His Eyes

His eyes. 
They were green. 
They were wide in fear. 
I remember one of them being bruised, but I can't remember which. 
They were so expressive, so adamant in communicating just how afraid he was. 
The fear tainted the way he moved. 
Rather than walk, he darted, a little hunched, as if he were perpetually on the run. 
When he grabbed something, it was almost too fast for the eye to see, like when he grabbed a tomato from my vegetable stand.
The only reason I even saw it was that I had been noticing just how ragged he looked. I remember wondering if he even had enough money to buy anything from me. 
I saw a flash of red, and I grabbed his arm. 
I remember his wrist, how bony it was.
I remember how the tomato he had grabbed was slightly bruised and wrinkled. 
"No," I said. 
That was when I noticed his eyes. They bore into mine, drowning me in a world of fear I'm sure I could never fully understand. 
"No," I said again, "you want this one."
I reached across the stand, took the biggest, shiniest tomato I could see, and offered it to him.
He raised the hand I wasn't holding and reached hesitantly for the fruit. 
"Go on, take it."
He hesitated a moment more, and then, in a flash, it was gone from my hand and clutched to his body. 
He yanked his arm from my grip, and stared at me for a moment more before scurrying down the street. 
I watched him for a moment before turning to a customer.
Suddenly, a shout rang through the air. 
"Stop, thief!"
I turned to see an officer chasing the raggedy person I'd just given two tomatoes to. He tackled the poor boy to the ground making the fruit tumble from his grip. 
"Finally!" Yelled the officer, "I got some evidence!" 
Next thing I knew, I was being questioned. I insisted, over and over again, that this boy with green eyes hadn't stolen from me, but apparently my word wasn't good enough. This was his last chance, and he was to be punished. 

One thing I'll take to my grave is the last time I saw him. 
His hands were tied behind his back. He was walking with a confident stride. He went up the scaffold steps, and a rope was put around his neck. 
His eyes found mine. 
They held a serenity unlike any I had ever seen. 
They also held forgiveness. 
I hope mine were telling him I was sorry...

Then someone pulled a lever.

Author's Note

The prompt was to write about a character who only has 24 hours to live.
So, please let me know, what are your thoughts?

Reviews

[A. L. Allen]

O.O
J.... this was absolutely incredible. The brief, vivid sentence structure made my heart pound, and the incredible, exquisite detail was pure magic. I wish I had more words to describe how fantastic this was! If I could capture as much emotion and plot in such a short amount of space, I would feel like my life would be infinitely complete, and maybe I wouldn't have to spend 3 or 4 years finishing the first draft of something. ;D

Excellently marvelous job. Well done!! *applauds*

[DuttonJ]

Thanks, A. That really means a lot, but don't sell yourself short. :)
I write short stories because I don't have the dedication to see a novel through. What you do is amazing!

[Marie]

THis is a good story, and it would make more sense if you just leave out that explanation.

[DuttonJ]

Ok, thanks for the advice. :)