Miniature galaxies. Oceans of gold-washed green light spiralling around the center, pupils dark as black holes, irises glazed with an elusive yellow sheen. They’re perfect, the eyes, if you look past the grim mangles of flesh and veins that flow like tails behind them. They fan out gracefully and he imagines them dancing, twirling through their glassy prison in unison.
Cain is weeping sticky tears of blood from gashed eye sockets. He seems to be in pain, even though Jezebel tried so hard to be gentle. He looks away. The eyes twinkle in their jar; so pretty.