Sprawled out on the table is everything I will need: two bipolar forceps, three ophthalmic hooks, multiple surgical punches, a medical stapler, surgical needles and thread, curved surgical scissors, surgical screws and screwdriver, and, of course, a phaco chopper. All my instruments are clean and pristine; I’m ready to begin.
            My daughter stares up at me from the metal table and pulls at the belts around her wrists and ankles. When she fails to break loose, and gives up trying to move her stapled lips, a tear rolls down her cheek.
            “No, my darling. Please do not cry,” I whisper as I cup her face with my shaking hands, “this is for the best. Well, I guess not yours, but it is in my best interest.” I gently kiss my little girl’s forehead as I reach under the table for the Restrictor.
            I am actually quite proud of the Restrictor. It’s my invention for specific instances, such as this, because any slight movements can ruin our chances of completing this ritual.  The Restrictor consists of a plastic circle that can be buckled around the head and leather straps that cover the boned parts of the face and skull. Attached to these leather straps are surgical screws. I use strips of duck tape over her forehead and chin to secure her head to the table.
           I hold the Restrictor over her face, making sure it is in the right place. A tiny miscalculation and the whole ceremony will be ruined; she must stay alive during the extraction. I balance the screws on her face and wheel over my cart. Tiny droplets of blood trickle form where the screws sit on her flesh. They remind me of something, but I can’t place my finger on it, and I’m far too excited to care.
          Grabbing the surgical screwdriver, I hover over the screw that is attached to the strap on the highest part her nose between her eyes. Without looking at her eyes or mouth for validation, I start to turn the screw slowly into her skull. Careful not to insert it at a slant, I carefully drive it into her face while she makes muffled noises. After this screw is complete, and the leather strap is securely fastened to the middle of her face, I work on the screw on her chin. The chin is a bit more difficult because it isn’t flat and if I hit an unstable tooth, the whole operation could be compromised.
          As I work my way around her face, making sure the Restrictor will work to the best of its ability, I notice my daughter’s eyes. Foggy from tears, her eyes scream for help. This angers me. Doesn’t she know how much I do for her? Doesn’t she understand that this is the only thing I asked of her? Frustrated and disappointed in her, I throw the screwdriver onto the cart and grab the medical stapler. Using the end of the contraption, I slam the screws into her skin, through the muscle, and into her skull. If she is not fully invested in this, then there is no point in my making sure a blood vessel isn’t burst until after the ceremony. If she lives, that’s swell, and if she dies, I have other daughters at home.
          With the Restrictor performing its duties, and small streams of blood and tears swirling together onto the table, I decide it is time to inform the others that I am almost ready to begin the ceremony.
          “Sisters and Brothers,” I bellow into the echoing cement structure, “the time for our redemption is almost upon us.” I hear the shuffling of feet, the dragging of cloaks, and the whispering of prayers.
          Excited, I grab an ophthalmic hook and look into my daughter’s eyes, “Listen, girl, don’t you know that I’ve devoted my whole life to you? Well, now it’s your turn to do the same for me.”
          Careful not to scratch the cornea, I pull back the eyelid with the hook and watch how it makes her eye bulge. One of my fellow Sisters hands me the medical stapler as I stretch the eyelid as far back as I could without ripping the corners of the eye or puncturing the flesh. I bring the stapler in front of my daughter’s eye and look straight into it as I press down, releasing the metal staple. A silent scream is trapped inside my daughter’s throat as I add two more staples. Slowly, I edge the hook out and place my instruments onto the cart.
          My Brother places a hand on my shoulder, and I know I’ve done good work. He hands me my cloak, which is crispy to the touch and gives off the scent of used surgical gloves. I swing the fabric around my shoulders and fasten the clasp around my neck. I turn towards the others as I lift the hood onto my head.
          “It is our time to claim what is rightfully ours… time itself!” I belch to my followers as they nod their heads and mumble “time itself” along with me.
          I grab the phaco chopper from the cart, which feels pleasantly cool to the touch. I stand over my daughter, “You should be honored to be a part of this moment that will change our history forever! It is your sacrifice that will bring a new world order to this decaying society we are a victim to.”
          Waiting for my hands to stop shaking, I lower the phaco chopper to the edge of my daughter’s iris. Her muted pleads ring in my ear as I gaze at the speckle of emerald in her hazel eyes. Ready to take what I deserve, I dive the phaco chopper into her cornea, piercing the ciliary muscle. I am careful not to harm her pupil or iris. Slicing through her vitreous humor, I follow the edge of her hazelnut ocean and cut deep enough to keep the lens in tact.
          Without force or fast movement, I remove the phaco chopper from her eye and swap it with the bipolar forceps on the cart. With one in each hand, I gently lift the severed muscle from my daughter’s eye and watch the intraocular fluid drip from it onto her bloodied face. I place this new relic into the ceremonial bowl that has been used in every eternal youth ritual since the dark ages. But, today, it will work. Today we will be able to do what our ancestor’s couldn’t.
          On the metal table, my daughter’s body convulses and blood pools from her eye and puncture wounds down the legs of the table onto the stained stone floor. I watch the life escape from her body as she takes her last breath. I close her eyelid that wasn’t stapled and lay a handkerchief over her face, so that the other eye can be covered as well. I kiss her clothed forehead and tell myself, “At least she died doing what I wanted.”
          When I turn around, I see my Brothers and Sisters huddling over our key to a better life: the eye of a youth. I grab the surgical punches off the cart and join my companions in a circle around the ceremonial bowl. We waste no time celebrating or praying. Each member holds their left hand palm up, ready for the next step. I begin the ritual because, after all, it was my daughter who was sacrificed. I hold my palm out and chant our chosen Psalm, “The Thirteenth Article of Faith of the Church [A of F 1:13]”, from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

