69

“Stop, stop, fuck - please - Jesus.” The hand holding the shard of glass was perfectly still, but the neighbour's trembling pulled at the edges of the great seam it had just opened across his forehead.

“I will tell you everything, I’ll do whatever you want. Just, fuck, stop. I can’t fucking think, please!”

The hand held him there. The neighbour was trying desperately to stop moving so much. Blood completely covered his face; he could feel it running down his neck. No more words. He waited for the hand to pull away so he could at least see and wipe the thick, hot blood from out of his eyes with the hem of his gown. The shard peeled away, and the neighbour felt the skin fold back down wrong, like sellotape that had stuck to itself.

He’d heard a great clattering, and when he looked up again, he saw the man without eyelids had moved to grab a chair from his bedroom and was slowly dragging it back to the antechamber. Now sitting, he’d calmed somewhat, though the neighbour didn’t know for how long. Or what words would reconjure his terrible barber. The neighbour opened his mouth, but the eyes spoke first.

“You understand how strange that is. We call it orenda. Everyone has it. Everything, in fact. It is my job to oversee it. I watch as you cultivate it, or slowly let it die. Orenda is personal, yes, but it is also communal. With the children, I refer to it as being full or empty. But it isn’t so simple. A man as obsessed with isolation as you should have just slowly suffocated the fire within you. But instead, you managed to steal something. You are hungry, aren’t you? You are repulsive - beautifully so! One true man. One eater.”

The man was beaming. His eyes were burning again. The whole room was brighter; the green light seemed to be pulsing.

“You know me, don’t you?” the eyes asked.

The neighbour nodded - “I looked for you. I looked for you, but you wouldn’t come to me. No one ever did. But here the girl has brought you up to me.”