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I suppose I wasn’t sure what to expect when the Doctor opened the door.
There are, of course, not many people on this earth like him; even fewer, who, like him, have such utterly piercing eyes.
Eyes such a vivid, clearing blue; you cannot hide much from eyes that stare in such deeply truthful, such completely present and alive ways, as they were and are.
Some eyes will eat you, someone said; these eyes would tear you to pieces and laugh. These are the eyes of wolves who refused to succumb to become dogs, of predators that reflect the moonless, leering sky, of unnatural desire and pleasure inoxerably intoxicatingly human. These are such eyes.
He ushered me inside, eyes crinkling behind his silver-rimmed spectacles he often wears; what used to be for show and now are for necessity. I accepted the tea he offered. I like tea, and it would be rude to deny him. It was easier to think that than accept the reality of those eyes demanding there would be no denial; but quietly, with such simple words. I sipped at the chipped white mug, painted with images of doves fluttering across its surface. Such polite teaware. So small in my hands, almost comically small, like a giant in a teahouse. I am a large man, larger than most, if not all, and such a little cup held what would be a bucket of tea for one man, but for me, is merely a thimble. What a teahouse this must have to be, I mused at the time.
The Doctor did not seem bothered by this. In fact, I believe lavishes in it - cherises with obscene glee at the thought that such a giant would come to his teahouse of all places, rather than a giant-sized one. He smiled with such warmth, but those eyes…God, they would ravage your corpse with their gaze, screaming in ecstasy at the sight of your organs on display like some sick museum only De Sade would find attractive. Or perhaps an operating theatre of other doctors.
“Mikhal,” He began, and then stopped himself. “You do not mind Mikhal, yes?” I think he asked not because he was worried that the mountain of a man infront of him may crush his skull, but because he genuinely wanted to know. I grunted- half in question, half in already knowing the answer- and responded. “If Doktor would like real names, I am Misha. Mikhal is what my mother called me. What are you?”
My English is poor, as it is a complex language with many faults and flaws. I much prefer my mother tongue of Russian, because it is familiar. Of course, my poor English leads people to assume I am stupid. A brute. However, I speak many more interesting languages than English; French, German, Ukrainian, some pockets of Spanish, dribbles of Yiddish from time spent in and amongst Jews I have conversed with, and small handfuls of Greek. Unlike all those, English is a terrible language to learn. And so I am poor in my speaking of it.
Completely opposite is the Doctor - who calls himself ‘Medic’ and insists on Herbert when it is just us - who has near perfect English. Though, he has a thick, luxurious German accent - from Stuttgart, I have been many times before - with each word careful and precise. As any good Doctor talks. It suits him in a way I cannot say.
“Herbert. And you can call me Medic, rather than Doctor.” He gestures to my chest. “You must have an excellent heart. I imagine due to that size of yours. May I examine it?” I nodded, because his eyes told me I should, and then he leaned over the table with a stethoscope. “Ah…yes, you have a strong heart.” He murmurs. “Like a horse, or a bull.” I think he would want to cut me to pieces just to hear how I would scream and squelch under his prodding claws.
“Thank you.” I reply, rumbling.
Trying to seem that I am strong and that his eyes do not phase me;
Such aquaramine eyes, such clearness, such unrelentingly unintentional wideness; I wanted to say you have such big eyes, such blue eyes, that seem luminescent in their unabashed blueness, luminious and lycanthropic though the spirit of a great wolf met you in your mothers womb and changed blonde hair to dark black, green eyes of murkiness to blue of clarity, that you tore its throat out with your newly fanged teeth, until you became some forbidden creature of nature that howls and screams into a mangled merger of humanity and wolfishness, existing as a representation of a hemaphrodite of ghoulish proportions, and yet not quite a werewolf, no, more as though you are a leviathan, eyes watching with a sense of bemused fascination at the expanse of struggling people settled beneath you as you rise above, gorging yourself on the uncanny nature of your own existence, and enjoying the stares and harsh whispers in a masochistic fantasy that hands you unrelenting pleasure so strong it may as well be bliss.
All eyes are decidedly hungry; these ones were starving.
It was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed.
So, when he asked me, “My dear Misha, may I open up your chest?” I could not say no.
He opened me wide; and I was heavenly. And it was terrifying.
Slicked crimson gloves slid inside my organs to tear and puncture. I cannot recall much from the time, as I don’t remember through the pain. He did not give me painkillers, but I remember his voice in my ear; “Don’t be such a baby - ribs grow back.” What a sly whisper it was. I have heard no woman that whispers so well, with such kind and calming voice, as those blue eyes softened; aquaramine became pale became icy became clear became sea-grey became to bedazzilingly faint diamond gleams and to teal and then blue once again; most simplest of blue.
The Doctor does not play nice with my insides.
I see his fangs and think he would eat me if he could.
The eyes are all I could see of his face through the haze of pain; the face I had seen before of a handsome man, somewhat narrow with a strong chin and consantantly flared nose. Through my fuzzy thoughts, I could see them; such clear, unadulturated, shining blue. He saw right through my gruffness to the warmth underneath. Warmth I had elected to forget. Consisting of birds milk my mother made, such a desert it was, and soft fur, sparkling white snow to crackling fire and hearty soup with thick fluffy bread. I was so used to the cold, it seemed, I was boiling underneath all the freezing skin. But then, I saw through him too; I saw underneath.
The Doctor was wearing contacts.
The eyes I so focused on, so clearly could see, were not blue in the slightest. And I found it funny, so funny how this man had lied to me with his sight and yet I found him still utterly terrifying. So I laughed. So, I laughed. Laughed as he checked my heart, peeled open my lungs, poked at my liver. Laughed as he stabbed into my gall bladder and pierced my intestines and tore into my stomach lining.
I laughed, and his false blue eyes laughed back.
I do not think I have been so terrified in my life.
I do not think I have been so aroused either.
I spoke in Russian, while he cut me open. Half-mangled words I think would be shameful to call legible, moral, reasonable, legal, or matching anything anyone would consider well in any respect or regard.
But I still spoke them; spoke them for this man I am now helplessly attracted to. Perhaps I am sick, afterall.
I should see a doctor.