“If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report
or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.”

As I recite, I take the surgical punches and place the distal tip in the center of my palm. With the chanting of the final word “things”, I press down on the lever. Two tiny scalpels carve a perfectly round incision into my palm. I hold my hand over the ceremonial bowl, and slowly let the steaming blood drip from the cut onto the ritual eye. The green-brown of the iris starts to turn a murky black coffee color. Each member repeats this chant and action.
            Once the eye is soaking in the blood of all the believers, I sit down on the ceremonial throne, which is made from the pelvic bones of our ancestors in order to channel a fertile soul for our Lord cast down from heaven. The eldest of the group, one of my dear Brothers, rolls the cart over to the throne and places the ceremonial bowl upon it. It is time for my most important and difficult job yet.
            For one to obtain eternal youth, the eye covered in blood must be sewn onto a true believer’s own eye in order to obtain clarity and vision on how to create a more powerful species of humans. My Sisters and Brothers surround me as the eldest uses the bipolar forceps to lift the eye out of the bowl. I tilt my head back and open my eyes wide, ready to receive this honor.
            I feel the mound of jelly enter my eye and I lose my sight. I grip the throne, digging my nails into the splintering bones, as I prepare for the next step. My Brother suddenly inserts a needle into my sclera at an angle and pushes it through a hole right next to the first. The pain surges through my veins, making every cell in my body scream. But I have to remain calm, for, I didn’t want to seem weak and unthankful to my Lord. So I used this fuel to site the agreed upon ceremonial Psalm, “Resurrectional Kathismata”, from The Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America,

“The Angel standing at the sepulcher cried out and said to the
ointment-bearing women: ‘The ointments are appropriate for
mortal men, but Christ has been shown to be a stranger to decay.
So go and cry aloud, “The Lord has risen”’ and granted the
world His great mercy.”

Through every stitch, drop of blood, and agonizing pain, I repeat this chant louder and louder, until I am screaming it at the top of my lungs. The words bounce off the cement walls and gather in the corners; it sounds as if an entire cult is in the room.
            When the elder finishes the last stitch and knots the string, I am given the ceremonial bowl that is still filled with the blood of the believers. To fully devote myself to this cause, I must drink the mixture. I gulp the blood excessively and watch as it drips down my neck onto my cloak.
            As I place the bowl down, a tingling sweat flows through my body and I become so light headed I fall backwards onto the bloodied floor. My eye, well, and my daughter’s eye, starts to burn. It is as if the pits of hell shrunk and moved to live in my pupils. This paralyzing burning sensation takes my last ounce of energy and I fully submit to my ruler.
            I feel a rumbling in my chest, then in my throat, and hear the words of another person escape my mouth,

“Oh, you have drunk my soul. Mine is your glow, in truth.
My jewel, shine your fill. Glow, blood of youth.”*

My Brothers and Sisters bow down when they hear their wish come true from the disembodied voice of our Lord cast down from heaven.
            With the words “blood of youth” echoing in my head, I am suddenly given my sight back.
            And what I saw next, I can’t explain.

– Skyler Metviner

Author’s Note: “The Eye of the Beholder” focuses on the power our beliefs and traditions have over us, as well as the type of relationships we form throughout our life. With some scientific terms, and a bunch of gore, this eerie tale explores the desire humans have for obtaining eternal life and the lengths at which we will go to get it.