The Watcher

I can feel him behind me, huge eyes looming, the weight of him. I am forbidden to speak with him, to look at him, to touch him. He follows, always behind, always watching. The shadows bend, flicker like black candles around the weight of him on the world. I can feel his eyes drilling into my shoulders. His eyes, his eyes. I cannot look. I must not. What a punishment this is! Always watched, always observed. I would have prefered exile. I would have prefered death. Perhaps. He watches me, waiting. Ready to pounce.

Sunday Sketch 62 - Terry Whidborne

Sunday Sketch 62 – Terry Whidborne

…oh, god this is boring. Look at her, sitting there feeling sorry for herself. Sulking. People avert their eyes as we pass, whispering, whispering. I don’t deserve this, a lifetime, and forced to follow this wastrel. Your Honour, I repent. Forgive me, I beg of you. Forgive me. What crime deserves this? I wonder what it was that she did? Maybe I should talk to her…but somewhere behind me, I feel their eyes on my back, burrowing into my spine…watching me, the ever-watching eyes, watching me.

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