Abhay-Piya FF: Unlocking the Past Ch. 8/Pg. 27 - Page 20

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"Tell me more about the eyes."

Passing me the glass of water, he pressed me for details, without a trace of urgency or haste. It wasn't a gesture of concern, because coming from him, it was like a receptionist's smile - something he was boringly and obligingly accustomed to doing, as part of his job.

I wasn't mindful enough of his lack of sympathy, just right then. Quite thankfully instead, I drank in a large gulp of the chilled water. Then I took in a deep breath, and closed my eyes to remember what I would have given anything to forget - the sight of those eyes through the face mask ... The translucent hazel that turned to steel when they narrowed to focus upon ...

My own eyes fell open with a start, a shudder passing through my spine. He sat looking at me intently, and the very distant comprehending part of my mind held onto the subconscious former belief - it wasn't out of concern, but routine. He was being merely patient with me, a crucial witness to this fifth murder case in the neighbourhood, that had kept their hands full here at Scotland Yard, this entire awful week of rainy afternoons. In this weatherly respect, today was no different.

"They were cold," I whispered. My voice had refused to come full volume ever since the incident early this morning, sometime before the inset of dawn.

"Blue?"

"Nuances of grey ... they turned dark ... very dark when he ... when ... " I inhaled sharply and ran a hand forcefully through the tangled mess of my long tresses. If I'd survived the sight of that ruthless stabbing, surely, I could survive speaking it out loud ... ?

"I see."

Any other day, any other time, this man would have driven me over the edge. Why here I was, at all my nerves' end, and all he offer me was an 'I see' ... ? Sure! He could see nothing at all. Nothing! Unknowingly, I had worked myself into something of a breathlessness. Unknowingly also, I was scowling deeply, staring, or rather glaring at him. Perhaps he sensed it, for he met my eye, interrupting his professional strokes on the canvas, sketching the murder suspect.

"Are you alright?"

There it was, the water glass yet again, raised up for me. I wanted to scream the obvious 'no I'm not!' right into his face; instead I held back and re gathered my dissipating composure. I did however reject his attempt to drown my extreme discomfiture with mere cold water - what was I, a flushing system?

"They were quite like yours," I told him bluntly staring into his eyes, and momentarily, the revelation of my own words shocked even me.

Heavy silence greeted my steely answer.

And I instantly regretted having said the words. The man was only doing his job. But it wasn't easy for me either. The whole ordeal had left me reeling. Reeling with pain. With the unfairness of it all. Looking up to finally meet his eyes, I found nothing in his expression. It was unreadable. Most likely another part of his job. He was probably used to dealing with people like me, drawing those sketches day and night or whenever the occasion called for it. Still, I thought I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. But it had come and gone so fast that I was beginning to wonder if I had seen anything at all. And suddenly I was at a loss of what to say. He had now turned back to his work, his hands making those familiar strokes once again.

The rapidly growing silence was beginning to gnaw at my insides. What was I to do? Coming here, at some level, hadn't been one of the smartest decisions. But justice had to be served. Justice. The word that could weigh down on your conscience. It was the perfect replay of a scene from one of those crime movies. Only I had never expected life to imitate art up so close.

So the man had his own secrets. Odd enough, that came as a relief. Maybe he would understand my plight. But then again, the word maybe was dangerous when spoken on its own.