I didn't like the way she was looking at me

That’s what I told everyone when they asked me why.

 

I possess a remarkable ability to see more than the average person. It’s not as simple as that of course, but that’s essentially the gist of it. This ability has destroyed my life. It is often said that ignorance is bliss, seemingly because knowledge can cause more fear than ignorance ever can, and I have to say I agree. Knowing what I know, and seeing what I see in people; trust me, you’re better off not knowing.

It caused havoc in my childhood. Imagine being born into this world with an ability that no living soul around you seems to possess. Trying to understand that ability, amidst complete ignorance, is almost impossible. My parents would often ask me why. All I could meagrely offer in response was:

“Why can’t you see it?”

My behaviour could only be described as abhorrent, at least when perceived through eyes other than my own. My parents, teachers, councillors; all of them were perplexed as to what caused my irrational and violent outbursts. It would happen mostly at school. One moment I would be happily playing by myself, not a care in the world. The next I would be consumed by frenzy, viciously beating down another student for seemingly no reason until I was pulled away by a horrified teacher. My attacks were extremely fierce for my young age, and most of my victims had to be hospitalised to recover. I was bandied around schools like a virus, nobody wanted me. Nobody could understand. They tried to, asking me every single time why I did such a thing. My response was always the same, and grew colder as I realised the isolation of my situation.

“I didn’t like the way they were looking at me.”

 

You see, it’s all in the eyes. Everything you need to know about a person. It’s not like I see anything different to normal people. There’s nothing physical about it. It’s more like a feeling. When I look into the eyes of a bad person, a deep, dark pain stabs into my gut. It boils there, stewing until a rage is built up, and finally unleashed upon them. During these times I cannot control myself; my body retreats into instinct. Like an animal fighting for survival, I lash out against the bad people to remove them from this Earth before they can hurt anybody else. I know there’s a certain irony in it. It is hardwired in me to kill those whose destiny it is to kill. Perhaps if I were to look into my own eyes, my instincts would force me to commit suicide. I tend to avoid mirrors.

My childhood ended when I first succeeded. It was a cold, wintery day in late November midway through my first year in secondary school. Understandably, I was rather cautiously teased by other students for my violent outbursts. They would shout obscenities at me from a distance, before fleeing for their own safety. I kept to myself there, staying away from other students during breaks and keeping my eyes down on my books during class. On that day, someone finally plucked up the courage to approach me. Of course, by this point my reputation for violence was legendary, so it took one of the buffest kids in the year above me to finally be brave enough to get close.

“Think you can take me, do you?” His provoking words had little effect on me, partly because I was used to them, and partly because I knew that I could. It didn’t matter how strong they were, I could take them. Eventually, the bully grew offended by my apparent disregard for him, and forced my head upwards to look at him. I knew what would happen before I even glimpsed his eyes, and it only took me moments for the rage to develop. The worse the person is, the more likely to kill in the future they are, the quicker my instincts kick in. I was on him in seconds, scratching his face and neck with my poised fingernails. Within seconds, he was covered in blood. The teachers arrived fairly quickly, but the damage was irreparable. I had slit his neck, having swung at him with such force that it pierced his blood vessels. The ambulance was promptly called, but they couldn’t do much with his already lifeless body when they arrived.

 

Unlike the schools, I was much more popular at the mental institutions. I was their prime case; the seemingly normal child with a capacity for volatile and immoral violence. I confessed the true nature of my ability, but they simply could not seem to understand what was causing it. I can’t even count how many ridiculous treatments I went through, but they did succeed in the end. A powerful sedative, designed to heavily limit my capacity for strong emotion. I would never feel love or happiness to the same extent again, but the overwhelming rage that once overtook me beyond belief was gone, for the most part.

They released me late into my twenties under a different identity, for my own protection of course. It took me a long, long time, but I adjusted to normal life eventually. The drugs enabled me to restrain myself. I still saw whatever it is in the eyes of others that triggers my instincts, but the rage I once felt was reduced to only a flicker of hatred in my gut, so long as I broke eye contact immediately. It was somewhat freeing to live life for the first time without my ability, though my capacity to enjoy this feeling was limited by my medication.

I even managed to find love, however partial it was to me. My beautiful wife, who understands me and accepted my situation out of pure empathy; I don’t know what I did to deserve her. In her eyes, I saw nothing that brought forth any hatred or rage. I saw only kindness, true selfless kindness, which is a rare thing to see in someone. I thought my ability would never be able to accost me again, that I was finally free to enjoy the rest of my life, albeit limitedly. I was wrong.

 

Like I said, it’s all in the eyes. All it takes is one look from them, and my instincts kick in. I am built to destroy evil, wherever I might find it. It is not within my control. The worse a person is, the more my rage builds. This time, the drugs were not even enough to quell it.

Even after all these years knowing my condition, the doctors I had once considered friends still asked me why. They had believed me before, yet now it had become too much for them. The police asked me why; I had nothing to offer that would satisfy them, other than the same hollow answer I had given as a child. My wife asked me why. It was the first thing she said to me. I looked into her tear-stricken eyes, which were still fixed on my new-born baby’s bloodied corpse laid out on the floor, and gave her my shaking response:

“I didn’t like the way she was looking at me.”