by Olivia White
Jackson Regis was, by and large, a thoroughly nice man. All of his acquaintances said so, and even some of his friends. He was a simple man, of simple tastes. Each day, to work, he wore a starched white shirt, fastened to his sensible brown trousers with braces of beige. When he sat down they revealed clean white socks emerging from brown Brogue shoes. Some of the more gossipy co-workers often joked that his trousers were too short, but they weren't, not really. His legs were too long, perhaps. He was a tall, thin man who had the appearance of a walking stick with spindly limbs, although for such a lanky fellow, Jackson Regis moved with a remarkable grace. His hands, especially, were rather remarkable. Long, thin, elegant fingers which were perfect for tap tap tapping away at a calculator. Steady, precise surgical hands. Were anyone to ask him, which they never had, Jackson Regis would have cited his hands as being his favorite body part.
He was balding, and had been for quite some time, so he wore the remaining strands of his hair in a comb-over. Below this, a pair of small, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his not inconsiderable nose. Overall, people often remarked, Jackson Regis looked very much like an accountant or a mathematician, which was convenient as he was both. He worked in the city as an accountant at Stockard & Leigh, and had done so for many, many years. He enjoyed his job, even if it was entirely mundane and nothing to write home about. Not that Jackson Regis ever wrote home, having lost both his parents to a tragic murder-suicide pact when he was only ten. He had no siblings, no wife, no children, not even any pets. And with this simple arrangement, Jackson Regis was happy.
Jackson Regis regarded almost every aspect of his life as adequate, bordering on acceptable. In fact, only one thing caused him considerable distress.
"My eyes are quite dreadful," Jackson Regis remarked to himself one day, sitting at his dressing table. His horn-rimmed spectacles sat discarded before him. He was pawing at his eyes, stretching the eyelids up and down, examining the eyeballs as best he could.
His pupils were tiny, in almost every lighting condition. And his irises were a most distasteful color. If he had to define it, he always fancied he'd call it 'River Sludge'. Indeed, they were most disappointing eyes. He'd tried wearing colored contact lenses, of course, but soon discovered he was allergic to the cleaning solution when his body broke out in hives. Instead, he was resigned to having eyes which he never could find agreeable.
For most of us, such a thing may not seem like too big an issue. To Jackson Regis, however, it was a very big deal indeed. You see, Jackson Regis loved eyes. They were his favorite thing in the entire world. It was the first thing he noticed in anybody. With women especially, he'd find himself staring deep into their eyes when other men may have chosen a cruder line of sight.
Jackson Regis loved eyes so much that once upon a time he'd considered becoming an optician. He'd only considered it briefly, perhaps for a day or two, then dismissed the idea. He was not entirely sure why, but it had seemed like an unobtainable dream, in the way a child fantasizes of becoming an astronaut or the President, but deep down knows they'll grow up to work in a lamp factory.
Finished with his daily routine of lamenting his own inadequate peepers, Jackson Regis stood in front of his large wardrobe and took a deep breath. It was a ritual he repeated every day, and never once had the thrill faded. Gingerly he reached out one hand and rested it on the brass knob. The cabinet seemed to exude a faintly spiritual aura, and to an extent this was appropriate. This was Jackson Regis's altar, the sacred shrine at which he worshiped.
Allowing the anticipation to build for a moment, Jackson Regis threw open the wardrobe doors and stared at his collection.
Jackson Regis's collection stared back.
Thirteen pairs of eyes, floating in preservation fluid, bobbing sightlessly in their lovingly-polished, immaculately clean jars. Jackson Regis didn't believe in such flights of fancy as the soul, but if he were to allow himself to indulge in such whimsy, he might have thought of them as twenty six windows to the soul, windows through which only he could look.
You see, Jackson Regis collected eyeballs.
Not just any eyeballs, though. Oh no. Jackson Regis was very particular about which eyeballs he would add to his collection. They had to be just right. There was no real pattern to them, no criteria which he'd predefined. But when he saw a pair of eyeballs that fit, he just knew he had to have them.
This was perhaps rather unfortunate for the owners of these eyeballs, all of whom had been alive at the time of acquisition. But, Jackson Regis figured, he didn't indulge in anything else. He had no vices; he did not drink, or smoke, or go out with women of the night. He did not gamble or go into bars and punch other men. So should he not be allowed this one small discretion? Yes, yes he should, he reasoned.
Had it been possible to acquire the eyes by any other means, Jackson Regis would have done so. He was not a malicious man, not in the slightest. He took no pleasure from causing pain, and in fact did his utmost to make sure the victims of ocular extraction were as comfortable as possible. One could acquire certain drugs that could be injected directly into portions of the skull, entirely numbing the facial area. And over the years, Jackson Regis had perfected a very unique removal tool, a flat, bladed pincer-like device that could slide over the eyeball and neatly sever the optical nerves. Of course, he made sure that his donors were fully unconscious during this. And then, knowing that people were never keen on being suddenly blinded, he ensured that they never woke up. It was an arrangement that worked for all parties concerned, Jackson Regis believed.
