Jaundiced Eye
an excerpt

“You know my parents will kill you if they find you here.” Mary was testing him. It was obvious. She wanted to see if he would run.

“I’m not afraid,” Victor insisted.

“Do you not understand what I’m saying to you?” She lowered her voice to a menacing whisper. “They will kill you, Victor.”

“I’m not afraid of death.”

“Sure you are. We all are. Some people just won’t admit it.”

“I’m not ashamed to admit when I’m scared. You scare me. Life scares me. Death . . . doesn’t.” Whenever Victor spoke honestly, people became uncomfortable. He was sure he wasn’t the only person to feel this way, and yet never had he found a person to relate to him. It was the honesty itself that made people squirm and want to get away from him. He not only spoke openly of the taboo, but in speaking openly of his own weaknesses and taboo feelings, he exposed those of his audience.

Tonight he had an audience that did not squirm. She did not appear uncomfortable. She merely smiled slightly and asked if he would like a sandwich before disappearing into the darkness beyond her bedroom door.

Victor’s eyes wandered around Mary’s bedroom. Her walls were painted a dark shade of red, giving the room a strangely regal feel, despite its cluttered messiness. An open armoire door revealed relics from her childhood: dolls, stuffed animals, a pair of baby shoes, torn posters. Piles of clothes littered the walking space throughout the room. A large hookah occupied the room’s corner nearest the door leading out into the hallway. On every elevated flat surface available sat a different Eastern-style decoration, depicting odd Hindu gods and goddesses, the Buddha in all of his various physical manifestations, elephants, and Shinto masks. Decorating her walls were brush paintings and a further assortment of Shinto masks.

Victor studied the largest of the masks, adorning the otherwise empty wall space directly above the headboard. He imagined this as the face of a man just gutted alive, wearing an expression of utter fear and despair. His eyes were turned down, and his mouth was frozen into an eternal, silent, agonizing wail.

Another, on the opposite wall, was painted deep red and lacquered for a shiny gloss. Its face embodied fury, with hate filled eyes, fearsome fangs, and a demonic scowl.

“We only had bologna.” Mary closed the door behind her as she entered the room. She noticed his attention on the mask. “You know, I really don’t know much about those. I’m learning, but I really just like this stuff. The masks scare me. I like that.”

As she spoke, Victor felt himself drawn toward her. Two small steps put him next to her. She handed him his sandwich.

“I like not knowing the real stories behind these guys,” she said, motioning to the masks. “Sometimes I lie in bed and stare at a mask, imagining the man behind it. It seems to me that if you wore something like that, you could be possessed by the emotions it expresses. The expressions are so exaggerated; you can’t help but feel what they’re feeling. If you put it on your face and wear it into battle, facing death with that frozen expression, you could be consumed by it. And if you wore any of these masks into battle, you would have a psychological advantage against your opponent. An enemy fighting you would see only a frozen expression of extreme emotion. It gives you the sense that you’re looking at a cadaver’s face, emotional but lifeless. It’s surely intimidating.”

“Do you know if they even wore them in battle?” Victor asked.

“They did in samurai movies.”

“I like you.” Victor spoke without thinking, but didn’t take it back.

“I like you, too.” She grabbed the back of his head and kissed him. “Want to put on the masks and have sex?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok, but not yet. Just hang out with me tonight.”