He couldn't tell which was more messed up—his family or this place he found himself in yet again.

    Damien was with his friends that night, lounging in a booth of their own. They sipped on drinks, talked things up. Twenty minutes in, he had lost any sense of thrill he should have felt then, lost his appetite to drink as much as he had intended. And if anyone were to ask him why, he would say he didn't know. He found it strange how the blaze of party life, burning bright within him earlier that evening, had been reduced to a small flickering tongue of flame in those first ten minutes, and in the next moments had been snuffed out by an unknown darkness, leaving nothing but a burnt wick in its wake. Yet Damien, despite the lack of spirit, had convinced himself to stay, and had spent the hours since seated on the leather couch, glancing at his phone screen, then at his friends, then at the bottle of beer he occasionally picked up and sipped.

    As the minutes ticked past, he tried to reassure himself, again and again, that he was really, truly happy here—here, where dance beats pounded against the walls, where clouds of strange smoke rose from the breaths of those who held hand-rolled joints—here, the perfect place far away from what he'd vaguely call "imperfect circumstances".

    But, if truth be told, this was just another temporary fix. He knew that. Besides, he was no stranger to this. The only plus side to staying was the sense of relief he found here, and he wanted that. He hated staying at home. Home, that word—could he even call it home? Could he ever consider this exhausting cycle of Mom's apartment to Dad's California mansion and back again over the summer home?

    He shook the thought out of mind. The point of hanging around here with his friends—worth the trouble of sneaking out and sneaking in—was to get away, even for a while. He shouldn't be thinking about them. Not here, not now.

    He looked at his friends in the dim light. One of them, a huge blond boy, said something. Damien heard nothing comprehensible, but he was pretty sure it might had been something stupid or downright hilarious or both. And he was proven right: in an instant, his other friends cracked up, causing one of them to lose his grip on his bottle, spilling beer all over himself. But his friend didn't seem to mind, swearing repeatedly as he threw his head back and laughed like a madman.

    Damien drank some beer, feeling a bit left out, sensing an unseen distance come between him and his friends.

    Even in their company, he found himself alone.

    A distraction, not a cure, he thought to himself. If there was a cure, he'd take it without a doubt. But if a distraction was all he could afford tonight, maybe that would be enough—he'll be all right.

    Just a week more, he assured himself. You'll just have to wait a week more before school starts, and you're back to the dorm again. He took another sip of his drink, watching his friends, wild and boisterous in meaningless conversation. Just a week more.

    Damien's eyes wandered around the party, hoping to find something interesting. Strobe lights pulsated above their heads, a pattern of shadows and illumination over a sea of hedonistic youth. His eyes scanned the strangers on the dance floor, college students celebrating the night in spirited, euphoric motions.

A boy a little older than he was came staggering into Damien's view, reeling across the place, grasping anything and anyone within his reach. Damien watched as the boy performed his strange dance—flinging his arms skyward, his feet pushing him up and off the ground. For a second of a heartbeat, the college-aged stranger, drowned deep in alcohol-induced ecstasy, rose and flew—then crashed facedown on the dirty tiled floor, and turned motionless in his sleep. People nearby moved away from the passed-out figure. Damien chuckled and sipped his drink.

    A minute later, two men came to drag the boy out of the club. And as Damien watched the men lift the happy drunken soul off the floor, he noticed—

    Against the wall, out-of-place in a crowd like this, stood a tall, thin, pale man in a black three-piece, his eyes hidden behind dark lenses. But with the way the man's head remained still, facing straight in his direction, Damien was convinced the man's eyes were fixed on him.

    A demon peering out from the shadows, Damien thought, and the sight of it made chills run down his spine, and he began to think—to feel, to wonder—that even before he first casted a glance in the stranger's direction, the man had been watching him like a hawk long before that.

D, get a grip! Damien scolded himself, without uttering a word, and looked away. You're just being paranoid, man. Chill. People look at people. It's normal. And he's got a pair of stupid sunglasses on—can't be sure about that. He glanced down at the half-empty bottle in his hands, then to his friends and the bottles they'd drained.

