The sky was endless void of milky grey swirling above us until it blinked.
Nothing really prepares you for the sight of eyelids spanning beyond the horizon slowly coming together, nor can anything prepare you for the terror that wells up in the back of your throat when you finally notice the pupil staring back down at you, vast and uncaring.
I haven't been able to stop seeing it ever since that night. Whenever I look up at the sky I see its pupil react like it knows that I see it. The eyelids haven't made a reappearance though, and if that's the only positive I can draw from this whole experience then at least it's better than nothing.
The friends who saw it with me - witnessed the sky blink and saw it staring back at us for the first time in their lives - are gone. Nobody's willing to tell me where, nobody's willing to say when they left or if they're still alive. All I know is that out of our group, I'm the only one still here.
Whether they're up in the sky or six feet under - I hope they're out of the sky's sight.
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