Trapped behind Twelve Eyes

Squinting against the last rays of the evening sun, I let out a sigh as it slipped behind the horizon line. I always loved basking under its gaze, which was ironic given my circumstances. I would spend my nights comforted by its unyielding effort to reclaim the dawn. In fact, I would consider it one of the only positive certainties in my life. Sometimes, on particularly heavy days, I would talk to it through the gaping chasms that carved through my cave walls, reminisce about better times like I would with an old friend, and I would pretend that it laughed at my stories along with me. But instead, it just hung above, the ever-watchful eyes of the divine listening to me ramble about my childhood, full of scuffed knees and picking flowers by the spring.

Without the comforting glow of dusk, my cave became haggard and gaunt. Gnarled spikes of lime jutted from the cave floor in erratic clumps, a sordid forest revealed with the low tide. Above me, moss and vines hung down, crawling across the cave wall like vessels across a heart. Slimy rock tapered down to a point above me, making me feel as though I was balanced between the teeth of a giant. A chilled wind blew through the cave mouth, and I could swear I felt tiny ice crystals clinging to my bones as it scraped past me. In reality, I could hardly call this a cave at all. It arched above me, sturdy stone roots looping together and splitting, weaved into an arch that would put the amphitheatres of my old home to shame.

I had learned about this place before I was brought here, or maybe I hadn't. Maybe I had simply invented these stories to give my existence context. Building something out of the cracked and crumbling bricks of my memories so that I would know who I was before. I know my mother would smile at me as she sang, and my father would tell me stories. Tales of his perilous journeys across the sea, currents and winds that would rip the sails from ships like paper and would drop them to the sea floor like stones. My mother would then scold him fondly for scaring me, shaking her head as she gathered me into her arms. She wasn't angry, though. I think those stories terrified her as much as they would any child. My father was one of the only men who lived to tell these tales. And I think he has these caves to thank for it. Some say that my cavern was all that was left of the crumbling remains of a titan. Either way, its grandeur did little to impress me. Fragile and webbed as they were, those sordid rock protrusions directed the currents towards our home. When the tide was high enough, Ships used to slice through, songs and cheers echoing through the cavern from the men who knew being there meant they would be home soon, kissing their wives and roughhousing with their children.

Perhaps that's why my mother would let me listen to them. Maybe something in her knew that somehow, the caves would become my sanctuary, my comfort in the way the soft lapping shores of our home were hers. She would tell me every day that the seas and sky would one day bend to my beauty. That my smile would bring water to our wells, and my voice would summon birds to the trees. And unfortunately, she has been correct.

I was pulled from my silent reminiscing by the sounds of sailors calling, the subtle creaking of wood as the bow of a ship gouged through the waves. Glancing down, I could see that my legs dangling off the side of my mossy perch were now fully submerged, the pitching spikes at the bottom of the cavern now tucked safely under the black sea. The voices advanced, the travellers probably already feeling the hands of their loved ones caressing their weather-worn cheeks. Slipping silently below the waves, I let the chill of the night air leave my body, watching as the limpet-crusted keel glided above me, eclipsing whatever light remained.

No matter, I did not need my eyes for this.

But no matter how many times I had done this, it had never gotten any easier. Even in the dark water, I could feel a tear slip from my eye as my mouth widened and split, rows of white, needle-like teeth pushing through my gums, cheek and neck. Jaw cracking and lips rotted, my maw expanded down the length of my throat as my spine began burning. Hunching over, my scream was silent as five new heads, complete with my face, the same unhinged mouths and glass orb eyes, ruptured from my back.

As children, we really don’t appreciate the effortlessness and tranquillity of our lives until it's snatched away from us. As a woman, I would have given anything to feel its simplicity again. But instead, I let it slip through my fingers as the sand sinks through an hourglass, thinking all the grains would never truly run out until the last one slipped free. Still, that is not to say that I did not enjoy the ...benefits of being a young lady. As my mother promised, I blossomed into a tragically beautiful woman, in my estimation. Perhaps that was a downfall in humility on my part, but if an artist can step back to admire their work, why can’t I? While I was proud of my features, it did not make my life any easier. If anything, the opposite. I grew up in a small village, one of those cosy ones where everybody knew everybody. The other children I would play and catch crickets with grew with me, our shared experiences of filling out, teenage acne, and body hair became our bonding lament.

