I lean on the sill of the window and stare out of it, at the street. There’s a breeze outside, a stream of air warmer than you’d think of the season. A woman is passing fast on the sidewalk. I can see a tinge of concern in her walk. Perhaps in her eyes too. I can’t see them though. It’s hard to make sure. They’re turned the other way, and I can only look at her side and back. If she turns, I can easily see them and find out. But she won’t. She’s walking on with her fast gait. Perhaps I should go down and follow her, to see how her eyes are. I should just walk on, until I get to her. Then I would pat on her shoulder, and when she turns, I’ll look into her eyes. I’ll stare at them for a moment. Perhaps she’ll be surprised, or even scared, but I’ll just look at her eyes. Maybe I’ll be able to dig something out of them. A memory. A concern. A shortage of money. An unknown woman with a known man. Or maybe it’ll be something small, like a belated lunch. Or bigger, like a lost child. Who knows, it could be about a dead cat somehow, or a car crashed at a tree. Concerned looks are at the aftermaths of all sorts of thoughts. But what if it’s a murder? What if it’s blood that’s dripping out of her eyes, not just an everyday concern? A knife and blood, or a vase and blood, or a gun and blood? Then I should follow her for sure. Wouldn’t it be wrong and immoral of me not to follow her, not to look into her eyes, not to conceive the murder and throw a punishment back at that erred pair? I suppose I can be punished for not having a murderer punished. I should make those eyes see themselves hanging from a rope, or burned by electricity, until they see the colors die out, one by one. Until it’s pitch black for them. They deserve that. Murderers deserve that.
But then again, it’s eyes we’re talking about. What if seduction comes out of them? What if they capture me? They have power. They can control a heart from miles away. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen them rip emotions apart and glue them back together however they want, just by a glance. They can do that. Will I then let a murderer roam, not because of lack of certainty, but for a personal affection? A bond in my imagining mind? Oh God. Wouldn’t that be worse? I’d let my feelings come in the way of my duty. Shouldn’t then my penalty be more? A punishment a lot more severe? It’s something to be unsure of a crime, but entirely another to know and leave it be. Perhaps I should let go. Just imagine there is no window and no look and no thought. Wipe my memory. Take this part of it and toss it out of the window and let my soul be free of the burden. But no, that’s ridiculous. I can’t let her go. Not without a look at those eyes. Not without at least trying. Maybe it’ll be a bit hard, a little tough to resist, but I can do that, can’t I? I’m stronger than those eyes. They can’t be my master and manipulate me, or convince me to let a killer escape. It’s impossible. Of course it’s impossible.
Still though, what if they can? What if I become enchanted and deceived by a pair of eyes I chose to follow, to know, to see the malice in, and then to let free? Wouldn’t I be an accomplice then? An accomplice to murder? Isn’t it better not to know than knowingly do wrong? But no, I’m deviating. That is selfishness. It’d be egoistic to let her run free when I might catch her and not be deceived. When I can bring a bit of justice into this world. It’s what matters, right? This world is bad already, full of enough wickedness. I can’t let it be worse. I can’t be selfish now. Not with all the selfishness of others. Concern about myself shouldn’t come in my way. I can’t let her go. Even if it means wrongdoing and punishment, I’ll go down the stairs now. I have to. I have to catch that murderer.