I looked around the room for the first time since I've opened the newspapers. A pair of dark eyes were fixed upon me and in them anger was captured. I stared back with disdain and loathing pouring out of every pore on my skin. I felt like gouging those eyes out of their protective sockets and playing golf with them. I have never felt guilty for the things I have done because guilt is counterproductive, and I have a strong dislike for all things which have no practical use.
Bu those dark eyes, with all their rage directed an me, made me feel responsible; they made me feel as if I were a cruel, murderous bitch with no sense of moral or propriety. I haven't done anything wrong.
That pissed me off and it brought various images of torturous violence into my mind. I never could stand emotion being thrust upon me with no rational basis.
Shit.
At that moment my skin felt like it was on fire; my brain hysterically tried to find a way to escape my skull. My hands were clenched; my nails, breaking through the skin my palms, were painted red.
Those eyes were so certain, so convinced that I had done something unforgivable. They almost made me believe I deserved to burn n a stake.
It's the lack of justification that bothered me the most. I couldn't find a single sensible reason why they thought it was ok to glare at me in such accusing mix of agony and contempt.
The empathy always played tricks on me. No matter how senseless something was for me personally, I have always been able t understand the feelings; I have always been capable of feeling what someone else felt like, without no understanding of the motivation behind emotion.
At that point, guilt consumed me, it started eating through my rage, because although I had no idea what I had been accused of, I could understand the anger, I could feel the grief and the swelling old scars.
So I lowered my gaze, involuntarily, and I pretended to read, engulfed by the conflict of my own emotions and those imprisoned by those dark eyes.
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