Seen

Ethan Miller

There are some ideas that should not be thought. They exist, perhaps unbeknownst to the vast majority of the population, behind a thin wall between what should and should not be understood. This wall, however, is unlike most walls in the sense that it cannot be repaired through mortal attempts. I tell you, truly, that ideas are a virus, a parasite that burrows into the mind, sets its hooks, and will not allow itself to be pulled free. To help you understand the story I’m yet to tell, I will first give you an example—are you alone right now? Do you know that for sure? How could you know definitively? With three simple questions, you may start to feel an idea burrowing into your mind, an idea that you surely recognize with a grim countenance: you don’t know if you’re alone, not really. At this moment, you may feel a slight pressure in the recesses of your mind, or perhaps a strange crawling sensation, as if something is rustling deep in the interconnected forest of neurons that make up your brain. It is uncomfortable, yes, but it is the wall that keeps the rustling from consuming your sanity, piece by precious piece.

I tell you this for two reasons. First, to protect you from succumbing to a fate such as mine, but also so that you will understand the series of events forthcoming.

***

In my youth, I was a somewhat gifted child. I walked the line between being someone who held noteworthy intelligence and being someone perfectly, impossibly average. This line, should you have not walked it yourself, is immensely uncomfortable. There is an uncanniness to how it feels to be almost perceived, to be someone nearly worth attention. Due to the nature of my near-perception, I was desperate to leave my situation. Thus, I began to read.

This obsession with reading brought me into many fascinations. One of the first was Greek mythology, and the greatest of them to me was the story of Icarus and Daedalus. It was a heartfelt tragedy that enraptured me, perhaps imprinted on me. The sheer intelligence of Daedalus serving as a means of allowing Icarus to fly too close to the sun and to the sea somehow became a part of me, even to this day. Later on, I discovered geology, mathematics, biology, and more, and I did my best to absorb everything as best as I could. Finally, I had elevated myself—much to both my parents’ and my own satisfaction—to the level of “gifted child.” Now, I had thought to myself, now I am seen. 

I suppose you could say that being seen became a bit of a necessity for me. I developed a disposition that made me appear as if I were performing in a theater at all times, even when I was alone. My back was always straightened, my hair always combed, and my intelligence was always ready to be showcased.

In college, I decided to enter the field of anthropology and archeology, inspired by the book of myths I read as a child. I held an unwavering passion for the people and cultures that had enraptured me with their stories in my youth. However, as a new student, I once again felt the unease of being crushed between my average and noteworthy classmates, so my personal studies began once more. During this time, I became acquainted with a professor named Arnold Harlowe, who took a slight shine to me. I think he considered me something of a promising young protegé. Even so I was surprised that, once I had graduated with my degree, Harlowe asked me if I could work on deciphering an old text some colleagues of his had found that had recently been uncovered in Iran. Harlowe mentioned that it was unlikely to be revolutionary, but he could certainly use the extra help. Apparently, his colleagues were uncovering texts and artifacts at an astounding rate, but there were only so many archaeologists available to lend their expertise. I readily agreed, perfectly delighted with being specially chosen by my old professor, presumably from among all of my peers.

The tome was certainly old, although that would be obvious to anyone giving the book a momentary glance. Due to its age and condition, it was to be kept in the archeology lab at all times, so the lab practically became my home away from home. I was enamored by my first chance at deciphering a real document, whether it was simply an ancient banking registry or something brand new. To my great disappointment, it seemed that the former was true. The text was full of trade information and kept track of the variety of debts owed by various people in the surrounding area. Harlowe had warned me not to get my hopes up, but I had certainly done exactly that.

Strangely, however, I noticed that there were three pages in the very back of the book that appeared to have been sewn in after the book had been originally bound. These pages were of a similar material, but they seemed somehow older, and the language was certainly not Farsi, as would be expected from a Persian artifact. After some additional research, these odd pages appeared to be written in a mixture of Greek, Latin, and Arabic, and the pattern of languages became increasingly bizarre as the pages went on, as if the writer had deliberately attempted to make it impossible to decode. This, of course, did not dissuade me in the slightest.

Quickly, I became rather obsessed with this book, and I made no mention of the strange pages to my professor, as I wanted to show him how truly gifted I was. I wanted him to see that I was clever enough to decode the pages without any help, that I was once again a gifted individual. I felt such a need to be seen, not as a protégé, but as an equal. Or perhaps as a giant.

Over the course of a few weeks, I had nearly worked myself to death. I pushed aside both sleep and food for the sake of those three godforsaken pages. I grew increasingly ragged and irritable, and Harlowe asked me, even told me, on multiple occasions to take a break. I refused every time, with each refusal granting me spiteful energy with which to pour into my work.

