MindIanApr 12, 2026
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literature
Template SFDR #14: Wings of Eyes: The Disturbance
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Literature Text
So, my morning started when I got up after the aggressive assault on my eardrums—that good-for-nothing alarm clock I always set for 7:30 a.m., the kind that turns your heart into a drum at a jazz concert. The day was covered in gold as rays tried to burst through the blinds over the three windows in my room, like water straining against the cracks of a dam. I got up slowly, looking from side to side for the remote I can never be bothered to place on the nightstand—right next to the alarm clock and the lamp that flickers off whenever I try to turn the damn thing on—only to find the remote wedged beneath the middle pillow I must’ve drooled on.
Turning on the TV introduced me, once again, to the same middle-aged woman with the auburn bob haircut and that practiced smile, the one that deepens the wrinkles at the sides of her mouth, as she spoke about how it was going to be 76 degrees today… not exactly newsworthy, considering I already knew that. So I got up, stepping onto the scruffy carpet that exhumed an odor I could only compare to a dog opening its mouth after wolfing down half a bowl of food, and clumsily trudged my sorry ass to the kitchen to make breakfast.
Today’s menu was a waffle—from the waffle maker I built out of spare parts in the workshop downstairs—sunny-side-up eggs from the carton that still had four left, bacon (ten strips total, though only four were in the open packet), and orange juice a neighbor had kindly made for me in a jug they swore was clean enough. After making and eating breakfast, it was time for the first task of the day: fixing that broken chair in the living room that nearly killed me when I leaned back in it once.
I could still remember the loud crack it made just before it almost gave out beneath me—startling me like that one time I finally watched a horror movie with a masked killer… can’t remember the name. There are probably hundreds of those anyway. I had inspected the chair not too long after the incident and found only a couple of missing screws and some minor cracks. I could fix the screws for now and deal with the cracks later—maybe replace the whole thing when I had the money.
So I went downstairs after tossing the pans, cup, and plate into the dishwasher, descending the rickety stairs that cried out like a dying cat in the rain. The light switch sat on the second-to-last step, just before my foot touched the concrete. I had a whole arsenal of tools down there—electric screwdrivers, chainsaws, even older equipment like fire axes and sickles—but for now, I just grabbed some screws and an electric screwdriver.
It took a while to get started, but eventually I reached the point where I could begin working. The first screw twisted in smoothly, satisfying as water circling a drain. The second went in partway before getting stuck, frustrating me to no end. I ran back downstairs to grab a wrench, hoping it would help, but the stubborn thing resisted, filling me with the kind of anger a rider feels when a horse refuses to move no matter how hard they urge it on.
I put more strength into my right arm, forcing the screw to turn, pushing harder and harder as frustration built—until I heard a loud CRACK as it finally gave way and sank in. Before tackling the last screw, I slowed down, hoping the chair wouldn’t croak before I could afford a new one. I positioned the screw carefully, aligning it to meet the least resistance, placed the screwdriver against it just right—and then… nothing.
Everything stopped.
My thoughts were the only thing still moving. To make things worse, a knock sounded at the front door—and then everything… just froze. My heart raced as the knocking continued in a pattern: three knocks, a pause, then three more. The world around me took on a pale blue hue. The golden light outside dimmed, fading like theater lights before a film begins.
Sound warped in my mind, spiraling like a flushing toilet, distorted, as if echoing from some vast emptiness in space. The knocking continued—steady, relentless. The only thing I could see in this frozen state, reminiscent of the sleep paralysis I experienced as a child, was the final screw hovering inches from the screwdriver in my hand.
Then came the shapes—like eye floaters, but wrong. Translucent eyes swarmed my vision, clustering near the center as faint sounds bled from them. At first I thought they were screams… then words. “Someone—anyone—help me.” “Please, I don’t know where I am.” “I saw it.” My heart pounded harder as I wondered if whatever was at the door was what they meant. The knocking grew more aggressive, the door sounding like it might splinter at any second.
