This are pearls that were his eyes

Jack threw fricking gravel  at my bedroom window for ten minutes until I put my face in the glass and gave him the finger. It was warm and I remember the smell of the recent rain and how the wildest thing we could think of doing was to crawl down from the bridge and walk along the river. And that's when we found it: dark and waterlogged and strangely, obscenely bluish pockmarked, the dead woman's eyes turned up in some sort of milky-white epiphany.