"empty sockets"

Empty sockets, full of antiquated rage, fairly well hidden, remain,
transfixed upon my weary, sleeping face as I stir, overly awake.
They speak volumes to me with their solid stare, no answer shall I gain.
To this day no idea can I find, only queries and ponderances can I make.

What happened on that night as I woke from blissful rest, free and clear?
What really happened to that young boy of Oceano in the dark of life?
The night was as usual, boring but amusing, the farthest thing from fear.
I had played as I often did, outside in the yard between trees, ripe.

The sun had shone down on me with vigor, making me glad I was alive.
There wasn't much food, but there was enough to eat, some cereal, bread.
More than likely that day I had a mustard and mayo sandwich, not on rye,
since of course we could barely afford day-old wheat, or so Harris said.

White bread, somewhat stale at times. I don't remember a whole lot.
Before seven it's a blur. Mixed in though, are rigid moments I won't forget.
Such as that night, asleep and dreaming of who knows what,
my television knob controls often used for dreams forgotten, unequipped.

I awoke in a startled calm in which I made no moves, just watched in doubt.
Something felt wrong, out of place, corrupt and seemingly odd and foreign.
The dark hid my space, which was also the living room. I slept on a couch.
From the wall to my side came a glow, hitting my eyes like drillheads, boring.

I wondered then if I was dreaming, but I've never dreamed like that.
In a dream, I never tasted my bad breath, felt a dry throat grate and whither.
My only true desire was to get up and fill a glass with water from the tap.
I also never felt my clothes full of sweat while dreaming. If that matters.

The wall kept glowing, the cheap white paint and plaster turning brighter,
turning warmer until something that should not have happened, went and did:
a guest I was not expecting walked thru the wall, and the room felt lighter.
I still don't fully believe it to this day, but from my memory, it I cannot rid.

This guest was as described before, but so much less while at once, so much more.
The eyes did speak where words were never given, but I could not pull away.
My gaze in return, piercing and shallow, was never ended, never halted, never tore.
As I lay, sat up in bed, I was fully watching with all my effort, all the way.

Whatever it was just watched me, stared without telling me anything in truth.
I was so scared at first, full of panic and fright, but it washed away, gone.
The flesh of the thing was like bone, grey and dead looking. I needed no proof,
no claim or data to tell me it was something unusual, and I was not wrong.

This walking skull was faded, yet shining, as if it was old and tired, dead.
No smile, no frown, just a level slit of color. It wasn't exactly totally clear.
I don't think my mind fathomed the sight of it, until it moved towards my bed.
This thing so many would want to be an alien merely trudged nearer me, near...

It looked at me as if I was something as opposed to nothing, at least at first.
Then as it got closer I became sure it was death, come without his blade.
I knew death and knew of witches and wolf, of dragon and the vampire's thirst.
I wondered for only a moment if I was dead too, and walking away to be remade.

At that young age I had been tainted, I had known about many things strange.
I had heard of legend, of lore, of magic, seen demons fly out of mirrors, loud,
fiercely knocking things off the wall on its path out of the bathroom, out of range.
But I had never really believed in unwanted visitors, until its gaze I had found.

As it moved closer, it watched me. As it stepped lightly almost floating, it glared.
No lies I had ever told or believed could be hidden then, if it had asked,
if it had pried me for some information which a young boy alone unknowingly beared.
I wondered what it wanted, but I could not speak, or move it seemed. I was held fast.

Pressed into my matress I stayed, as the skull thing, which I felt was not real,
stooped down and turned me partially over, revealing a glowing vial it held tight.
The tube was but as tall as a pin, while thick like a pencil, blinking and surreal.
The contents seemed to shake against the sides, which I took to be glass that night.

Again, and still I could not yell, even though the thoughts of fear felt small.
I didn't feel threatened though I knew I should be, somewhere deep down I knew I was.
Especially as the cold fingers or digits or claws pulled my shirt up into a ball,
holding the material along my back into a globe, its hands curling. Such a fuss.

Clothing to the creature was probably foreign, as IT was to me. Not special.
Looking at it, I saw no fabric, no pants or shirt. I liked having clothes.
No shapes or depths seemed to litter it. Merely flesh: bare and untextured.
It had no belly button, no sign of sex. I don't think it was especially cold.

But, it felt cold. Like ice, like the earth after a winter rainstorm, like stone.
Its hand-like appendage chilled me, yet my bare skin was warm while being exposed.
The vial felt hot against the middle of my back, and the green fluid sunk to the bone.
I felt it drop thru my flesh, sit along my spine, tingling it like a graveled road.

I had cut my face and hands and legs open on the road before, skidded across it.
It felt like that a bit, searing yet numb, painful while shaking and burning,
like sunburns from foggy mornings, saltwater in the air slicing into you as if bit.
The fluid the digits pressed into my spine felt very much like jello, turning.

I can only guess that jello molding is like what I felt, clammy yet fuzzy, cured,
shaking and quivering, melting from the warmth of my skin, growing spiked.
Whether the creature who found it neccessary to enter my wall used jello, I'm not sure.
All I know is what I saw, what it felt like, and what was to happen next.

It merely looked down at me and walked away, done with whatever chore it had.
It walked away slowly, never looked back, slowing down only a moment, and then gone.
This skeleton thing put some green junk on my back, then left. It's pretty sad.
I wasn't told anything, and thought about less while exposed to a vial of glowing balm.

What it really was, I don't think anyone can say, though there are theories.
I think, much like anyone in my spot, that the whole thing is utterly puzzling.
I know doctors would say I was repressing a memory of abuse, perhaps sodomy.
They could be right, I have no answers. I don't spend my nights awake worrying.

My father did abuse his other kids in similar ways, mostly the females though.
He was mentally and physically a demon, harsh, cruel and verbally a menace.
But whether he ever did that foul thing to me I really don't even know.
Other parts of this tale make me wonder, and I never know what memories may surface.

A little more should be told if you are to understand why I am so wary,
knowing I may never know any truths in the whole big, wild and troubling mess.
I wasn't always seeing this thing thru my eyes, but from a corner, carried,
taken to a better viewpoint so I could sometimes see myself AND it. I confess.

An early out of body wandering, mixed with glaring gazes out my own eyes.
I've had them since, so I feel that it's possible I was not just dreaming.
Slightly before the event occured, something also seemed to appear in the skies.
Weeks or months before my mother, my father, and myself all saw a shape, fleeing.

Slowly, it floated by, as if sailing through the sky. Triangular with a circle center.
The colors of the body of the object were blue and reddish, stable and dark.
I only remember that single time it inched by. Not a blimp, nor ship, or even copter.
It was something big and very quiet, which at the distance away, was a start.

I don't remember before or after that shape in the sky, when or what time.
I don't know how much time passed before the skeleton decided to visit.
All I know is, I remember both things happening, and scaring me all the same.
Before and since, ghosts, demons, and other odd bits found me. Crazy...or is it?