The Father was a man of science, his bright eyes permanently damaged by a class 4 laser accident. As his vision failed, so did his spirit—he became a hollow shell drowning in alcohol, his melted flesh a constant reminder of how light could betray us. “The eyes are sacred,” he would mutter through pain-clenched teeth. “They were never meant to be harmed.” I grew up in the shadows, learning to protect what he had lost, developing a reverence for vision that others could never understand. (Light was never meant to harm them)
Little wonder that I had found such a draw in the world of the biological structures that filtered the light. When the Father died — choking on his vomit while I was in class learning about rhodopsin — I could feel the curse of brightness creep into my sight. I searched desperately for clues on how to preserve what remained, how to keep my fate distinct from his. Salvation in the form of a biohacking event where I found someone working on a genetic modification to give tears the power to preserve tissue.
My days were filled with careful optimisation, protection, and preparation; my home grew patches of photosensors to monitor the corruption and my windows gained layers of filters. Each evening I messaged the biohacker, they were hesitant at first, but my passion and praise pushed them towards practical testing. At first I found rats, the tests a clear success in my eyes as their eyes grew beautiful and dewey, even though the stupid creatures grew increasingly irritating to handle. Finally the biohacker was convinced; if only I had been the one so blessed as they, but alas the architecture of my tear ducts was not appropriate.
Oh, how their eyes shone next I saw them, the experiment had been an unmitigated success and the compound was being produced en masse by their tear ducts. Their eyes rebuffed the cruel light and spread their beauty further than any other; in them I saw differentiation from the fate of the Father. They grew bitter though, falsely claiming loss and suffering; even going so far as to destroy their research to the point not even I could recreate it. I was left with no choice, so I invited them to my home then for mulled wine, they had no need of that meandering stick if they just saw the light.
Today is warm, sunny, and moist in a way I resent. There is much to be done. The quality of it all is fine, the compound keeps the eyes safe; but the sensation on the skin is uncomely. My eyes are, at least, well moistened; sweat keeps dripping from the hair towards them — so hazardous. I debate turning on the AC to help prevent that sinning skin from tainting my earthly gaze.
The fingers dance over the buttons, a practiced ballet that I need not waste my gaze upon. I know I should not, that it is gluttonous, but my eyes keep drifting towards the patterns of light upon my floor and walls — despite filtering through sanctified panes such a gaze is still a sin. Every window in the house is stained glass, my stigmata showing my dedication, every teardrop of filtered light bought with the blood spilt in service to preservation. Splotches can be seen in the distance, noises echoing, hard to discern through the thick glass. (Light was never meant to reveal them)
No matter — the body turns away from those corrosive waves, towards the oculus of the house. Carefully I examine the angels; my work has been well undertaken. I know them to be perfect in shape and colour, but the insidious thought of subjecting them to even the most gentle of rays feels as though I were plotting to kill my child to appease some false idol of desire. Such a life they have been forced to endure before coming under my tender care, it is only right that they be pampered now.
Here is where I feel serenity, not in the world outside where I am forced to work under the blazing moonlight. Here I am as a piece of the eye of God, brought safely into a blessed darkness. Still, I should not be lazy; sloth is selfish when it means leaving angels without benediction. Indeed, I have been blessed with enough material to anoint another pair of angels.
The crash is sudden, loud; corruption attempts to sneak through the side window heralded by a ball — the hands desperately tape a black trash bag over it, filtering is everything. Before the hands knock, the hand is already twisting, the glasses darkening to the change of light providing sanctuary. Oh, lord how I wish to hide such sinful thoughts as to raise the glasses to gaze upon them, but before me is a pair of pairs so beautiful I cannot deny them, lacking the scars of age that would befall them if left unsanctified; I lift the glasses ever so slightly.
One pair is icy blue, so clear it could have tumbled from a glacier; the other’s a narrowed rich brown set behind thin spectacles; imperfect, I know, but still I crave that tight hole. My eyes salivate; I cannot bear the separation, the fingers twitch at the future memory of how it would feel to caress them. The tongue begins to wag, crudely shaping sound to bring the pair at ease, the pair of pairs are red from tears and rubbing; I may be imperfect but I know the perfect solution for such desecration.
A few wiggles of air and some tear drops push back the tide of red. I watch as the angels gaze upon the kaleidoscope of sanctified light allowed through the home. Drawn as they are to heaven’s call, I close the door to shut out the corrupting light unfiltered by the hands of the faithful. I usher them towards the pupil at the end of the hallway, each picture and mirror an iris revealing another shade of the angels benediction to them; soon they will be free from the undeserving. (Light was never meant to betray them)
The tongue slips as I make more noises, too excited, but the hands are strong so I gently guide them, the little shits screech when they see what the light feeds at the end of the hallway. Their blasphemies always enrage the kaleidoscope God whose torso shakes erratically. Alas, soon they can be free and I will plumb their depths. A careful application of knowledge renders the muscles soft and lax, ready to accept salvation from grubby fingers.
I am caressing them with my eyes as I am working, slowly I am pushing into them; it is tricky, I do not wish to break them, the Father would never forgive me. I could never absolve the sin of harming angels, still it needs to be done, I am pressing again as concern is coils in the belly, suddenly laughter is escaping from the lungs. The hand is smacking against the forehead, I had forgotten something so basic. Carefully, I am shattering the orbit — much better.
The angel is finally being freed, quickly my eyes are searching, drinking in the contours of that icy blue iris. I am falling into them I am feeling the flow of who I am and what to do fading — what wonders — for a moment I am contemplating heresy; pressing that pure, untainted, form against my own corrupted gaze, feeling that slick cool cornea being pressed up against my lens. But I do not allow myself. I am shaking myself and rushing to gather what is needed; the needle and tears must be brought quickly lest the angel falls to the ravages of air.
Another pair of angels is perfectly preserved, proof against opalescent sins, never again shall they be being desecrated with mucus — they are gazing at me and I am feeling my light being taken into their collective cornea; bliss. The other is too imperfect to be saved, I am doing the merciful thing and am putting them out of their misery — the thumbs are being pressed until the poor creatures are pop— hopefully to be finding a more worthy vessel, free from corruption. I am taking the angel of ice and placing it unto the trembling arms of God, so carefully bound as Their fits of divine ecstacy should not dislodge the watchers; I know the sensation of the angels grants God comfort in Their holy work, Their breath is catching as the new angels are being placed. God’s body is trembling in holy communion; I beam, knowing They must be being proud of me as fresh tears begin to fall, providing just enough for a new angel to be grace Their loving arms.
At the end of the hall and through that darkened iris the focal point of the stained glass splinters there the kaleidoscopic angel’s soft gaze surrounds the hollow orbitals of The Kelidoscope God, suspended upon the wall. I cleansed the sinful tongue for blasphemy, the unholy hands for violence, the emaciated legs for cowardice; in thanks I am being granted protection. So as is my right, my privilege, I am ascending the altar and pressing my unworthy eyes into the hollowed out orbitals of god. There the tears are welling past and I know not what is mine or Gods, a discordant benediction of light made sound is falling from Their lips; purified, I am retreating, a blur in my vision warning me how I once again failed. (Light was never meant to darken them)