Every day, it's the same: those dark, piercing eyes looking at me. I don't know what they want, and I'm too afraid to ask. They always leave in the morning, heading to some place only they go, and return only at night. Sometimes, they bring other pairs of eyes with them, putting me on edge. But it seems these new eyes are blind, for they cannot see me.
One day, I saw those eyes watching me with a curious gaze, but I pretended not to notice. I always try to avoid eye contact, terrified of what might happen if they discover I can see them. When it rains, it's the worst. I can't sleep because of how they keep staring at me, as if they could come over and devour me alive with their intense gaze. But what's even more unsettling is the fear I feel radiating from their stare.
For several days now, I haven't seen them around. I thought I was finally free. But then, they suddenly returned. One day, I was in the bathroom, and they were not alone. With them were two new pairs of eyes. They saw me, and one of those eyes began to cry. I was shocked and didn't know what to do. As I stood still, paralyzed with fear, a sharp, burning sensation seared through my right arm. It felt like acid—no, it was acid. It burned, and my body was slowly melting. In a desperate attempt to escape, I ran out, not caring about the consequences. I knocked them over and felt a strange sensation as I collided with them. Their bodies were unnaturally warm, and that's when I heard it speak for the first time. It called me "a monster."