My Watcher's Eyes

By H.A O'Connor

It's not normal to feel so close to your watcher. No; it's not normal to have a watcher. So, why is Tess Young comforted by her watcher's presence? Why do his eyes fill her dreams? More importantly, will he become her greatest protector…or her greatest threat?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613092040

Book preview

One

Into Obscurity

~ TESS ~

Sometimes I think I was born with this feeling of being watched. I’ve been familiar with the sensation for as long as I can remember, anyway. Having the distinct impression I’m under surveillance is as natural to me as being hungry, lonely or afraid. Only it seems a lot closer to feeling safe and protected—loved, even.

But maybe that’s just me.

I’M STUDYING MY FEET. They’re moving over the pavement, propelling me forward as if they belong to someone else. The repetitive drumming of my heels is the only sound puncturing the humid night air.

It’s surprisingly subdued for a Saturday night in a college town, but that’s fine with me. Quiet moments like these are my favorites; they’re when the watching impression is strongest. I feel it now—the familiar, warm tingle that begins at the back of my neck and melts down along my spine—but resist the urge to look up. I know from experience there’ll be nothing to see.

Instead, I turn the corner and focus ahead, to where the word Obscurity hangs in two-foot tall, red-neon letters above a darkened doorway. This is where I’m going, though I probably should have stayed home to nurse an annoying cough and a headache.

As I approach, a replica of myself grows in the nightclub’s black glass door. Unremarkable is the word which comes to mind: balanced face, noticeable lack of any large or small or interestingly-shaped features, medium-brown hair, slightly-above-average height, slightly-below-average build. My pale-green eyes are the only part of me which have ever drawn notice and they’re merely copies of my mother’s.

When I pull open the door, however, I catch the reflection of something much less ordinary, at least I think I do. The dark shape of a man stands at the corner I just passed. I can’t see his eyes—he’s too far away and the sight flashes by too quickly—yet I know they must be blue. Sky blue, flecked with yellow, like fractured sunlight.

These are the eyes I know from my dreams, the ones my powerful, eidetic memory has recorded countless times and hoarded away like so many copies of the same photograph. I believe they’re my watcher’s eyes, but I have no proof of this.

I dart a look back at the corner and scan the entire landscape, letting the door fall closed as I spin in a circle. Then, my shoulders drop. I was right before; there’s nothing here but the soft, empty night, glimmering in shades of silver and blue-gray under the haze of moonlight.

I force myself to stop frowning before I enter the club. Inside, the main light source is more red neon; it snakes in tubes around the room, coiling above the few bar areas and arching over doorways. Edgy music seeps deep into the burgundy-tinted shadows, where dark-clothed patrons nurse their murky auras. I can’t help but smile. Anna was right: Obscurity could easily be voted Place Most Likely to Be Our College Hangout.

Moments after she’s passed through my mind, my best friend spills from the darkness to my right. The scarlet light finds her chocolate-brown eyes and gleams warmly against them; it casts ruby-tinted highlights on her black, satiny hair and frustratingly-perfect cheekbones. My eyes skim over her plum-colored dress, which flatters her figure like it was custom cut; then they fall back to my own, plain black one. It manages to hide what few curves I have.

A little sigh escapes me. Whenever Anna’s next to me, I might as well be invisible; it’s the way things are and I’m okay with it. Well, I’m used to it.

Anna just has time to hug me and exclaim, Happy nineteenth, Tess! before we’re half tackled by another friend, Janie, whose teal-tinted hair has been altered to a strange shade of violet under the club’s red lights. Neither color is sufficiently alarming to compete with Janie’s personality, I decide. She’s got the dainty looks of a pixie and the demeanor of a fire station alarm.

Tess! she shrieks into my ear, before squeezing both my shoulders and shaking me back and forth a few times. You’re nineteen now! We should be dancing!

