Leo's glasses' POV. Seriously.

A bit on the abstract side.

Spoilers for 59 and up.

I'm broken.

I hurt. Very much. My arms, they hurt. They're all metal and twisted and broken and bent. They're digging into my sides, all sharp. Broken glass on the floor.

You did this to me. You smashed me wide open. I didn't even think you could see, not without my help, but you proved me wrong. Precise smashes and acute destruction showed me as much. How perfectly you could hurt even without my careful help. How easily I could break.

(Are you strong? Or am I...weak?)

I don't know where that boy is. The one with the light hair and the bright eyes. He'd feel sorry for me, you know. I always liked him and he always liked me. His fingers were soft and warm and they would hold me so carefully. Delicate touches, like I was something beautiful that deserved to be held.

He bought me, you know. I think he told you, but I don't remember. I remember sitting there, in my little store, in my old home, when he walked in. He wore a big black coat and an angry expression. I remember that kind old lady who ran the store. I don't know her name, but the bright pair of red spectacles sitting on her nose smiled and told me to just call her Mother. I thought it was silly, but I still do it sometimes. Call her Mother.

(Especially now that I'm lying on this floor. And so lonely. And coldcoldcold. I call for her a lot, but she never comes.)

He asked her for glasses. Big ones, he said, to cover up most of the face. And I could feel her eyes drifting over to rest on me. The red spectacles grinned, and I felt really shy all of the sudden.

You got a lovely face, boy, she told him, but went to go pick me up anyway. She had warm hands too. I remember this because they would pick me up to clean me off, every single day. Soft towels and wet cloth, smashing against my glass like kisses. She had bright eyes too. Like that boy. (And I was so sure those would be the eyes I was meant to protect and assist.) Handing me over him she said, don't try to cover it up.

He scoffed. Looked insulted. They're not for me! He cries. For a friend of mine. I guess. And when he said it he said it like he wasn't sure if he had any friends or not. She smiled, mentioned how nice it was of him to be buying gifts for his friends, and placed me in his hands.

He thought he'd break me in half, I could tell from how careful he was. I nuzzled in between the gloved fingers, feeling safe in there. You could never break me, I almost wanted to say to him, but I didn't.

He smiled. I saw him, he did it, his lips cracked and he looked so perfect just like that. I'll take these, he said, I guess they're okay, and handed me back to the kind store lady. She nodded and wrapped me up in uncomfortable white paper before stuffing me in a brown bag.

And Goodbye, I screamed. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye! I love you! Thank you for taking care of me for so long! But I don't think she heard me, because I was already in the boy's hands by then. I hope she knew that I'd miss her. Because I do. Now more than ever.

I remember rattling around that bag the entire ride home, and then even more when he climbed out of his cab. He shook me around so much I could hardly believe it was the same boy with the soft grip, but in a weird sort of way the jostling and shaking seemed to feel like him too.

He's just odd. But you know that, right? You're friends.

Used to be, I guess.

(Why hasn't he come to visit us in so long?)

I remember so much about when we met. Those first few days, when it was just the three of us. I remember being scared inside of that little bag. He was still rattling me around as we walked into the house and up the stairs. thump thump thump like a heartbeat as that boy carried me up each step. I held on tight to the edges of the crinkly white paper, and grabbed all my little screws close. I didn't wanna fall apart before I meet my new owner.

And suddenly, I was a bit a scared of you. What if you didn't like me? I mean, I'm nothing special. Fat and round and ugly. I cover up most of the face, and who would ever want something so plain and stupid as me to hide them away from the world? I was so caught up in my self-loathing I didn't even notice the boy had stopped walking.

Leo.

Is what he said.

If I had any breath, I would've held it.

Yes? And the door cracked open. It sounded old and sad and creaky but it screamed, Welcome!, at me as the boy marched us in.

He spoke, the boy. Got your glasses. Real big ones, like you asked. You're sure you want 'em?

And another voice, your voice, answered back. Yes, Elliot, I'm sure.

So he stuffed me into your grasp. The paper rubbed against me in all the wrong ways, and I felt itchy and suffocated. Get me out now, please! I was almost going to shout, but I didn't. I don't like talking much.

I felt all my wrappings be shed to the ground, like a coveted Christmas present, and new fingers held me tight. Smaller. Bonier. Colder. But they were yours so they were mine and I feel so deeply in love with them the second they pushed me up that perfect nose of yours.

And you're getting your hair cut tomorrow, right? And new clothes? The boy asks.

Yes, yes, yes, you answered him. I will. I don't see why I have to, though. You obviously don't care what your family thinks of me, otherwise I wouldn't even be here.

(And I think I remember you sounding bitter, but I think a lot of things.)

I dunno, the boy said. It's symbolic, I guess. A new haircut, a new Leo.

And you didn't answer him, but you smiled. I remember how pretty it looked, and that boy's eyes lit up. I remember that most, I think. The way he looked at you. And I'd feel your face get all hot and bothered under my touch. I'm sorry that I keep mentioning this, but feeling warm is a big deal when you're made out of cold hard metal.

