Needle Eyes

Henry walked over to the wall and pressed his hand against the cool smooth surface. Tracing lines with his fingers he drew the picture in his mind, the one of the thousands of people with needles for eyes. They were always screaming to him, or for him, he could never tell which. Screaming, screaming. He could never hear them clearly enough, always something muffling them, covering them. One thing was for sure though, they were in need. Their cries were those of the desperate sort. Henry took a step back from the wall to admire his work. He saw with his eye, a non needled eye, his beautiful work of art. He wanted to call the others over and proudly display his accomplishment, but he knew what they would say. They never saw anything, nothing. At least that’s what they always said. Taunt him and call him names is all they would do. No matter, they’d probably all end up like the needle eyed people anyway, always wanting, never getting, never getting. He’d seen it happen before. To his family. They used to call him names and tell him he was dumb. But now they were there with the others in his mind, and now, on the wall. He could just make out his mother’s face, mouth open, joining in the cries. His father was next to her, holding up his little sister, both with their needle eyes pointing up to the sky, mouths agape, waiting, always waiting, waiting. What for? Don’t know. Always waiting. Henry was waiting now to. Waiting for his time outside. Soon they would come, open his door and let him into the grassy area. Only for a few minutes though. It would sunny and bright, bright. Then he would be back inside, and perhaps he would draw another picture from his mind.