Optophobia

He stood and watched through his ghastly orange mask, an ecstasy of bug-eyed pouting and ragged breathing, sweat turning the fabric of his coat patchy with dark. She would scoop up the soup or the stew or the risotto, and push away the plate with its blood-printed spoon, wishing she could conceal the cutlery from him and spare her poor hands. But, without fail, he watched her finish each day and he always took everything away that he brought to her.

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