The Memory of the Eyes
Thank you for reading.
I am terribly sorry, but I must temporarily suspend receiving thoughts and reflections.
For details, please refer to the activity report—those curious may check there.
I am truly sorry for the inconvenience, but I ask for your understanding.
A warm scene comes into view.
How long has it been since I’ve seen such a vivid landscape?
A scene resembling the land of Emmental lies spread beneath me.
Since my sight began to fail, the lives of people have grown distant beyond measure.
It is with quiet wonder that I realize how much information a human face can convey.
Yet why is it…
There is no color in this world…
The scene shifts abruptly.
Why do they all look at me like this…
Cold, piercing glances—mockery and disdain—come from girls I have never seen before…
The stares from the men carry a vulgar, lewd hunger—mocking, contemptuous, directed at me, though I have never seen these girls before…
Why do you look at me like this… What have I done to you, truly?
And once more, the scene shifts.
The hollow eyes of a dead beast fix upon me, refusing to release their grip.
In the void, I feel dread—like the shattered remains of its body, even its innermost organs, now seething with hatred toward me.
Though I wish to recoil, my body moves against my will, drawing ever closer.
I cry out reflexively, and then—swallowed by the approaching void—the world shifts again.
A woman’s grotesque, twisted smile looms before me, laced with mockery…
Stop it! Don’t look at me like that! What have I done, truly?!
Nausea rises from the revulsion.
And once more, the world changes.
A monochrome realm, yet soft light touches my eyes.
Dazzled, I find myself surrounded by three boys.
A vague sense of familiarity washes over me.
Could this be something I’ve seen before…?
The eldest boy resembles my elder brother, the child running about looks like my younger sibling. The one watching from the corner of the room bears a resemblance to my younger self.
I wish to remain in this moment, content and still, but suddenly find myself within my mother’s arms—her youth restored.
Ah, how familiar.
I sink into the comfort of something soft, like silk wrapped around my heart.
Yet in the next instant, her face twists into something hideous.
I cannot hear the words, but I understand the reproach.
A tightening in my chest—like a vise—
I struggle against the sensation of being thrust into darkness, but there is no ground beneath my feet.
Then I see my father’s face.
Older than the memory of him, yet well-formed, yet somehow dull—standing in a drawing room I have never seen before, facing me.
His expression holds kindness, a warmth I recognize, yet beneath it, a flicker of unease—revealing the smallness of this man’s soul…
And once again, the scene shifts.
Could a father’s face ever be so harsh?
I want to look away from that gaze—so filthy, as if the world itself holds nothing more abhorrent…
Yet I cannot look away.
Believe…
Look at me…
That crushing weight in my chest—
Once more, the scene shifts…
Endlessly, the gentle moments give way to those eyes—those eyes that humiliate me, that degrade me…
A terrible void overwhelms me.
Slowly, the faces of people begin to appear—like pale masks, their eyes shaped like crescent moons, fixed in a faint smile…
A laughter I should not hear, yet I hear it…
My head throbs as if splitting open…
My heart aches as if breaking—
Help me…
Someone… please… help me… help me…
“Alex-sama, are you well?”
A voice I recognize.
Who is the one speaking…
Where am I…?
After such a long journey, I am weary.
I do not remember what I dreamed, but now I find people frightening.
“Alex-sama? You seemed greatly disturbed. Are you unwell? Is there any place that pains you?”
Even as gentle words reach me, unease clings to me still… the pain is in my heart.
“I am…”
What am I trying to say?
I try to gather my thoughts, but my head throbs anew.
“—I…”
Instinctively, I press my fingers to my temple, and realize my eyes are wrapped in cloth, like bandages.
“Do your head or eyes pain you? The transplant was successful, though this is likely a rejection response. In two more days, it should settle. Please rest. The bandages may then be removed.”
With that, the speaker offers pain relief.
Ah, yes. He is the family’s physician.
And I— I have just undergone the transplantation of a cursed eye.
After that, I was haunted every night, every single night.
Help me… believe in me… don’t leave me… Why… Why… Stop…
I would wake with a heart clenched tight, gasping for breath.
Even after the bandages were removed, I could not bear to open my eyes. The light, stronger than before, felt like a blade—frightening, unbearable. To see the world through it was unbearable.
After the bandages came off, my blurred vision slowly cleared. A faint relief, but even as the world began to sharpen, I felt its colors as if through a veil—faint, dreamlike.
I thought the world was so beautiful. And yet, I thought it was so fleeting.
“Do you feel any discomfort?”
“No… but I’ve begun to have strange dreams…”
“I see… Perhaps it is the memory of the eye.”
“The memory of the eye…”
Dreams that vanish like rot, half-remembered, gone.
If the one who gave me this eye endured such a crushing, suffocating shock… I can only imagine how unbearable life must have been for them…
I wished those who had driven them to such despair might be forgotten, yet I could not help but wonder why such a person would choose to give me their eye.
"Um… Teacher… What was the donor like? Why did they give me this eye?"
Master Carp gazed out the window, a quiet sorrow in his eyes.
"They were a very kind person. They said they no longer needed their sight, and so decided to give it away."
"Who could they have been…? Someone who suffered so deeply, whose pain left such sorrow in the eye… Could I ever meet them? Could I thank them?"
"I don’t know… It may be impossible now. They’ve already departed on their journey…"
If the journey was one without sight, then the original owner of this eye must have been ill…
I gave thanks for having endured such anguish—so great it bordered on choosing death—yet still carried her eye to me through sorrow.
I peer into the mirror.
A pair of hazel eyes, identical to my own, peer back at me.
Yet each night, I am haunted…
I dream the memories of the eye…
As the hazy fragments slowly coalesce into a single image,
I learn where Spica is.
My eye is Spica’s…
The one who endured those sorrowful days was she…
“Master… is this eye Spica’s?”
“…Yes.”
The master spoke little more.
Too late I realized…
We have made her suffer so…
Regret presses upon me without end.
And still, the eye shows me dreams, night after night, as if refusing to forgive…
Spica… I am sorry… I am truly sorry…
Spica does not curse others… her eyes show me dreams, only that, as if demanding I know…
It is the past me who curses…
I am the one cursing myself.