As each day passes I am more disturbed by those black eyes that follow me on my way to work and back.

Shooting out from the blurry faces around them, those empty eyes look as innocent as those of a child - I think they belong to a 4-year-old boy - who has lost something precious. Something loved and cherished. Not a toy, something much more meaningful than that. Perhaps a mother, or a father, or both. But those eyes are not sad. It is as if time is dead and he will never move on, forever to remain 4-year-old, and all that is alive is the pulsing hate that forces those eyes at me, day in, day out. What may once have been sadness has grown into full-out rage. Those angry eyes, black as hell, are red with rum as they follow me around the station, twice a day, 5 days a week.

I feel no sympathy nor responsibility for whatever is behind those eyes, but I am unnerved by how I am tracked as the train rumbles through Bessarion Station. Be sure to watch for them the next time you go through... they are watching you.