I keep dreaming about those big, expressionless eyes. All black with no visible corneas, unblinking, staring out forever and ever.
Many animals have eyes like that. When I was young, maybe eight years old, my father brought home a silver cockatiel. I’d begged for months. It wasn’t even my birthday, or a holiday, and he was a single father struggling to stay in medical school. But somehow he’d made it happen. The bird was one of a few splurges my father ever managed. Someone had already named her Lily.
Lily had those big, black eyes. You couldn’t even tell what direction she was looking unless she cocked her color-mottled head, a curious crest feather unfurling.`
They're the first I remember, but it’s not Lily’s eyes I dream about. It’s the skinwalkers. Lying here, I try to ignore them for a few more precious minutes.
It isn’t comfortable. My face and hands burn every morning. I’m developing a reaction to some unfathomable bacteria o