My response is to break into a string of rough coughs; Anna’s is to give me a deep frown and Janie a little shove backward. You’re still sick, Anna mutters and starts digging around in her purse. I thought you were getting better.

I shrug, but thank her when she produces a couple of cough drops and presses them into my hand. Our other friends, Maria and Celia, arrive in the meantime and receive full-contact greetings of their own. By the time Janie’s through with them, Maria is frowning and tossing her dark hair in anger and Celia is nervously twirling a periwinkle-tinged curl around and around and around her finger. Each gives me a birthday hug and, moments later, we’re all dragged onto the dance floor in a Janie-led mob.

I’m fine for a while, thanks to Anna’s cough drops and some ibuprofen I took earlier, but deep down, I know it can’t last. I’m dancing on borrowed time.

My illness revives with a vengeance and my medications toss up white flags of surrender. My chest suddenly feels constricted and raw; my temples throb in time with the beats shuddering through the room. Bowing out of the action, I grab a soda and a seat, hoping the sugar will bolster my immune system, not to mention my wilting strength.

Janie spots me moments later. If I wasn’t sure before, it’s now glaringly obvious my evening’s a doomed one.

Making a phony, deep pout, Janie insists, You can’t sit down! It’s your birthday and a guy over there—Jason—wants to dance with you!

With wide eyes, I follow the direction of her outstretched, perfectly-manicured finger. Two guys stand still among the movement; both are turned in our direction. The taller of the two, a blond, is keeping Janie in his sights, but his auburn-haired friend seems to be watching me.

I quickly scan the features of this second one and, returning to his intense, brown-eyed stare, feel my face slip into a frown. No thanks. I’m sick.

Come on, she shouts, grabbing my arm and pulling me from my seat, they’re playing your favorite song!

She’s wrong. It’s her favorite song, but I couldn’t care less: an acute wave of nausea is on the rise, making me stop, mid step, and cover my mouth with both hands. Janie, feeling me hesitate, smiles back blindly and yanks harder.

Realizing it’s easier to submit than struggle against this petite, aqua-haired maniac, I pull myself together and trail along. At some point, I realize we’ve veered off our path. Panic sets in and I search for a familiar face among the crowd, while earth-quaking chills overtake my body.

This is when things take yet another turn for the worse. Janie tows me between a pair of dancing figures when the beat picks up and the guy next to me—clearly a football player in Goth disguise—sends a flailing elbow full force into my chest.

If I wore false teeth, they would have gone flying. As it is, every available ounce of air evacuates my lungs at the speed of light, leaving me gasping, clutching at my chest in agony.

Watch it, you big dope! Anna screams out, suddenly beside me. Her face turns to mine with a look nearly equaling my pain. "Are you okay?"

Janie gives us both an annoyed frown and trots away, back on the trail of her tall blond or, possibly, someone new. Anna glares icily at her back and addresses me again.

You look awful. I should take you ho—, she begins to announce, but I interrupt her.

The first scorching cough bursts from me as soon as I begin funneling oxygen back into my lungs. Seizing again at my chest, I’m shocked by the intense pain which must have lain in wait all night, released by my unexpected injury.

Though I try to suppress the next cough, it and several others follow. I can only cover my mouth while my body reels under their violence.

Someone grabs my arm and, slowly, I look up to discover myself operating in disjointed motion, like I’m trapped inside an old movie being melted by the projector playing it. My hand seems wet when I lift it away from my mouth. Dazed, I raise my palm and notice something dark speckling my skin, something gleaming in the room’s low light.

A new onslaught of coughing seizes me and I cup both hands to my mouth this time, fire searing once more through my lungs. I’m not surprised to feel a cold sweat break out over me.

More of the dark substance is visible now and when I again peer at my palms, it finally registers: blood. I’m coughing up blood.

