I don't remember precisely when I realized I had a unique talent which no
other human being possessed --- as far as I could tell --- but I do remember,
precisely, when I realized I had to hide it.
From my earliest childhood I was able to move my eyes independently, and growing up I nurtured this ability the same way I nurtured the ability to spin a baton or cross arms when I jumped rope-- which is to say, I hardly thought about it being special. My parents must have noticed, though in my memory they never gave it attention. Perhaps they thought it was normal for a baby and I would outgrow it, but leaving me orphaned in the wake of a plague of frogs which somehow rained from the highland sky one autumn, they would never be able to give me the guidance I would surely need as a growing boy. The foster guardians assigned to me over the years never even noticed, though the parades and marches I was forced to endure through their numerous homes fostered in me an independence and self-reliance which I know has been to my benefit.
It was early in my teens that I visited a doctor who actually noticed, during an ear exam of all things, that my eyes were studying different areas of the room, and that I was gauging that information without duress. In retrospect, I understand that he would have made me a side-show freak, a medical toy to be prodded and poked and probably probed, to determine why my ocular muscles were more developed than another boy's. But at the time, I only saw this doctor shake his head like he was clearing it of dogwater, then quiver with the desire of something; that made me scared. Half of me gave him a hairy eyeball, while the other half eyed my escape.
My fortuitous avoidance of this strange adversary is unimportant --- I was shunted to and from another home-- and eventually claimed my life as my own. Standing on the cusp of adulthood, I had for years kept my eyes straight ahead. I had a secret to maintain. Beyond that, I knew I could trust no one, so I never looked anyone in the eye.
It was ten years later that I sat in a classy restaurant, well-dressed but alone, treating myself to a hearty, if unhealthy, lunch. This was simply a reward, I rationalized, for a job well done. My work, too, is unimportant here; suffice it to say that I do a little of this and a little of that and live for the most part, a modest lifestyle. Nothing illegal or immoral, I assure you; I get by unobtrusively.
So I sat in a darkened booth in a near-empty wing of a restaurant, not really listening to the conversation of the businessmen in the booth behind me, but trying to recall where I had heard one voice before. The words were not registering exactly, though I knew they were discussing how long "parts" could survive on ice, and could two of them guarantee the other two that a helicopter would be waiting.
I dropped a generous tip on the bill with my payment, and stole a glance at the next table before walking to the restroom. I felt apprehensive washing up, when one of them-- I was sure he was the one with the voice I knew from somewhere-- entered and looked at me closely, I did not feel immediately threatened. It was as though the men's room was a neutral territory and we could only size each other up.
We locked eyes in the mirror, when it dawned on me that he and the others were selling human organs on the black market. And I knew his face, too, but I couldn't place it until I was out of the building and into traffic when I realized he had been quivering like that dark doctor from my childhood. I realized too, that he knew I had overheard.
I wasn't in particular fear for my life then, because of all the patients he had had to have seen in his life-- both legitimate and involuntary-- how could he remember my name after so long? He might suspect that I would go to the authorities, but I didn't even remember his name, and he must know that I had no proof.
So I slept the sleep of a wary man, like I always do, and I awoke when I heard the front door to my flat open without the benefit of my key. I slipped into dress shoes and a heavy raincoat and slipped out the bedroom window; not the first time, I admit. Even in the middle of the night, the city was busy, and I thought I would be safely anonymous in the crowd.
I didn't know how he and his henchmen had found me, or what they would do when they didn't find me there, but I decided that to change my appearance was the first order of business. Of course, they were likely eager to change my appearance too, but I'd wager not by plastic surgery. More likely they just wanted to turn my face to putty.
Still, my hair was a little shaggier than respectable, so a trim was in order, and I could pick up a pair of Clark Kent reading specs at any corner drugstore. That would disguise me well enough. But where to go... or where to hide?
A lady of the evening provided me with an answer. I won't call her a whore, because she did me a favor and that's a word I reserve for evil and worthless women. This one, though she was not happy, fit more the connotation of a strumpet, with a lighter, post-Victorian air. Besides, she had a room.
I turned my head to look up the street where I did not see thugs or bruisers on my tail; I also looked at the hand she offered to me. She did not wear any rings, something I notice by habit when I meet women. She did, however, have a discoloration near the base of her ring finger. I couldn't tell in the poor glow of the streetlight whether it was a tan line or a metallic rash, but it was there. She also had a broken nail.
We ascended into the sleazy brownstone and in the light of her room she asked whether I had changed my mind. She alone would not have dissuaded me; though older than I had thought before, she was by no means ugly or unappealing. However, she tried to close the door and it would not shut. Somebody's shoe was in the way. When the door swung back open, I saw the doctor and his three coworkers had found me again. For the second time that evening, a window became my egress.
I ran through alleys and back streets and reached the waterfront. I passed the deserted groins of a demolished boardwalk and paralleled the shore on a cobblestone path that could not hide me. Worse, I heard their footsteps close behind.
The path ended at a stone gate and pygmy obelisk, ironically punctuated by an all-seeing eye and dedicated to some forgotten hero. Beyond, sand fanned out toward the tide to one side, and a slough on the other. The sea mist stung against my sweating face; I could hear the surf falling in one ear and frogs courting in ritual song in the other. My back against the needle's masonry, I watched the team of enemies surround me.
I knew little about their black market, and cared less. If they knew that much about me, they cared not at all. One threw me to the wet stones and the rest closed in, that doctor the most fearsome of all. Beyond him, I could see a low wall with cursive graffiti reading "Sir Flex," and on the ledge above it, a lone bullfrog observing my fate.
When I awoke in the darkness, I was surprised that they had let me live. The sound and smell, though, told me I had not been moved far, and this was more surprising. I was lying in sand on the beach. But I could feel the warmth of the morning sun on my face, and in the dark of the day I felt a terror more pure than any they had heaped upon me the night before. My eyes! The bastards had taken my eyes!