Living with you and him was...amazing. Everything felt shiny and new and all of the little pieces fit together. I can't explain it, what life was like from the point of view of those darkdark eyes.

(And maybe it's just because I'm sick and angry but those eyes were frightening. They were cold and dark and always looked like two matching little evil things. I was happy to hide them. Someone had to.)

We sat together. We read. We spent so much time talking. Well, you talked and I listened. Mostly that boy talked though, and you just smiled and I felt your face get all happy and warm underneath his words. He talked a lot, and yelled even more! You didn't seem to get as angry as he did, though, and I think he liked that about you. I don't know, there was a lot that went on between you and that boy that I was confused about.

And one day it just hit like lightning. Bad things started to happen.

I remember I could practically hear your heart break when they mentioned those missing children. I know how you loved them, because even though you try to hide it I can see everything that you think. I am your eyes.

Of course you went to go find them. Save them. And, of course, he followed you.

I don't really know what happened. I don't know what you said. I don't remember what his screams sounded like. I can't think of what that big bad monster looked like. His big eyes and sharp teeth don't haunt my dreams.

The color red is all I remember.

When I wake up, he's right there by your bedside, and you're right there too, and we're all safe so I decide that everything must be okay. He still smiles the same way and your face still heats up all hot and bright and his eyes are still that same raw blue.

(I shouldn't admit this, and I'm sorry because I really am, but I do wish I got to live on his face. I wish I could've protected those eyes. All I ever wanted was to love them and hold them safe and close, and I could never do that living on top of your nose.)

Things carry on as they always did, but for some reason it all felt different even though it was exactly the same. We all laughed and smiled, but maybe just a bit more quietly and a little bit less.

One thing that I especially noticed was that man. The tall one. With the wicked grin and those dark eyes.

I don't know why you talked to him so much, but you did. It wasn't so bad, not at first, because you only ever went to see him every once in a while. I still didn't like him. He'd give this smile and his eyes would shine and it hurt me to look at him. His gaze made me feel all dirty and gross, and I think you knew, because we'd always go home and you'd throw me to the side. I'd sit on the table or on your bed and watched as hot water bubbled into those black eyes of yours and spilled over the edges, and I'd wish my arms weren't so pointed or cold so that I could wipe those tears away for you.

The more we talked to him, the worse we felt. I wish you could've stopped, but I know you had to do it for a reason.

A party, he said, and he smiled and nodded and invited us. You have to come. So of course we did. You put on your best suit, and that boy put on his, and you both went together. You looked nice. The both of you did.

And I'm sorry. I don't know how to say this, and I can't say it enough, but it hurts so bad I have to try. I'm sorry, Leo. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. I know that I'm supposed to help you see. I'm supposed to be your friend. I should've been worrying about your blackabyss eyes and keeping them safe and I'd never want anyone to ever have to watch that ever and I can't say it but I have to.

I'm sorry.

He still looked good. Lying out there like an angel or a saint. All in red. I've always thought he looked better in blue.

And now he's gone. You laughed too much, looking at the red on the floor that was all bright like he used to be, and it was spread out like a pair of wings. And you laughed even more, shaking your blackhaired head like it was full of broken things.

I remember you smiled and brushed his fingers along it. The redness. I don't think you were trying to do anything with it, not really. You were never an artist and the shiny bright color on the floor was not paint.

(I think you just wanted to hold the little bits of him in your hands.)

And I know my job is to help you see, but you shouldn't have had to see that.

I don't remember anything after that. You went away, and he was still gone, and I had no face to keep me warm and no dark eyes to love and look after. I felt like I had failed you. I didn't do my job. Or I did do it? Did I do it too well? It all feels like it's my fault and I don't know why but it hurts.

When you come home I still feel empty and I can't say why.

Maybe it's just that man who floats in behind you. His hair is shiny, but in an evil way, and he's got two differently colored eyes. They look all sad and broken but hard and cruel. I am afraid to reflect his image in my glass.

He holds up a pair of antique scissors, and I'm hidden in a corner, but they still say hello. They frighten me, the scissors. The yellow-haired man asks, Do you still want your hair cut Master Leo? And you say yes.

And I remember that boy because I will never forget him. What he said that first day, when I first got here. When I first came home.

A new haircut, a new Leo.

I think I might be crying but I don't know because I've never cried before.

You sit down, and your body cracks like it's different from how I remembered it being. You look strange to me. The blonde man lifts his scissors to your head and snip snip snips away at your hair and I can hear the dark strands scream as they fall off your head. I miss them already, just like I miss that boy, and just like I miss the way you used to be.

I think you heard me. I don't know what I said, but you heard it, because after this man brushes the hairs off your shoulders you whip around like lightning. Stare at me and twist your face. Why do you look so angry? Haven't I said that I was sorry enough!

But I guess I can never say sorry enough. Because he won't come back.

And I guess that's why you broke me. And left me here. I guess that's why I'm so cold.

This is my fault, and I'm sorry.