A rush of heat floods my cheeks and for a moment, the fog lifts. I hear the music again and feel a violent chattering in my teeth, along with a sharp pain in my arm where Anna’s hands are tightly clamped. She might be what’s keeping me from collapsing. Loud words are being spoken nearby; I glimpse a mix of faces, among them the Jason who was pointed out by Janie. He’s standing close, his features animated by concern or anticipation, I can’t tell which. This, I disregard, along with everything else.

There’s something far more important seeking my attention—a pulling sensation, drawing at my head. My scalp prickles while my eyes climb upward by degrees and, finally, I see him.

Him. Alone, despite the mass of movement and forms in the room. Everything else falls away the instant our eyes meet. His are positively luminous: a vibrant blue, though I notice an unnatural crimson hue wash through them as I stare, some strange effect of the red neon. Still, these are the eyes, the ones I know.

The core of my being gives a violent lurch in response. It’s like I’m peering into a void I’ve always carried inside me, a void filled with anguish and loss. A void I pretend isn’t there. Yet, I’m also looking across the void—to the other side, to those liquid blue eyes, staring directly into my own.

A minor annoyance picks at a sliver of my attention: there’s some kind of wetness on my lower lip. My hand automatically lifts to wipe it away and, when he catches the movement, pain swells in his eyes and my hand drops limply to my side. I realize my legs are shaking. Anna’s grasp is faltering.

I sink ever so slowly, though all that is occurring, this full sequence of events, must pass in milliseconds. As I slip down, he rises from his seat at the bar. His eyes flare scarlet with the room’s red glow and the inferno within my chest blazes, sending darkness, like soot-filled smoke, billowing up to block my vision. My head drops against my will and reality bursts in around me. People are grabbing me, pulling me up. I’m trying to make my legs work again.

I have to get her out of here; I need help, I hear Anna call out in frantic tones. I need help!

A deep, male voice surfaces somewhere, everywhere around me and it sounds like the voice of salvation. I recognize this voice, though I can’t place it. I give myself up to it anyway, certain everything will be okay now.

The blackness clouding my sight persists and deepens; I no longer know if my eyes are open or closed. My ears, filling with a rushing sound, offer little help. Even my skin feels anesthetized, yet I sense I’m moving—forward or backward, I don’t know which. I’m just sure I’m safe.

Take her to the hospital. Now, I hear the familiar male voice say close by my ear, pushing through the static in my head. Though I scowl at his command, I can’t help acknowledging he’s right.

And keep. That blue-haired girl. Away from her. The voice growls again. If I could find my mouth, I would smile. I might even laugh.

Then, all of a sudden, my mouth is there again; it resurfaces when something cool brushes lightly across my lower lip. In that moment, my mouth becomes the only thing I can feel.

Nothing else in the world comes close to mattering.

Two

SHE SAW ME. TWICE. I can’t believe I let it happen.

I touched her, too. I held her warm body in my arms while she fought to stay conscious; I carried her to her friend’s car. I did more than just this, though. I wiped a drop of blood from the soft curve of her lower lip.

Tonight, I let her see me. I carried her. I touched her mouth, her blood.

What have I done?

Three

Awaken

~ TESS ~

I wake up coughing. Lifting a hand to my mouth, I wipe my lips and see a bright, unmistakable redness smeared across my fingers. So, I was right before; it was blood. Does that mean last night was real?

A movement catches my attention and I look up to see my mother staring down at me intently; her delicate face is pale in its frame of caramel-colored hair, her light green eyes stare into mine. Something—misery—etches itself onto their surface as I watch and the thought occurs that whatever my illness is, it’s likely terminal. Another thought quickly follows: this is my mother who’s looking so tortured.

Mom once dreamt of acting, but settled instead for a life of full-time homemaking. Over the years, she’s packed every ounce of the drama she craved into each corner and pocket of our family’s existence. Needless to say, she goes berserk whenever I get sick.

Oh, Tess, she whispers; her eyes suddenly shine with tears. I’m so, so sorry. How could I not know you had pneumonia? How could I have let things get so bad again?