    But he could still feel those eyes on him. And the stupid thought of it bounced around in his head.

    He wanted to know.

    He had to know.

    Damien glanced back over to the man. Still standing against the wall. Still staring straight in his direction.

    He turned his attention back to his friends and drank a bit from his bottle. Amidst the chaos, no one else saw, no one else knew, but the boy who wanted out of his wreck of a family that night.

Thud. Thud. Eyes closed, and he breathed in, sweat careening down his face. Then his eyes flew open, his fist ready. Thud.

    Jack threw punches against a bag, the sound echoing around the four walls of a gym. It would have been empty tonight, if only he hadn't shown up past nine o'clock and asked the manager if he could workout just a little longer.

    Thud. Tick. The clock went on ticking, and with each tick came a punch—thud—striking against the leather. The punching bag swung back, then forward, halting at the contact of gloved hands. Jack's head leaned against the bag, sweat smearing its surface.

    He felt his body threaten to shut down, energy and strength drained out into the past two hours. That's enough for tonight, he thought, one gloved hand patting the bag. Time to get some rest. Time to get some fuel.

Damien didn't want to look again. He had stolen glances at the man thrice now, and thrice he saw him against the wall, looking straight at him from across the club. Damien transferred his glance from the phone in his hand to his friends, now at the zenith of drunkenness, stupid and inarticulate.

    Maybe he's gone now, he thought. Maybe he's grown tired by now. He should be, for an old man like him. From the corner of his eye, he glanced back at the wall where the man stood, and still stood, watching him. He flitted his eyes back over to his friends. This is getting real creepy now, he thought. Then he made his decision. He rose from the couch, set his bottle down on the table, slid his phone into his pocket.

    "Woah, woah," yelled one of his friends, clearly intoxicated, raising a palm towards Damien. "D, D-man, why leaving so early?"

    Three pairs of eyes then turned to him.

    Damien shrugged. "I'm not leaving. Just going to talk to that dude over there." He gestured towards the man in the three-piece. "Just going to ask what his problem is."

    "Bro," said another one of his friends, "if he's got a problem, we can put up a"—he raised an unsteady fist into the air, striking nothing in particular—"fight."

    "Nah, that won't be necessary," said Damien. "I can handle this."

    "Good luck," slurred another friend, raising a thumbs-up.

Damien made his way over to the man, maneuvering through the gaps and motions, enveloped in the noise, shadows, and lights, until he came up close. The man was taller than he had expected, a head above his own height an inch shy of six feet, and now he looked down upon Damien, his face expressionless. But this didn't scare him. As he said, and he still believed, he could handle this.

    "Dude, what's your problem?" asked Damien, over the noise.

    The man gave no reply. Instead, an eerie smile crept to his lips.

    "Dude, I'm asking you, what's your problem? Why are you watching me?" he asked again, irate.

    Still no answer. Still the eerie smile.

    Damien glared at the man and left, radiating an undaunted sort of arrogance. He didn't scare him, Damien wanted him to know that. He wanted to show him no creepy pale man in shades and a black three-piece could terrify him so easily. So he kept his back straight and his head held high, his muscles combat-tense and his fists balled in preparation for any attack.

    Yet he could feel his heart drum quick strong rhythms within his chest, each thump resounding in his ears despite the external noise. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his back, seeping into the fabric of the tee-shirt he wore, and Damien then grew aware of a new wave of heat that enveloped him, the kind he was sure he didn't draw from the reveling bodies he passed by. It was the kind that radiated from within, an unwelcome warmth that ran in his bloodstream, pulsed through his veins, flowed out onto his skin.

    Damien was sure, after that encounter, of one thing: something wasn't right. There was something weird about that man, he knew, and he didn't mean it in the best way. He didn't want any more of this, and he found no use now to stay any longer.

    He made his way over to his friends, and when he reached them, he said, "Going home. Not feeling well."

    "What'd he do to you?" asked one.

    "But you're drunk," said another.

