The Eyes That Wept

The boy was born screaming, and the scream never really stopped—only changed shape. His parents named him Elior, though they never spoke it with love. His skin bore dark, marbled veins like cracks in stone, his eyes too large, too reflective, his shadow never quite matching his body. The doctors whispered, the priests prayed, and his parents recoiled. They were rich beyond need yet hid him in the highest wing of their estate like a living curse. “God punished us,” his father once said. “No,” his mother replied coldly. “God warned us.” Elior learned early not to cry; crying only brought anger. Only Mara, his nanny, touched him without gloves. She brushed his hair, read him stories, and wiped away his black tears without fear. “You’re not a monster,” she whispered. “You’re just different.” His older sister Ilyse visited in secret, bringing sweets and stories of forests that breathed. “They hate what they don’t understand,” she told him. “But I see you.” So did God. At night, Elior felt Him as a weight behind reality. Look, God said. See. And Elior did. He saw lies dripping from smiles, cruelty hiding behind charity, hands that fed by day, and crushed by night. His eyes were not cursed—they were appointed. He was God’s witness. At twelve, Elior escaped into the forest and met Tarin, a boy with dirt-streaked cheeks and no fear. “You look weird,” Tarin said, then shrugged. “So do I.” They shared bread and silence. In the forest, Elior learned how it felt to exist without shame. It was the last safe year of his life. At fifteen, his parents grew tired of hiding him. Whispers grew louder. One night, his father struck him. “You were never meant to live,” the man snarled. Something inside Elior cracked—not loudly, but completely. God’s presence swelled. You have seen enough. Now judge. Fire followed. Mara was spared, wrapped in light as walls fell. Ilyse fled with Tarin into the forest as the estate burned. The city followed—those who beat servants, sold children, and smiled while starving others. Elior walked among them no longer shy, no longer hunched. His monstrous form stretched; shadows obeyed. “Monster!” they screamed. “Yes,” Elior said calmly. “God made me one.” The earth split. The sky darkened. When it ended, the world was quieter, emptier. You were My eyes, God said. Now you are my hand. Elior looked upon the ruins, his tears finally clear, and smiled—not with joy, but with purpose. The monster had learned what he was made for.