After almost a month, I began to make sense of the pages. They spoke of perception and of a veil that kept the mind balanced. They spoke of gods and of demons and of the men who tried to see into something beyond reality. These men were not conjurors of spirits or magicians speaking to the dead; they were obsessed with truly seeing the entities that lurk beyond the veil. The final page even spoke of a way to do this, a simple set of instructions that needed only to be read, only to be understood.

I should have stopped reading.

I should have burned the pages.

I should have abandoned my quest to be seen.

I did not.

Immediately, I felt a shattering sensation in my mind. I have felt nothing like it before, and I can do it no justice, yet I will try. 

Imagine for a moment that within the mind is an egg. This egg gently sloshes and moves throughout your life, and it is comfortable. There is no need to fuss with it, and both you and the egg are safe together. Now, imagine that the shell suddenly breaks into a hundred small pieces and that there is an unknowable, unspeakable thing within it. Something with eyes. Something with seven hearts that beat seven times in seven directions. Something that was supposed to stay just beyond perception within its brittle prison but now both wholly occupies and scrutinizes your entire being. What was once a peaceful egg is now hatched in the mind, an omnipresent and despicable fact of one’s own broken reality. If you successfully imagined this, then you have still not imagined even the merest fraction of what I felt in that godless moment.

What followed this shattering sensation was a consuming feeling of dread. I felt seen, but not like I once craved. I felt as if there were a thousand eyes viewing me from the inside, the outside, and every direction in between. The molecules that made up my body were being stared at by something beyond description, and I stared back. I am always staring back.

I threw the book on the ground and screwed my eyes shut, begging for the horror in my soul to end. At the sound, I heard Harlowe enter the archeology lab and call my name in concern. I cried out to him, explaining what had happened and how I was feeling, but he interrupted me to call my name again, this time with a detectable amount of fear. I realized suddenly that I was on the ground behind the desk I had been sitting at, and I struggled to my feet, assuming that I was simply out of view. Harlowe stood on the other side, and his eyes moved over me, unfocused.

I called out to him, and there was no response.

I waved my arms, and there was no response.

I began to scream.

In my fit of hysteria, I knocked over a small lamp, and Harlowe nearly jumped out of his skin before sprinting out of the room. Scraping together what sense I had left, I followed him. He was making a phone call, asking someone if I was seen leaving the building. His face was white and afraid. I do not believe he had any thought that he understood what had just happened in the lab. I cannot blame him; neither would I.

I did not—no, I could not—believe that it was all real, that I did not exist. In a desperate attempt to be seen, I walked into Harlowe’s classroom and held a letter opener to his throat. He gasped for air, and a ripple of blood started down his neck as he struggled. I screamed in his face, commanding him to look at me, but he did not. He could not.

I slit his throat with that letter opener. I instinctively blamed him for my misery, for bringing me the cursed book that did this to me, and I wanted him to feel pain like mine. My mind was shaking under the pressure of an omniscient gaze, and I needed to be seen. Harlowe’s eyes, in his death throes, shivered back and forth, desperately looking for his assailant, but they found none. I was no longer a man, simply a force defined by the presence of a letter opener sliding into the bloody neck of a man who once saw me.

Eventually the police arrived, and I watched them discover the body. I was right beside Harlowe when they found him lying there, cold and departed. They saw the study I spent so much time in, and as they began to search for me—Harlowe’s presumed killer—I wept. I wish I had wept for Harlowe, but instead I wept for eternity, for my unending prison of nonexistent scrutiny. I am filled with eyes both inside and outside of me, and I can’t help but hope for an eventual end.

I don’t know how much time has passed since then, only that I have fallen into and out of madness dozens, possibly hundreds of times. I don’t eat, sleep, or drink. I don’t age. My hair doesn’t grow, and I do not exist. My reality is occupied only by myself and the inevitable, ceaseless watchers that stalk every detail of my nonexistence.

I pray that you’ll believe my story, that you’ll forgive my crimes and try to see me. I will understand if you do not wish to forgive me and if seeing me sounds too horrible to imagine. But if you find yourself doubting my story—doubting that such a thing could ever happen, that such a thin wall could exist within the private sanctity of the mind—just ask yourself one simple question:

Are you alone right now?

A b o u t

Ethan Miller is an English major with a focus in Creative Writing at Eastern Illinois University, and he hopes to one day be a successful author of both short stories and novels. While he originally planned on going into engineering, he has been building worlds since his sophomore year of high school and hasn’t looked back since. In his free time, Ethan likes to draw, metalwork, and prepare Dungeons and Dragons sessions for his friends. Fun fact: Ethan is one of the few people he knows who actively enjoys having nightmares; apparently, they’re great fuel for horror stories! Find him on Instagram @foxandravenwriting.