She looks on into his eyes, which are but hollow caverns. Always have, always ever will be. This is his 1957 model: a perfectly young, milk-skinned boy, no older than seventeen at his Dealing, with soft black hair falling ever so slightly into his cavernous eyes-no eyeballs to see out of, those long since burned out by Death, but everything else was left untouched: his sharp commanding nose and cheekbones. His ears pricking through his ebony hair. His pale lips, pursed into a papery thin line, the only sign of expression on his pallid face.
"You are looking," He intones, snapping her out of her reverie. She sighs and slips her choppy locks back, looks away.
His voice is emotionless, and she wonders if He ever had any emotions before He became who He was.
"I'm sorry. I was...trying..."
"To see into my core-my Essence itself, and understand. Yes, I see."
That's another thing about Him that irks her-the fact that when you look into His core, or in her case, attempt to, He can look b