No, I counter, confused by my mother’s words. Struggling to respond further, I find my speech punctuated throughout with painful little gasps for air. It’s not your fault—I should’ve taken care—Did you say ‘again?’

For heaven’s sake, Brenda, leave the poor girl alone.

My grandmother’s voice plows into the room, blazing a trail for her sturdy frame to follow.

Instantly, my mom retreats and I see, behind her, walls papered an anemic burgundy, rather than the expected honey-colored paint of my bedroom. At the same time I become aware of a strong antiseptic smell assaulting my nostrils. Hospital. Anyone who’s ever spent time in one is sure to recognize the atmosphere. I groan and slump into the pillow.

Gram plants a prolonged kiss against my forehead, shaking her head in dissatisfaction as she withdraws. Why hasn’t her fever dropped more? And what’s on her lips? Is that blood? I should never have left the room.

Oh no, my mom exclaims, leaning in once more and now genuinely looking like she might faint. I didn’t realize... I heard her coughing and came over to check, but... oh, your fingers; there’s blood on your fingers, too...

Go and find the nurse, Gram interrupts. Tell her Tess needs a new IV bag.

My eyes go immediately to the unwelcome pouch suspended above my head, linked to my forearm by a clear tube, while I mentally absorb the change in Gram’s voice. Her words softened and slowed while she directed my mother, like she was managing a child.

Her no-nonsense tone is back when she returns to me. Time to get cleaned up.

I struggle to rise, but she holds me in place. Rather than argue, I limply allow her to wipe away the cherry-colored splotches from my fingertips and mouth. It isn’t as if her firm style of treatment is something new; she’s nursed me through every illness of my life and I can’t complain. Obviously, I’ve always gotten better.

Well, Tess. How did this happen? Gram inquires. Her eyebrows rise into sharp arches.

This means she wants a real answer, no excuses.

First, tell me what—has happened? I ask, disregarding her gravity.

Well, you must know you have pneumonia... she states, again hoisting her eyebrows, letting her words sink in for effect. I suddenly have an inkling Mom might have inherited her flair for the dramatic, though Gram would rather die than admit such a thing.

...And you probably don’t remember much, Gram continues, because you were more or less delirious when Anna brought you here last night. Your fever had soared above a hundred and four. She presses her lips into a thin line and adds, I won’t ask what you were doing out in such a condition.

This non-question demands more of an answer than if she’d posed it outright. It came on fast... it was just a cough, I lamely try to explain, as a distressing thought occurs. I didn’t pass out—did I?

How embarrassing. I hope I didn’t make a total scene in Obscurity.

Not quite, I think, my grandmother replies, but that’s not what you should be worried about. Don’t you know how sick you are? People used to die from pneumonia all the time; even now, it can be very dangerous—

I... I’m going. I have to go, my mother suddenly interrupts; her face is ashen when she enters the room and begins flitting around its edges. Elegant as a dancer, she gathers up her sweater and magazines, all the while murmuring about overwrought nerves.

Accustomed though I am to my mother’s eccentric behavior, this has definitely crossed over into peculiar. I can only attribute the oddness to Gram’s presence. After all, Mom, Gram and Gram’s grizzly-sized nurturing gene have never made for anything but an awkward trio. Yet, here they are, trapped together in close quarters.

I have to prepare for Tess’s return home, Mom whispers. She kisses me quickly on the forehead and I know, almost instinctively, I won’t see her again anytime soon.

Just before leaving, she hesitates in the doorway and, with her back to us, quietly announces, The doctor’s coming in to talk with you.

A tall man with a kind face enters the room mere moments later, introducing himself as Dr. Caldwell. Bravely, he bypasses Gram, who is nearly blocking his passage, and makes his way to my bedside.