However, as adults, there was suddenly a torrent of expectation, the word “suitor” becoming a daily intruder in my conversations. My Father wanted me to find someone strong and robust; my mother wanted me to find romance and allure. Despite their love for me, I don't think they ever asked me what I wanted. Perhaps my dreams were outside the scope for women in my home, but I craved adventure. One day, I would want to share my tales of heroism and travels the way that my father did with me. Despite my mother's protests, I kept my heart safely caged, for I knew that giving it to another would not bring me that escapade. On top of that, I simply could not see any of the men I had grown up with in a romantic way. These boys had pulled my pigtails, splashed me with water as we chased, and now I was expected to manage their family?

Unfortunately, my attitude towards finding a suitor was not enough to divert the gaze of the village men. One, Glaucus, was rather determined in his efforts, often gifting me with flowers and perfume, keeping me company as I lounged by the spring. He was what could only be described as a marble statue turned to life. An amalgamation of perfectly carved angles and muscle. Rumours floated through the village streets, claiming he had to have descended from the Gods themselves to have earned such a fine physique. Maybe he was, for he certainly acted the part. While he never stepped over the line, I found myself increasingly put off by his advances. It felt like he took my declination as a challenge and would attempt to wear me down. It was suffocating, as if I were a stone being bashed against the riverbed again and again until I would one day emerge smooth and polished. The perfect wife.

Maybe I have become pessimistic and sour about Glaucus’s attempted dalliances with me. It's been festering away all these years, putrefying and mutating my memories of him into some raging bull who crashed through my boundaries as if they were ceramic. But in truth, he only committed what many others have done when they desired an unattainable prize.

Suddenly, Glaucus was no longer at my door bearing gifts or accompanying me to the creek. I welcomed the solitude, didn't discern myself with rumours of his whereabouts. And when the whispered tales of Glaucus visiting a witch on a neighbouring island met my ears, I barely flinched despite the threat of danger. Countless men and women had visited Circe at their own risk to plead for her help. While she was powerful, Circe was fractured, jagged glass shards reflecting her emotions in a full spectrum of fluctuating chaotic colour. She was vindictive yet merciful, kind yet jealous, distant yet obsessive. One could never predict which side of her they would face when asking her for a favour.

Over the years, I have heard slivers of what happened, stitching the story together with my own memories and drunken ramblings of sailors facing their deaths. Behind my many bulging eyes, I can almost picture the desperation on Glaucus’ face when he begged Circe to make me fall in love with him. I can hear the pounding of Circe’s heart as she first laid eyes on him, his Godlike physique and chiselled features. The bile swarming in her gut as she realised he craved another, and finally the hot, vengeful tears slipping from her eyes as she decided that if he wouldn't love her, she would destroy the one he did. She would do anything to have him.

It didn't take long for her to find me. I never saw her in person, but I remember a sense of being watched. Like an antelope staring into the ferns, unable to see it but knowing a lion is closing in, dread soaked through me, knowing that soon there would be jaws clamped around my throat. I sought comfort in the familiarity of my daily habits. I would sit for hours at the spring, bathing and drinking my fill of the crisp water. My last morning in the sun, I did just that. I lay on the moss, eyes closed against the rays that would soon bear witness to my downfall. But even the beauty of the day didn't stop the acrid, bitter taste of the spring water, or the dreamless sleep I succumbed to shortly after.

Hours, days, maybe months later, my consciousness was carried on a strange tide back into my body. I awoke in the caves, the dripping cold and moss-clad stone teeth so different from my sunny home. The waters were clear, my inked black reflection staring back at me. It was almost a relief to check over my body and see that I looked unharmed. Except, it was no longer my body. I looked like me, sounded like me, but there was also something there that... wasn't me.

This despondency stuck with me, a black ichor seeping through my veins and slinking down my spine like sap down the bark of a tree. I reasoned that a ship would enter the caves eventually and I could beg passage back home. So, until that happened, I continued to survive. I caught fish and used the sun to filter clean water. But I found my hunger never wavered. The fish turned to gravel in my mouth, and the water turned to acid in my throat. I found myself longing desperately for the day a ship would come, but the reason for my yearning changed dramatically.

