Cat’s Eyes

He scares me.

That’s what I initially thought when I saw him standing there in the corner of the train. Wearing a long sleeved black turtle neck, with black boots and black leather bands on his wrists. His eyes were lined with black liners and his pale white skin seemed more ghastly with the strictly black ensemble he has on.

His hands, with fingernails painted black, held his iPod and he was listening to some music that I’m guessing sounds equally eerie as the image he is trying to project.

But what really scared me was when I saw his eyes. They were all black, deep black, except for the teardrop shaped bright blood-red slits in the middle. They reminded me of cat’s eyes in the dark.

He was standing across from where I was seated in the now silent train, filled with people also lost in their own mum world. I found myself stealing glances at him looking at the blurry paintings outside that the metro leaves in it’s wake.

And the next thing I know, he was staring straight at me. I was staring straight into those black piercing eyes that mirrors nothing. It was said that the eyes are the window to the soul. But holding his stare, I couldn’t help but feel that the other end only holds a deep abyss. I felt sadness.

He alighted first. And my eyes followed him, and his followed mine as the train went on to continue it’s journey minus the stranger with the piercing black eyes.