He knew that what he did was frowned upon by certain areas of society. The water-cooler gossip was often about his actions, for instance. Not that they aimed their talk at him. They had no idea. The papers, too, labeled him as sick and a monster. Jackson Regis found this kind of talk quite hurtful, but they'd taken to referring to him as The Optometrist, so it was swings and roundabouts. The papers always talked about people like him. The Boston Strangler. The Son of Sam. The Handyman. There was always someone, some sensation splashed across the front pages. Unique, quirky individuals with unusual tastes.
The Optometrist. He liked the name, and took comfort in it. It made him sound important, he thought, like a doctor or a veterinarian. He considered getting a leather jacket with the words 'The Optometrist' embroidered on the back in fancy gold stitching, then decided against it, at least in part because wearing a leather jacket would make him appear as if he was suffering from a mid-life crisis.
He pondered these things now, as he drove around the outskirts of the city. It was a warm, balmy evening, a perfect time for collecting. He couldn't see much from his car, of course, Jackson Regis was a very safe driver and always kept his eyes on the road. Eventually, he'd pull into a parking lot somewhere and go for a stroll, have a look around and see if anything took his fancy.
Most often, it did not. He'd been collecting eyeballs for nearly twenty years, and he'd only amassed thirteen sets after all. He was nothing if not discerning. He never grew disappointed, even if months went by without finding a single worthy prize. It was all part of the fun.
Jackson Regis strolled past a take-out restaurant. Two burly Turkish men were arguing loudly, and they fell silent and stared at him as he walked past. He nodded and smiled. One of them squinted at him with dark, striking eyes.
"Not bad," Jackson Regis said to himself after he'd passed out of earshot. "But not good enough either."
It wasn't that he was adverse to taking men’s' eyeballs. It was just that he'd never found a man whose eyeballs he coveted. There was something about women's eyes, Jackson Regis thought, that was altogether more striking than those of their male counterparts.
He tended not to analyze his motivations in-depth, and instead took pleasure in the simple art of appreciating beauty.
And it was at the very moment that he was considering this for the umpteenth time, that Jackson Regis laid his eyes on the most beautiful pair of eyeballs he'd ever seen.
"I simply have to have them," he whisp
ered to himself.
He followed the girl for nearly an hour. She was striking. Smooth, luxurious skin. Dark, glossy hair. A figure which, Jackson Regis thought, many men would lose their minds over. It almost seemed a shame to waste it. Almost.
But it was her eyes which he wanted. Stunning gemstones of emerald green, framed by the purest white sclerae he'd ever seen. Wide, innocent eyes but with a knowing twinkle, perfect orbs of mischief and happiness.
She appeared to be in her twenties, but there was a lightness in her step that suggested a life of ease and luxury. She was well-groomed, far more so than anyone else in this part of town. It was a wonder, Jackson Regis thought, that she wasn't the subject of every gaze on the street. But no, nobody appeared to have noticed her. Nobody but himself. And nobody noticed Jackson Regis, either, stalking along behind the girl, his finely-honed predator's instinct kicking in, his little black doctor's bag swinging from his left hand.
The houses had thinned out now. Soon, Jackson Regis thought, it would be time to go to work. It was getting dark, and there was nobody else around. Just him and the girl. He glanced at his watch, and was alarmed to discover he'd been trailing the girl for ninety eight minutes. Unprecedented.
Up ahead, the girl rounded a corner. Jackson Regis paused then followed her around.
He stopped, dead in his tracks. They'd reached a dead end; a dirty worker's yard lit by a tiny lamp.
The girl stood there, facing him. Her eyes shone, flickering jade in the darkness.
"Hullo," she said. There was a curiosity in her voice.
Jackson Regis stammered, all a fluster. Those eyes locked onto his, pinning him in place. Finally, he composed himself.
"Hello there," he said. "I'm afraid I've taken a wrong turn somewhere."
The girl laughed quietly. "You followed me here," she said.
Jackson Regis spluttered, ready to protest.
"No need to protest," the girl went on. "It's okay. It's cute. It's not often a guy finds me interesting."
Jackson Regis felt sweat break out on his brow, and wiped it away with a handkerchief he deftly produced from his pocket.
"You are remarkably nimble-fingered. Are you a magician?" the girl asked. "Or a doctor, perhaps."
"I, yes, I'm a doctor," Jackson Regis said. He laughed. "Are you sick?"