One day, it finally happened! Sails crested the horizon line, and my ears filled with the jolly shanties of men homeward bound, heading for the mouth of my cave as I sank slowly below the surface. I should have been yelling and shouting, waving my arms and scaling the cragged rocks so they would spot me, but ...I didn't. Something ancient, rancid and evil broke the surface of the ichor in my veins, and it was only then that I found out what Circe had truly done to me.

It's possible, though a rare occurrence, for a woman to become scornful enough to kill over a man. We can think of a thousand consequences to resort to first. But for a Witch, death was not a reasonable punishment for Glaucus loving me because it was too small a consequence in her eyes. If given the choice, without a doubt, I would have chosen death over this. But I guess that is the pure vindictiveness of otherworldly beings. My choices in the matter were deemed as unimportant as an ant crushed beneath a divine boot. I was never offered an opportunity to tell Circe that I did not want Glaucus. Instead, she turned me into a six-headed monster who was only satiated by the flesh and blood of innocent travellers, all so Glaucus would turn his back on me.

Even in my monstrous form, it seems that I retain some of my sentimentality and morals. I would lie beneath the waves for hours, memories of my mother and father racing through my mind as I waited for my lungs to burn, my heart to give out. Another cruel trick of Circe. Perhaps it wasn't intentional, but the pure force of beastly evil I had become meant that not even Death would face me.

No matter.

If Cerce wants me to rabidly desecrate the dozens of souls on every ship as punishment for stealing the gaze of the one she wanted, I would do anything in my power not to bow to her whims. That being said, my hunger scraped away my resolve as the ship's keel passed over me. It was then that I decided that if I was forced to do this, there would be limits.

Six Heads, six men to die.

I would leave survivors. Wide-eyed and fearmongering, they would recount my story. Word would spread as a plague, rotting the image of my caves until no sailor would feel relief upon entering them again. Because now, there would be a price to pay. They would cower, shrivel into pathetic husks as I devoured. Bone and sinew ground between the teeth of each of my heads until the hunger ebbed, ever so slightly.

After a while, the sailors became smart to my tactics and would bring prisoners aboard their ship as offerings. As if they believed I ate based on the morality of each of my victims. What you learn very quickly when living my life is that a murderer and an honest man will bleed the same. A king and a pauper will both scream the same as I pluck them from the ship deck. Everyone is equal when they are dead. So, I did not discriminate between rich and poor, powerful or powerless. No matter how hard they would fight, or plead or hide, six men would meet an equal death and be consumed. Flesh and bone gauged away as the wretched survivors passed through the cave, leaving their fellow men as wraiths and watching the foam of the sea turn red. And left alone in the churning aftermath, it was as if I could almost hear them spreading my story, the truth of my horrific lament trickling slowly into legend.

Through my miserable existence, I took comfort in the hope that one day I would be slain, my suffering and punishment for simply catching one's eye would finally end. On the quiet days, when no blood stained the rocks and the beast inside would rest twisted around my vertebrae, I would watch the sun and dream of what life would come after this one. Maybe I would return to this world as something quaint and free of hardships, like a flower blossoming in a wild field. Or maybe there would be just nothing. A blank slate devoid of all senses, all thoughts drained from the basin of my skull. Or perhaps, all the more likely as more men were snapped against my jaw, there would be a fresh searing hell made just for me, for I don't imagine any sinner had committed the extremities that I had had to face. Though any complex torture would never compare to seeing my mother and father, to learn how they had waited for me all these years. To see my mother's eyes widen and my father blanch as I receive my judgment from the Gods. Frankly, I don't know which option I deserve for the life I have lived.

Perhaps fate finally did grant me mercy, or Circe had decided my punishment finally fitted my supposed crime, but Death did come for me. My lifeline was cut down with the glint of a sword, the polished metal biting through my elongated throat as my severed head was held aloft to the gleeful chanting of my valiant slayer's name. I hope the name “Hercules “will become notorious enough to stamp out my blood-soaked legacy. Maybe his heroisms will wash me away, eroded away like a chalk cliffside until I am simply just a name. However, I can't see any reality where I am completely crumbled away into anonymity. After all, the legends won’t die. They’ll change or evolve, maybe people would think I was always a monster, that I took joy in snuffing out my victims.

Whatever the case, my cave will remain. A shiver will slick the backs of any sailor who dares enter. They will stare into the abyssal waters and expect to see six pairs of soulless eyes to be staring back. A ship's crew will always carry six extra men.

After all, the Lair of Scilla will always carry a heavy toll.