I tried to move—yank my hand away, turn my head, stand up—but I was trapped. I wanted to scream, not for help like the voices, but out of pure dread. Fear gnawed at me until it twisted into something feral. I imagined foam spilling from my mouth, my eyes reddening, my face contorting into something primal—like a caveman driven mad by something it could not comprehend.
The knocking began to change—metal clanging, wet stabbing noises, even barking—always in that same rhythm. A headache split through me as something inside my skull felt like it was peeling itself free, like a rat clawing its way out from within. I could do nothing but scream internally for what felt like hours—
Until everything snapped back.
A violent jolt. A deafening crack. My arm lurched forward, flinging the screw from the screwdriver. It shot across the room, shattering one of the windows before clattering outside, the faint metallic sound landing somewhere just beyond the house. As that happened, the knocking stopped. I immediately got up, dropping my screwdriver, balling both my fists as I marched toward the door. I unlatched it and swung it open, already reeling my arm back to meet my fist against whoever—or whatever—was on the other side. But my expression shifted instantly as I stopped halfway through the punch.
It was just my neighbor.
The man cowered, arms crossed over his face, eyes squeezed shut. After a moment, he peeked through his fingers, realizing I wasn’t about to hit him. Slowly, he lowered his arms and greeted me, his voice shaky. “Goo… goo… good morning, Henderson… I—” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing. I heard a loud cracking sound coming from your house yesterday.”
I slowly lowered my arm, my shock softening into something more reassuring. Relief followed as I recognized him—Jefferson, the neighbor who had made me that orange juice a couple days ago.
“Ehrrmm… I’m fine,” I said. “I was actually just starting repairs for that exact thing. I don’t mind if you want to come inside or anything.”
He smiled, still a bit nervous. “Sure… hehe, sure. I don’t mind.”
I stepped aside, letting him in. He walked over and sat on one of the sofas positioned near the two conjoined windows—just a couple feet from the other pair, one of which now had a broken pane. I took a seat on the chair beside the single window perpendicular to it.
Jefferson glanced over at the chair I’d been working on, now lying on its side, and spoke with a hint of humor. “So I’m guessing that old chair fought you pretty hard before it claimed victory over that one screw that escaped the battle, huh? Heh… I’ve never been one for keeping chairs that vicious. I usually make sure they’re under warranty so I can replace them before they get that bad.”
I let out a small sigh and shook my head. “Eh… that chair’s the least of my problems today. I think I might’ve had some kind of mental episode earlier. I thought I had those under control after the medication.”
He looked at me, concern creeping into his expression. “Oh… how long ago was your last episode, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“About a month ago, if I remember right,” I replied. “The last one before this was… different. I heard something like wings fluttering—like a slow vibration in my ear. Then dust started falling from the ceiling. It happened after I got back from mowing a customer’s lawn and trimming weeds behind their house. I was already sweating from the work, but that… that pushed it further. I felt like I was about to hyperventilate. I barely managed to pour myself a glass of water and lean over the sink until it passed.”
Jefferson’s eyes widened slightly. “Have you tried seeing a therapist or doctor again? Recently, I mean. It could be something more serious now.”
I stood up, heading toward the kitchen. “I don’t know… I’m starting to think these aren’t just mental episodes anymore.” I filled a glass with water as I spoke.
Jefferson got up as well, lingering near the doorway. “Well… I hope the best for you, neighbor. But if you need someone to talk to—or help with anything…” He placed a small folded piece of paper onto the wooden table in the living room. “You know I’m only a call away.”
With that, he opened the front door and stepped out, likely heading off to whatever he had planned for the day.
After he left, I stood there for a moment before slowly making my way back to my bedroom. I passed the chair I’d been fixing, giving it a brief glance, then continued on—thinking maybe I’d check the news again, just in case there was something… anything… worth noticing this time.