I only have two eyes. But yes they are black. I can dilate them rather more than a human eye does, and due to the fact that the colored part of my eye is a bit larger than a human’s, and that I have a bit more muscle control around the lid area, I can make it appear as if my eyes are completely black. This isn’t an adaptation we developed to frighten your species, in case you wondered. I reckon it helps us see in the dark. It’s most obvious when I’m in the dark and am unconscious of it, and so I think that is the connection.
I once scared the absolute shit out of one of those cinema ushers. Back in the forties, I believe it was. Late forties, early fifties. I was in one of those B rated horror films, the sort that had a name that began with “The” and ended in a -er, and the audience consisted of myself and a group of rowdy teenagers in the back row and a few other couples.
I didn’t mind the teens, because part of the fun of watching a film, for me, is the audience participation. However, someone else evidently was annoyed by them and so went into the lobby and asked an usher to come in and see to them. They came in and walked back to the teens and had a stern talk with them. The teens fell silent. The usher then quietly walked back the length of the theater stopping beside each chair where someone was and politely apologizing.
This was a different time, you see.
When he got to me, in the more forward rows, He stopped beside me. At the time, I was living as a woman, and it wasn’t terribly common to see a lady at the theater alone at night. He no doubt approached me thinking he was being chivalrous and wanted to be flirtatious or something. I don’t know. He said something to get my attention just as a particularly graphic bit of violence was happening (graphic for the time, mind you) and I was laughing. I turned my head, and I must have looked a sight, because he leapt back about four feet, stammered, and trotted the hell out of Dodge.
When I left the theater, he was backed up beside a wall, watching the patrons leave like he was searching for a witch in a Spanish plaza. When he looked at me, I smiled pleasantly and asked him to walk me to my car.
The look on his face! He was sweating like a sponge and stammering! Finally, his manager stepped in and offered to walk me, shooting the poor boy dead with a glare.
We monsters do love our little tricks, eh?
I can’t help it. What’s the point of living forever and being me if I can’t have fun with it?