Framed

What is it?  The query appears within my mind without a clear source.  Another similar query closely follows the first, further prodding for an answer.  What is it that you have brought for us?  My hand flies out defensively, fluttering around to point vaguely at the display behind me in awkward swings like that of someone attempting to use a sword of a weight more heavy than they realized.  I search for the right words to use before eventually choosing the most obvious ones.

It is a small bird with a worm in a decorative frame.  Simple, yes, but that was kinda what I was going for so I could try to finish faster…

An uncomfortable silence follows as my words dissipate.  I feel hungry eyes upon me.  My skin itches.  Each passing second without a response, the feeling grows stronger.  It soon feels as if I have ingested an entire worm colony that has broken free from the confinement of my stomach and is now spreading outward to occupy every inch of my body.  I think I may be sick.  I retch, but nothing comes forth.  Afterward, the sensation dulls, though an emptiness remains.  Eyes remain present, though they number fewer.  The need to say something else, something more grows.

Oh, I guess you expected a little more than this, something better than before or more elaborate, perhaps?  I’ll try again, just wait.  While I think of what will be the next thing, the watchful void before me is impatient and suffocating.  Pressure continually mounts and compounds, fracturing a vulnerable structure that howls under the increased weight.  I curse under my breath.  They did this.  It is their needy eyes that plague me.

It is a lie.  It was and has always been myself that is the one hoping for more.  It is a necessity and yet problematic.  I have imperfectly framed the eyes of the void, just as I have this bird, for a crime with an obvious conclusion.  A pair of stained gloves in evidence fit perfectly with the size and shape of my hands.