    "Nothing," he answered the first. "Just not feeling well." Then he turned to the other, and chuckled. "No, you are," he said. "I'm leaving." No longer waiting for a response, he moved quickly, squeezing his way through the crowd, keeping his distance away from the man in the black three-piece, to the exit, out into the midnight summer air of the city.

The manager of the gym, Mr. Harden—a big, black man with a full dark beard—was kind enough, unbelievably patient even, to wait. Over the years, he and Jack had become friends, and extra hours like this were no longer new to either of them. After Jack had showered and changed, they made their way out of the gym together, talking things up along the way.

    "You sure you don't want a ride home?" asked Mr. Harden, turning the lights off before stepping out the door.

    "I don't want to bother you," said Jack, making his way out. Beneath the streetlight, the tan of his skin was prominent against his gray hoodie. "I can get myself a ride. You've got a wife to head home to."

    Mr. Harden turned the key, locking the door shut. He turned to face Jack. "And you've got your family, too—your mom, your dad, your brothers, your sister. It's late. They must be wondering where you are."

    Jack shrugged. "Trust me, they know where I am."

    "I do," said Mr. Harden, putting the keys into a pocket of his gym bag, zipping it closed. "But these city streets aren't so safe anymore, you know?"

    "I can take care of myself," said Jack, taking a couple of playful jabs at the air. "You taught me well."

    Mr. Harden patted his shoulder, and beamed at him. "Well, let's just hope you don't get into any trouble tonight."

    "I'll stay out of it," Jack reassured him.

    "You better," warned Mr. Harden, playfully. He dug a hand into his pants pocket, produced his car keys, then added, "Can't afford to lose a good young man like you."

    Jack heard a loud click, and Mr. Harden got into an old cement gray Civic. He watched the car pull out of the roadside, out into the shadows of city streets. Jack, under the streetlight, waved him good-bye, then went on walking down the sidewalk, headed to the nearest diner he knew to be open that night.

    Below red neon lights blazing out into the dark, the diner door swung open, and Jack sauntered in, his ears taking in the pop rock tune playing over the radio.

    At forty minutes past eleven, the diner was almost empty. Almost. In this near vacancy, a couple sat at a table near the door, a waitress standing beside, setting down on their table plates and tall glasses. At the far end of the diner sat a man in a black suit, quiet and undisturbed. He had a cane next to him, leaning against the couch he sat on.

    Behind the counter, a waiter—a middle-aged balding man with a potbelly—caught sight of Jack, recognizing him as one of his frequent customers. Then he called out, "Ain't a surprise to find you entering that door at a time like this." Jack took his seat by the counter. "Came from the gym again, huh?"

    "Guess that's no surprise," said Jack, giving the waiter a fist bump.

    "So what are you having tonight?" asked the waiter, setting down a tall glass before him, pouring water in.

    "A Big Daddy," said Jack, almost immediately. "I'm starving."

    "One Big Daddy coming up," said the waiter, taking the order to memory.

    He then took his steps past Jack and into the kitchen, leaving the door to shut with a thud.

    There was nothing else to do but to scan round the diner, at the other three customers dining in at eleven-forty-three that night. And that was what Jack did, then.

    He first looked at the couple at a table nearby. They were talking, he could see that, but there were no sweet smiles, no touching of hands. Instead, their voices rose every passing minute, the woman holding back sobs in her throat, the man scolding her for—whatever it was.

    It wasn't a pretty sight, and it wasn't Jack's business, so he turned away, deciding to ignore them. He took a sip from his tall glass of water, and looked over to the other customer, the guy in the suit at the far end of the diner.

    Their eyes met, then—at least that was what Jack could tell, that behind those pair of dark lenses the man was looking straight in his direction. The couple argued on, but Jack no longer minded, and the man didn't even seem to care. Jack smiled and nodded towards the man, attempting to ease the awkward air. The man returned the gesture with a strange, eerie grin.