Unable to keep my eyes from flitting to my grandmother’s face, I see it grow increasingly grim as the man finishes his introductions and broaches the topic of my illness. Gram’s stare festers while he discusses medications; it finally bursts, when he speaks the words, Now, let’s discuss how this infection has impacted your heart condition.

Gram temporarily distracts me from the weight of his words when she stalks forward unexpectedly, one finger pointing like a knife toward the ceiling. She loudly interrupts with, Now, just a minute!

What heart condition? I ask, simultaneously.

Somehow, the three quiet words I’ve just squeezed from my throat are the ones which win the doctor’s attention.

Dr. Caldwell looks thoroughly puzzled when he replies, Your aortic valve stenosis. When I fail to reply, he elaborates, A complication of the rheumatic fever you had as a child.

He continues examining my face, but it must be blank because my entire body’s gone numb. Dr. Caldwell proceeds as if everything he’s said was understood. A given.

Although you’ve been fortunate in avoiding symptoms prior to this, the pneumonia has taken an additional toll on your heart, adding to the amount of work it must do with every contraction...

He holds up his hands, folding them into the vague shape of a human heart, and begins squeezing them together, seemingly out of habit. His hand-heart contracts and releases while he continues his explanation, and though his sympathetic voice fills the room, not another word pierces the mist around my brain. In silence, I focus upon his hands’ repeated constrictions.

When the doctor leaves, I manage to thank him, but afterward find I can only stare at my grandmother. She looks tired and, possibly, apologetic. Having never seen her wear either expression, Gram takes on the aura of a stranger.

You knew, I accuse; my voice is thin, frailer even than I feel. A thought follows, flashing through my mind and out of my mouth. Mom did, too.

Gram’s lips tighten. The doctors discovered a murmur after you’d had rheumatic fever. Tests confirmed the illness had scarred your aortic valve, resulting in the stenosis. She falters momentarily here; then continues, We gave you antibiotics whenever you went to the dentist, but nothing else needed to be done.

Except tell me, I think.

My grandmother’s face grows distracted. We believed you’d have more time before anything like this... She lifts her hands, palms open. She closes first her face, then her hands, and announces, I’m sorry, Tess.

I feel like green, algae-choked water is filling my space, coming together over my head. But, what does it mean? I blurt, struggling to sit up.

Gram takes my hand in hers. You’ll be okay, she asserts. Dr. Caldwell will do what is needed and... later, if the surgery... oh, modern medicine is so effective, she concludes, having explained nothing, and pastes a smile onto her lips.

Heart surgery, that much I understand. My grandmother is discussing heart surgery, my heart surgery, shifting the words around, working them over like she’s kneading bread.

Of course you might need medication to keep everything working properly afterward, but....

My eyes finally catch Gram’s and she stops. Tries again and fails once more. We need to have faith, dear, she murmurs at last. Her voice breaks at the end and I’m ever so slightly vindicated.

THE PROCEDURE WHICH my grandmother never quite mentioned, a balloon valvuloplasty, has been scheduled for later this week. My basic understanding is that a balloon—hopefully a little one—will be fed through a blood vessel in my groin, all the way up to my heart, where it will be inflated to widen my narrowed valve. The balloon procedure might work or its results could be short-lived; this means I may eventually need to have my faulty valve replaced entirely.

If I can find any humor in my situation, it’s this: yesterday, my biggest concerns were a cold I couldn’t shake and a worry about whether or not my friends would embarrass me at a nightclub. Well, Happy Damn Birthday to me.

ANNA ARRIVES ALONE, which is no surprise; I’m sure I won’t see Janie or the others for a while. They aren’t the sick visit type and if they caught wind of my more serious condition... well, forget it. Lucky for me, Anna’s different.

My relief at seeing her creep through the open door this afternoon is indescribable. Her presence is always a boon to my spirits, but I need her now more than ever. I’m hoping, in my compromised heart of hearts, she can return everything to normal—because right now, I’m still digging my fingernails into normal.

Anna