(tw: gore)

TRAIN 

I am watching you, yes, you. You are nervously twirling your hair around your finger. I can see the beads of sweat forming just above your brow. You fight the urge to look around. Burying your face deep in the paper. You know not to look out the window, or even around the train for that matter. (don’t you?) You are one of the smart ones. Though I have not yet figured out whether your intelligence will bring fortune or misfortune.  

Ah, you're reading the article about Mr and Mr. Jones? I like that one, I especially like that part about the jar of pickled, humanoid eyes they found buried deep in their backyard. Speaking of eyes, I can see you fighting the temptation to look out the window. Only a thin panel of glass that shields you from their hungry gaze. They will not hurt you, but they do yearn for you. They want to devour you. The red veins that creep towards the glistening pupils are ready to burst. Like I said, they won't hurt you, not if you stay on the train.  

Oh, the veins have now popped. Or some of them have. Bleeding a deep crimson through the pupil. I'm watching you flinch as the blood splatters the window. You are not flinching at the sight so much as the sound. Your eyes are still glued to the papers. Reading the same lines as you mutter to yourself. Good, you’ve remembered.  You try to maintain your sanity as the veil of fear falls heavier, more oppressive. But I tell you now, there is no reason to be afraid. In fact, if you could look out the window you would see the sort of beauty in it all. The wonderful red liquid that seeps through the cracks in the paneling. 

Oh, how I wish you would watch it pool at your feet, staining your clothes and those shoes you got for your seventeenth birthday from a close relative, now dead. They say it was a murder, but did you ever wonder how? Why? ... who? So, is that the reason you are on this train? Is that the destination you desire? In the sight of revenge. A task you may never finish.  

You gasp as the hot blood slowly laps you up. Why is it so hot? Why is it burning you? You may not like it, but I do. I don’t think people appreciate the smell of flesh burning nearly as much as they should. It reminds me of the delightful home cooked stew my mother used to make. You remind me a lot of her. I can't say why though. Maybe it’s forgetfulness? Because I have only just noticed that you are looking around. A silent fear in your eyes as the red fluid devours you.  

I will admit, I did flinch slightly at the loud bang of the gunshot. 

I think it's important to note that it wasn’t the eyes that killed you, but your own stupidity.