    Somewhere glass shattered. Jack turned his attention back to the couple, the woman now on her feet, screaming that she had had enough, threatening that she would leave her lover then and there. The man apologized, and pleaded for her to stay. The woman screamed, then stormed out of the diner. The man got to his feet, and ran out the door. And a waitress trailed behind, calling out that neither of them had paid yet.

    As the diner door swung closed behind them, Jack chuckled. They did put on quite a show, he thought, for everyone else's entertainment. He shook his head. There were just some girls he couldn't stand, some relationships he couldn't commit to. And when he decided to move on and break things off, they went berserk.

    Women, he thought to himself.

    But he was with someone now, and so far things seemed to be going smoothly, and they were getting there. He looked back at the table and the mess the couple had left. Maybe things would be different for him. Maybe he'd found the one.

    Just then the kitchen door swung open, and the waiter stepped out. In his hands was a huge plate, a massive quarter-pounder in the center, a pile of fries next to it. The waiter walked over to Jack, set it down on the countertop. Then his eyes shifted over to the diner door, and he said, "What was that about? I swear I heard a glass break and a girl screaming her head off."

    "Got something to do with her boyfriend, I guess," said Jack. "Beats me what the drama's about, though."

    The waiter shook his head, clicked his tongue. "Love," he muttered, disdainfully, then he looked up and on, catching sight of something that made him curse under his breath. Jack followed the waiter's line of sight, over to the table the couple had just left. The mess still lay there, shards glittering on thick pink slush and monochrome tiles. Another swear word escaped the waiter's lips before he yelled, "Martha! Martha!"

    "I think Martha ran outside," said Jack, his thumb pointing to the door. "She's chasing the couple. They haven't paid yet."

    The waiter swore under his breath, the same word over and over. "—this job." He stomped back into the kitchen, the door slamming shut behind him.

    Jack looked away, and glanced back down to the burger on the plate. Sucks to be you, Bob, he thought, lifting the burger up to his mouth. He took a bite and chewed. A sip from his glass. Another bite. Chew.

    Silence.

    The kind that made him realize he was alone.

    Jack took another bite, and glanced to the side—felt a quick jolt in his chest, a sudden intake of breath, a choke in his neck. He coughed the food fragments back up his throat, and eyed the flash of crooked teeth a couple stools away, the glint of dark lenses under the electric light, the hook of a cane balanced on the edge of the countertop.

    He swore he heard no footsteps. He swore he never saw him walk over to the counter.

    He stared at the stranger. The man in the suit stared back.

    Then the kitchen door threw open, and Jack came to his senses, shifting his sight back to the burger in his hands. The waiter walked past Jack and his burger, a broom and a dustpan in one hand, a mop-and-bucket set in the other, and proceeded to clean the mess himself.

    Jack took another bite. Yet from the corner of his eye, he could see the man's still form, eyes having never left him, a sinister smile now stretched across his face.

A few minutes to midnight, footsteps echoed round a dark empty alleyway. Damien could still hear the noise of the party, faint in the distance. He had one hand in his pocket, grasping his car keys, and the other held on to his phone—his arm stretched forward, a beam of light illuminating the path before him—as he made his way to the parking lot.

    He knew it was selfish of him to leave his friends, his car their default means of transport for nights like this. But tonight the pill—this wild escape, this supposed distraction—didn't seem to do its trick. Staying any longer would kill him, he was certain of that.

    And the creep just makes things worse, he thought.

    He took a step forward, and, in the darkness, he heard a foot splash against a puddle on the ground. But he knew, and he was sure—the foot wasn't his.

    He turned around in a second of a heartbeat, illumination falling upon a tall figure, upon a pair of sunglasses that gleamed in the light, upon an eerie grin on a pale face.

________________________

Author's Note:

Hullo, friends and human beans! Thank you for taking the time to read the first chapter of Bright Eyes, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the chapters as well.

I highly encourage you to have fun as you read, and to share your thoughts and how you feel about scenes and characters and the little things that strike you, and to make your presence felt. As you read this novel, please know that you matter and that your voice matters, so I am so looking forward to us interacting in the comments section and having these little funny conversations.

See you in the next chapters,
Lazarein