Thirteen

“How old are you, Vincent?”

“Thirteen”, he replied in a small voice, nervously fiddling with the hem of his shirt. 

He had prayed for the sake of what was left of his sanity, to be left alone and undisturbed on this journey. Solitude was his only salvation.

But a plump lady in her mid 30’s, Jane Campbell, and her demure daughter Rosie, currently occupied the berth opposite to his and the futile small talk that the lady was resolute on engaging in, was all too close for his comfort.

“Travelling alone?” Jane asked, unzipping her Montrose duffel bag and taking out some soda cans.

Vincent hummed, staring off into the endless moors of the Scottish Highlands.

Jane nodded absentmindedly as she reached for the handle of the mini-fridge beneath his berth. His entire demeanor changed as he realized what she was about to do, almost pouncing to block her from doing so.

“NO!” his jaw clicked.

“But..” she retreated hesitantly, clutching the soda cans tighter, “why?”

His jaw clicked.

“Thirteen” he replied.

An uncomfortable silence followed.

“So” Jane began again, “visiting your family? Or perhaps friends?”

A few moments passed by before shook his head.

"Family" he spat the word as if it burned his tongue, a dark look slightly confronting his features, making him appear more brooding than mere seconds ago.

"Oh dear!" Jane sighed, biting her lip to stop imploring him any further. The boy just seemed so lonely that she couldn't help the pang in her heart when she considered the possibility of him getting by all on his own. "But surely, you must be having lots of friends."

A wry smile crept up his face as he stared into her soul and enunciated his words carefully.

"13 friends."

The accompanying tension in the air became could be cut with a butter knife

“Oh..” and even though her better sense advised her against it, she ignored it in the favor of changing the topic. “you know, Rosie here just turned 12 last week.”

For the first time, Vincent turned his eyes to the meek girl sitting next to her mother. She flashed him a sheepish grin before going back to intently staring at her interlaced fingers on her lap.

Something about her struck him, rendering him helpless to try and avert his gaze.

“Blue eyes” he murmured beneath his breath, “She’s got blue eyes.”

“Huh? Oh! Rosie, yes, she’s got’em blue eyes alright.” Jane laughed boisterously into the back of her hand, “Takes after her father, you see. Light hair, pale skin..”

“and blue eyes” he repeated.

“Yes, blue eyes."

Jane laughed again.

Rosie looked down.

Vincent kept staring.

Pitch black darkness engulfed the train as it sped through one of the many tunnels in the heart of The Highlands. At a point, Jane was convinced that she heard a muffled scream, but then later dismissed it as a figment of her hyperactive imagination.

Darkness dissipated faster than it had descended. The arrival of light was greeted by a blood-curdling scream.

The door to the mini fridge lay wide open - a dozen plastic zip locks , with what looked like pairs of frozen eyeballs in them, scattered on the floor. One pair stood out from the rest due to its seemingly recent extraction. One pair of blood-stained blue eyes.

The body of a 12-year-old lay motionless on the floor, her throat slashed and her eyes gouged out, blood oozing out from her hollow sockets.

As a child, Vincent had always envied his sister Livie. Her mere existence reminded him of her racially superior status. If that blue-eyed devil was the apple of their parent’s eyes, Vincent was the blind spot. Unwanted and isolated, he burnt down their pride and kept her blue eyes as a souvenir, basking in the warmth of their misery. 

It was therapeutic in a way.

“14” he whispered.