Glass Eye

I fucking hate children. Call me what you will, think whatever you want, but children are the worst kind of people. They’re loud, irritating, disgusting little sacks of snot and tears. Occasionally, they also reek of biological waste. Not to mention they’re completely incapable of handling themselves. For the most part, that is. Some children are fairly adult-like, however rare that might be. Sadly, that’s the type of kid is the one you’d never want to meet – as nice as that kind of kid sounds, they’re probably the worst breed. I doubt anyone enjoys seeing a kid who was forced to grow up way too fast because of abuse, loss, or any other unpleasant experience.

My hatred of children is mostly limited to the really young ones, they're just so vile.

I must’ve been twelve or thirteen when that happened. I wasn’t a very social kid myself and preferred to keep to myself. Back then, I lived in a small town. Bushes on all sides surrounded my house with a small opening leading to a long and winding road. That road led to out of our small town. The traffic was fairly scarce on that road, so you could travel on it safely by foot. My dad made a swing he had hung up from the tree next to our house. I’d spend my afternoon swinging on that swing most days, daydreaming.

That day, I must’ve been caught up in my fantasies because I didn’t notice the battered kid that smelled like used diapers approaching. His sobbing only became audible when he was already standing right next to the swing. The smell hit me right after. I heard his pained cries and turned to look at him. His blood-stained pale little face and tattered clothes made him seem like a zombified thing. I nearly fell off the swing when I noticed just how bad he looked.

My first reaction was to curse, and then I became worried – about the kid. He was visibly younger than me. He might’ve been six or seven. Looked like hadn’t eaten in a few weeks and was run over by a truck. I remember trying to gage out what had happened to him, but to no avail. He only stood there, sobbed, and shook. After a few frustrating minutes, I’ve figured out what had happened.

He and his father were involved in an accident down the road, the car flipped over, his father was trapped and “asleep” as he put it. I figured his father must’ve been hurt, so I wanted to get help. To do that, I asked him to show me where it had happened, and he led me down the road.

After about fifteen minutes of walking in awkward silence with a kid that looked like a zombie who shit himself, we finally reached our destination. A lone car stood on its side at the side of the road. I told the kid to stay there and promised to get back with help. I ran back to town and alerted the first adult I could find, my school guard, Mr. Barsanyan, a middle-aged man whose first name I never learned. He might’ve been past his prime, but he was built like a tank. I figured he’d help me.

We ran back to the place I had left the kid. Much to my surprise, the kid lay on the ground motionless. Back then, I had no idea a person could die from injuries in a matter of minutes if they’re left untreated. I was panicking, I didn’t want the kid or his father to die. I started crying, pleading with Mr. Barsanyan to help them both and he told me that he’ll do whatever he can. He told me to stay put and went to check on the kid. Placing his fingers on the kid’s neck, the child sprang back to life. Spat something red into Mr. Barsanyan’s face, causing the middle-aged school guard to stumble back and wipe his face vigorously.

Before I could do anything, a pale, lanky, tattooed figure rose from behind the car. It was a tall man. He had the vilest face I had ever seen. Yellow teeth shone from behind his devious smile. His sunken eyes were yellowish in shade, as well. Mr. Barsanyan stumbled around blindly, shouting profanities. The lanky man pulled out a weapon of some kind and smashed it against Mr. Barsnanyan’s leg. Causing the middle-aged man yelled out in pain as he fell down. The lanky man stood over him, casting a predatory shadow. He was swaying from side to side, he could barely maintain his balance on his feet. I screamed in terror as the lanky man grinned from ear to ear. His smile was almost inhuman.

Mr. Barsanyan saw me and yelled at me to run; I ran. I hadn't got far before I lost my footing. I ended up landing on my head and cutting my scalp. A pulsating pain radiated across my head as I tried getting back up. Looking behind me one last time, I saw that kid getting back up to his feet, clutching something in his hand. He looked at me and waved his hand.

I barely made it home, my clothes were covered in my blood and I couldn’t bring myself to say a word. I didn’t speak for months. I was too scared to speak. The visual of that kid standing up waving at me coupled with the agonized screaming of Mr. Barsanyan haunted me. It's still a very painful memory. Like a terrible nightmare that extended into my consciousness after I’ve woken up. My parents were sure it was the blow to the head, and my dad took off the swing, assuming I had busted my scalp falling from the swing, I must’ve left blood marks all over that thing.

They’ve found Mr. Barsanyan’s remains dumped at the side of the road the next day when he failed to show up to work. His body was broken and bloodied. I didn’t tell anyone anything about the incident.

The man and the kid were never found.

I couldn’t look at my brother the same after that day, he reminded me of that little fucker who used me as bait. I hate kids to this day because that little shit scared me more than his old man. Who wouldn’t be scarred by the sight of an evil little kid with a visible empty eye socket?

I was so freaked out by that little fucker waving his eye at me, I had no clue glass eyes were a thing back then.