The girl laughed back. It was a musical, tinkling sound. All the while, Jackson Regis could not stop staring into her eyes.
"So they say," she told him. "This yard's a bit chilly, isn't it? Do you live nearby?"
Jackson Regis climbed out of his car. Driving had been difficult, being forced to look at the road instead of at the girl. Her name was Emily, she'd said. Emily. Jackson Regis liked the name. Emily's Eyes.
Even walking up to the house, he found himself staring. She kept looking at him and smiling. He was enraptured, but also rather unsure of himself. Perhaps, this time, he could leave her eyes intact? Maybe she'd stay, share her beautiful gaze with him, full of life and brightness. Maybe...
"Evening Regis," a voice boomed.
It was Steve Merrick, his neighbor. Steve Merrick was a policeman, and he was always very loud. Steve Merrick was in the papers a lot too, Jackson Regis had noticed. He worked on murders and things, and if the papers were to be believed, he wasn't very good at his job.
"Good evening, Steve," Jackson Regis said, smiling thinly. "How's it going?"
"Bit stressed," he said. Steve Merrick was always a bit stressed. "Got my work cut out for me with that pair of freaks on the rampage."
"Terrible business isn't it, detective?" Emily said, smiling brightly. Steve nodded at her, then looked back at Jackson Regis and winked.
"Y'all have a good night now," Steve Merrick said, and got into his car.
Emily strolled around the room, talking incessantly. Jackson Regis was beginning to get a headache. He sat on the bed, fiddling nervously with his braces. He wished Emily would shut up. Perhaps his earlier decision to keep the girl's eyeballs in her skull had been premature. Yes, definitely. She was altogether too talkative. Jackson Regis could not imagine his routine being quite so disturbed by having this girl around all the time. Eyeballs were different. They didn't talk, didn't ask questions. They simply floated there, beautiful and precise, works of art. Emily's eyeballs were bouncing around the room, disappearing and reappearing, making Jackson Regis dizzy.
No, this just would not do at all.
"So," Emily said. "Do you often bring strange girls back to your place?"
"Yes," Jackson Regis snapped. "All the time. You're just one of many."
Emily smiled at him, revealing perfect white teeth.
"So what do you do?" she said to him. "Tell me about yourself."
Jackson Regis started talking, feeding her lines about accountancy. Emily approached the bed. She was fishing around in her bag for something. She began to stroke Jackson Regis's arm, her fingers massaging his shoulder. She sat down beside him on the bed. Jackson Regis kept his eyes fixed firmly on her, on her beautiful gaze. Automatically, with his other hand, he was digging deep into his doctor's bag, searching for just the right bottle. Deftly, his fingers unscrewed the cap.
"You're tense," Emily said. "What's the matter?"
Jackson Regis lifted the chloroform-soaked rag out of his bag. He tensed, paused, ready.
"Just relax, Jackson," Emily said calmly. "This won't hurt a bit."
Steve Merrick pulled his car into the driveway, navigating around Jackson Regis's old station wagon. Fucking Regis. Always parking like a douche. Merrick could feel pain pulsing in his temples. Another migraine. Fucking perfect. The Optometrist and The Handyman were driving him mental. All eyes were on him, and it seemed like everything he did was leading to a rap on the knuckles. He couldn't catch either one of them. These freaks, these fucking nutballs, running riot in his goddamn city.
He didn't like it. Not one bit.
As he got out of the door, his ears pricked up. His detective sense kicked in. Something was wrong. He could feel it.
Of course, the howls of agony coming from Jackson Regis's house gave it away somewhat. And the front door was wide open. And, was that blood on the handle?
Merrick pulled his gun and darted inside. No time to radio for backup. The cries were louder now, raw and animalistic. Pain. Torment. Merrick let out a snarl, fingered the safety on his pistol. Headed upstairs, following the sound.
The first thing he saw as he entered Regis's bedroom was thirteen pairs of eyes looking straight at him. Limp, staring, dead little gray things floating in formaldehyde or some shit. Merrick's iron stomach suppressed his gag reflex. The smell was unbearable. Copper and shit. Not coming from the eyes, though.
He rounded the door, took in the scene. Regis sat on his bed, howling, rocking back and forth, staring at the ragged stump where his left hand had once been. Blood still pumped from the severed veins. Some kind of bag had fallen open at his feet, spilling surgical contents across the floor. One instrument caught Merrick's eye. He'd never seen it before but he'd read the reports enough times to know what it was.
He looked at the eyes in the wardrobe, at the instrument on the floor, at Regis. Regis, flapping his stumps, bleeding out.
Merrick shook his head, turned around, walked out, went downstairs and placed a call.
"Captain?" he said. "Merrick. About The Handyman and The Optometrist. I've got some good news and some bad news...”
VIII - Column Inches
