’s open mouth splits in two as the kaleidoscope twists. Her brown eyes bleed to white, fold in on themselves, and reform into a fresh image. 

No longer in the house, no longer with the girl, in a different scene entirely, I see a female figure. A new one. But I have a creeping feeling I know who it is. Chalk-skinned, chin downturned, hair hanging limply. Her black skirts kiss the dirt as she stands over an open grave. A cathedral looms behind her, slashing the night sky. I can only tell that her gaze is fastened on me because her eyes are blazing pinpoints, brightening to searing beacons—

I wrench the kaleidoscope away, heart hammering. I’m home. I’m home. Only—

“Do you like it?” Mum asks. I’m struck mute. Her eyes. Her eyes are glowing. I can’t even see the brown of her irises. I stand, lips parted, with a white-knuckled grip around the family heirloom, unable to voice what I saw, what I see. 

“May I please have a look?” pipes up my sister, naïve voice inquisitive. My gaze snaps to her, and my tension eases somewhat. Her irises are still sage. Still green. 

For now… a voice whispers. 

I curl the kaleidoscope protectively to my chest. I don’t know what she’ll see if I show her. She’s too young. So was the girl from the flashback. I look at my Mum knowingly. Some of the scars on her skin make sense now. So does her hatred of sharp objects.

“You can have a turn when you get your first job, Ves,” she scolds, her eyes still blank as bone, though my sister doesn’t seem to notice. Mum’s voice softens as she enfolds me in a hug. “Thank you for doing this, Taur. The extra money is really gonna be welcome.” 

She’s right. Our wallpaper is peeling, our floorboards groan like phantoms, and I’ve seen too many things scuttling in dark corners recently.

But I can’t speak, can’t think, because when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over her shoulder, my eyes are glowing too. 

+++

It started off faint, not like my mother’s eyes, which remain purely white, unremarked upon by anyone else. I’ve been too scared to say anything. Why has no one else noticed? 

My own eyes luminesce softly. At first, I could still see them beneath, but the indigo of my irises seemed milky behind the glow. Now, all I can make out is a blue-grey tinge smudged around a pupil. 

“Right this way,” comes a gravelly voice, pulling my attention away from the bottle of ethanol in which I had caught my reflection. “I’ll carry the shovel,” says my new boss, Cain. His hands are covered by black leather gloves, dirt etched into their creases. 

I wasn’t entirely honest with my mother about the nature of my new job. I told her I applied to cafés, clothing stores, and a few other odd places. Unfortunately, the odd place was the one that reached out. 

“Please,” Cain raises a hand, indicating a shelf in the shed, “We like to leave our phones behind. It’s more respectful of our… clients.” 

“Oh, of course,” I jerk into action, fishing my device out of my pocket and tucking it away without question. I don’t comment that his phone is nowhere to be seen.

He leads the way while I fidget with my fingers, wishing he had let me carry something. Headstones flank us on our left and right, like the spines of some serpentine sea monster breaching the earth. Lightning slithers above, but the rain is yet to fall. The air feels tense, as if holding its breath. 

“You know, I’ve worked here many years,” Cain grunts as we walk, disturbing the ravens that hop between withered bouquets. “Never had a woman apply to be a gravedigger.” 

His gaze rakes me up and down. I should correct him. At sixteen, I’m not yet a woman. Just a girl. But I keep my lips sealed. I need this job. I can’t do anything to antagonise him.

As we step into the shadow of the cathedral, Cain reaches his destination. A maw yawns beneath us: an open grave. It’s already so deep that I wonder why we need to dig any further. My eyes wander to a spider in one corner, quietly weaving.

“You want to know the best part about cemeteries?” Cain’s voice comes from behind me. “No one notices another dead body.”

My head explodes. The impact of the shovel against my skull leaves it ringing, and there’s a nauseating, weightless moment as I fall. Then my body collides with the ground. My collarbone crunches and I roll from the momentum. Facing up, I see the sides of the grave rising all around, leaving the world above as nothing more than a keyhole.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Cain’s voice is tinged with sick excitement as he finishes, “when you’re cold.”

I can’t help my own tortured whimper as what is happening dawns on me. Everything I saw is coming true. My suspicions were right. 

The figure in my vision—it was me.

Shaking, and with only one good arm, I fumble for my pocket. I need to call for help—but it’s empty. 

The pain is shattering my world into splinters. They fold, shift, and blur into colours. But as lightning irradiates the world above, I catch a last glimpse of my face, reflected in the back of the shovel. The image doubles, mirrors, and magnifies itself. Kaleidoscopic. Chaotic.

The last remnants of blue are gone.

 My eyes are blazing white.

by Kayleigh Greig