with nothing to consider
Byron had appeared in my dreams long before he ever appeared in my waking hours, a boy my age with dark messy hair and aristocratic features. He was striking enough in his dress and mannerisms, but what clung to me most when I awoke were his eyes.
They were large and grey, so pale as to approach white. Completely unseeing. A puckered pink seam ran horizontally through them from one temple, over the bridge of his nose, and then disappearing into his hair.
It never occurred to me, in my dreams, to ask where the scar had come from, and when he came to be real, the scar wasn't there and so faded from my mind except to lurk in nightmares of elemental horrors: burning or drowning or being buried alive as Byron and his terrible scar watched and did nothing.
They were large and grey, so pale as to approach white. Completely unseeing. A puckered pink seam ran horizontally through them from one temple, over the bridge of his nose, and then disappearing into his hair.
It never occurred to me, in my dreams, to ask where the scar had come from, and when he came to be real, the scar wasn't there and so faded from my mind except to lurk in nightmares of elemental horrors: burning or drowning or being buried alive as Byron and his terrible scar watched and did nothing.