He couldn't get those eyes out of his head. Not his own eyes, why would he remove those?
Her eyes. Cerulean, emerald, all shades of sapphire, sea-fog gray, shining and bright and full of wit waiting to sparkle.
And he swam through those eyes, almost drowned in the color and the mist and then came up sputtering, nervous and sweaty, dry-mouthed, tangled in his sheets.
His head ached and the inside of his mouth was vile, flavored like half-digested or rotting food.
And the harsh light seared his eyes, and he struggled to extricate his numb arms from the sweat-dripping blankets to get the blood circulating again.
And soon he comprehended it was day. The image of the jeweled eyes faded, drifted away, and he forgot them.
He fumbled at his own eyes, clumsily, like an infant just gaining dexterity. He scraped away the scales of minerals that accumulated at his tear ducts.
Waking up is the worst.
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