Mr. Robin awoke brazenly, as the man most times did. Lost in the gentle folds of the blanket, shaken by the birds that sang their melody, a stinging symphony that shook his brains every morning. His eyes paced rapidly across the room, to no avail of course, for the devil lay beyond his reach this time. Being blind in his left eye all of his life, Mr. Robin was used to the sensation of waking up feeling disoriented. Often, after some tiresome days and nights, dreams were hard to take apart from reality; but damned were the birds, for they too lived in his dreams.
A slow getup and a few steps, picking this up, putting that down. Mr. Robin had his routine down to a T. He had come to know the ins and outs of his own home and daily life, for he lived alone, away from distracting voices, as he thought — except, of course, for the birds. They sang their song every morning, and would sing for the rest of the day, until there came the crickets in the night. However, their melody was a lot more cohesive, a comforting hymn, a relaxing hum, this improbable white noise that Mr. Robin found himself looking forward to.
[...]
"Why do the birds sing, Mr. Robin?" — the little neighbor's daughter asked, just as Mr. Robin dared to take his first step outside, washing his face with a new layer of disdain so early in the morning. — "To attract mates. To reproduce." — the old man barked, annoyed.
"...I think they might do it for fun." — said the girl. It was unclear whether the simple act of engaging in the conversation was enough to get Mr. Robin on his bad side, or if the thought was simply too ludicrous to even pay mind. — "Oh, please! They are birds. Unwitted critters. Mindless. Useless." — the old lad barked again, insufferable as always. The very idea that atomic beings deprived of will could engage in holistic behaviour for the sake of it was preposterous, so he thought. Absolutely, undoubtedly absurd. Birds are simple-minded beings, exempt from the joys of living; but an argument can be made, for their brains create a rewarding response that encourages the singing behaviour. Simple as a dog learning tricks for food, or an algorithm that favors one thing over the other because it was trained to do so. No willful decisions, a mere hardwiring of the brain and an unchangeable script engraved in their very genetic coding.
Distancing himself from asinine people was a staple of Mr. Robin, for he was, in every sense of the word, an intellectual. A life's worth hinges on how much it can provide for society, and knowledge is certainly the root of every major contribution; so he thought. Mr. Robin's life was, by no means, easy. The man had had his highs and lows, being blinded in one eye was already a challenge on its own merit, but to build a successful career on top of it surely deserves commendation. The years had already rounded up and struck his body to the point of failure, muscles became weak, but the mind stayed sharp as ever. To every end, Mr. Robin is now retired, living his dream life. That is, despite every dream he's ever had being seemingly out of reach by now. Except for the birds, for they were a recurrent dream, and one that was very real at that. While his other, more pertinent dreams seemed ever distant, Mr. Robin found some glimmer of hope in his study — in his contribution, as he called it.
"The Eye" (the name was still a work in progress). He saw it in his dreams. A gigantic, cloudy grey eye, floating vastly inside the cosmos, impossibly distant; where no star ever shone, gazing tentatively upon existence — upon everything. Its unmoving glare beholds the very shaping of reality, everything that is and ever was.
The old man knew the eye was forever watching; if only he could behold such magnificent sights, he could learn everything — see everything. For the eye was bound to him by fate, he knew it! Why else would he be born without his left eye? Why would destiny force upon him such a cruel, tasteless joke?
He read the manuscripts, he flew over the world for them, paid a small fortune for them. They had it all — his tale, his fate — all written in stone far before he was even born. The only thing left was to enact his sacred mission. When he first beheld the eye, he was young, unwitted — but now he is old and wise. Now he is as close as ever to reaching his goal. So he gathered his tools, moved his hands with unyielding resolve, and shook his wrists wildly at the very first movement.
Pain. His vision went red, his throat sore instantly as a rasp, desperate scream engulfed the serene hymn of the crickets. Another movement — frail, weak, fearful. The first move was enough to shatter his resolve. The pain was desperately cruel. His methods were abhorrently crude, his technique unmistakably flawed. He pushed through. He had to push through. It was too late — there would be nothing left for him had he turned back. Cracked lips uttered a quiet, desperate prayer. Crooked hands vibrated erratically with fear and agony. Another move, another gush. Blood. Pain. Guttural screams and clanking of the flung metal hitting the ground. Knees bend, back arches. The thick, metallic smell was unforgiving — the numb sensation of liquid dripping across the face. He couldn't stop. Blind hands scoured the floor, defeated wails of desperation accompanied a sad, defeated face twisted in agony. The tools. He must've searched everywhere. They were nowhere — gone. If only he could see more than red. So he twisted his fingers. In a last, merciful motion, he ripped the dangling lump of gored flesh from his face — freed finally from his bloody shackles.
For the first time, he saw nothing. The endless depths of nothingness — for he was truly blind, as he always was.
For eons, his soul had cried out for his other half — alone, empty. He found comfort under himself, in his restless dreams, in the serene hymn of the drifting dust. Not anymore. Never would he feel alone again. Never would his dreams haunt his every day. Never would he drown in himself over and over again seeking his promised retribution. Never — NEVER — would he hear those hellish, damned birds ever again.
And so he opened his eyes — both of them — and he saw darkness. Cold, ever-approaching, unending darkness. And in an impossibly distant horizon — every light, every star, every drifting dust, the creation, the now, the forever and ever. And with it, the pristine galaxies, as they sang their celestial symphony, a dazzling, stinging cacophony that shook his brains.
And they never stopped singing.
They never would.
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