Chapter Text
“What the fuck?”
Not almost shocked, it seems, but actually shocked. As I had just noticed her, I was not really sure as to what she was shocked about. Quite frankly, she could have been there the whole day and I may not have noticed. As striking as her appearance is, the crow was much more so. After having allowed her scooter to fall to the ground, still in the middle of the road—not that it was likely that that would be a bother to anybody—she strode towards me. It was in these moments that I had come to notice the nailed bat she slung across her shoulder. As to why I noticed that part about her last, I could not tell you. Perhaps because it seemed to be the only part of her that was not a bright colour.
While I was aware that her comportment and veneer was entirely abnormal, even with my limited knowledge of and short-sighted observations on life, I found myself being more curious about her than anything. Those bright colours of hers reminded me of a bird. Even if she wasn’t a bird. After taking that line of thought to its natural conclusion, I quietly hummed to myself and decided that I wanted to be a bit more like her. A bit more bird-like, perhaps. Not just in colour, but something about her air was reminiscent of a bird. What that was, I had no clue, but I resolved myself to research the matter.
“What are you doing?”
Her words were aggressive. I wasn’t sure why; I had yet to do anything to her, and in fact this was my first time seeing her. I presumed that due to the fact that she did not know me, yet she acted in such harsh ways, that it was simply a part of her fundamental character. For what other reason could one act brash to strangers? I arrive once again to the realisation that I know nothing of life. Such things I have no interest in, though, so this changed nothing within me and I moved on to formulating my response.
“I’m waiting.” “For what?”
I began to wonder if there is anything in the world I would wait outside for.
“My parents.” “Why?” “So I may return to my room. I have unfortunately fallen out of my window and found myself stranded.”
She sneered at my honest and rational statement and I felt as though she were of another species entirely.
“Yeah, no shit, I saw and heard that. Don’t you have a key or something?”
I shook my head and found myself wondering once again; this time why she demanded so many explanations from me. For what did I need to explain myself? Did I appear to be some suspicious individual by chance? Should I clarify that I am, by no means, a threat nor danger to her nor the world as a whole? I find myself as nothing but a straggler caught in the rain. Such people should be pitied, no?
“So when are your parents going to be back?” I shook my head once more. “Parent. I apologise, I had forgotten my father is dead.” To this, she visibly recoiled, but I continued on. “My mother should return around… I had heard about once a month.”
How long was a month, anyways? In my room, time was something there was no need to keep track of. It was non-linear and moved at my pace. Nothing but a loose series of events bouncing around within those beige walls. In the outside world, though, with every blink existence hurls with unbelievable speed across the limitless space, and yet it also crawls to a stop once you focus your eyes. Fast and slow, both at the same time. It is for paradoxes like these that I try to avoid it as much as possible.
“Wait, hold on, once a month you said?” Her expression, which had slowly been twisting from scorn to disgust, finally settled on a disturbed barring of her teeth.
“Yes.”
Her face froze, mortified, before quickly scrambling into something new.
“Okay. Wait, no—so… So what about those?”
She pointed and gestured at my arm and face. Worrying that there was perhaps something on them, I put my hand to my face once more; only to cover it in a fresh coat of blood which seemed to seep into the little triangular canyons in my skin. Acutely aware of my confusion—her perceptiveness even worrying me to a degree—she stated it to me plainly.
“Your cuts! What are you going to do about your cuts!”
To this, I shrugged.
“When the bandage bursts, you get blood. You just have to believe the wound will heal soon.”
My words seemed to only agitate her further. It is here where I was made acutely aware of my severely lacking social abilities. While I have no intention to speak after this unfortunate encounter, I still find it deeply uncomfortable to be misunderstood. Perhaps it is my constitution, but despite my general dismissal of sociability I still desperately find myself wanting to be understood in my words. Such is another paradox of this outside world. The world to which I am an outsider.
Her face finally settled on the disgust it had been working towards. For a long moment she studied me, her eyes moving up and down as I just sat in the shade, gazing up lazily at her. She then pinched the bridge of her nose. I wondered if she really had a headache. If she didn’t, why would she do such a thing? Of course, while the origins of the action has its roots in relieving tension in the head, I have come to doubt people have headaches this often. I deduced that either this action had come to instead symbolise frustration through a physical social cue, or that I simply do not have as many headaches as others. Have I ever had a headache before? I conclude that my head is simply stronger than others.
“Look—just… C’mon, follow me.”
I find myself rising to my feet. Despite the fact my soles had already planted themselves onto the ground, after a brief line of thought I realised that this really would be quite a bother, and I wouldn’t like to engage with it in its entirety. I did not even know the reason for why I was to trail behind this stranger. I considered briefly asking for the purpose of my actions; but I then came to realise that may be even more of a bother. And thus I followed silently and unquestioning like a good boy. This walk, which was perhaps long or perhaps brief—to this I was not sure—introduced me to many things. I was already tired, and this sudden flood of information led me to feel so exhausted my body tried to sway as if I were a tree in the wind. This, I endured, for what a bother it would be if she took notice of such behaviour. I was to stay meek and silent, I surmised. That was my role in this world. I still took care to note the most interesting of discoveries I had made.
First, was that the outside world bit at the bottom of my feet. Under my bare skin, the dark-grey rivers and their light-grey banks which acted as the veins of the outside whom flowed between houses and trees were coarse and cratered, and small caltraps and spikes seemed to litter their entirety. I felt the urge to step aside and walk instead on the soft grass, but to do so was to cross these imposed lines and break from the stranger’s shadow. Such a thing, I could not do.
Alongside that, despite how ideal the view from the window was, there were still things I could not see from it. Such as the sign next to our mailbox, which a vine had coiled around and seemed to push as it swung and creaked. I attempted to read the red text on the sign, but I was hurried by the stranger’s pace. From what I read, I surmised that it was perhaps a show of vanity, for all I had seen on it was another stranger’s face and a long string of numbers. Even this vanity was in vain, though, as from how I saw it, such an action was in part negated by the disrepair of the sign.
Further down the street were houses I had never seen before. Briefly, this excitement spurred on my nerves and overtook my weariness. I had set out immediately to characterise these too. First, past the ocean-like house, was another house which seemed as edible as the one which neighboured mine. This, too, had citrus-like qualities. Thus, to distinguish the two, I would separate them by which citrus they reminded me of. An orange and a lemon. In order of nearest to farthest from my house. After having crossed the road, the next house reminded me of lettuce. Lettuce, I ate often. Alongside rice and potatoes. It was only natural for my mind to be drawn to that after seeing such a colour combination. The final house, before which we would stop, vexed me. The colours which it presented me were seen only on my book covers. And its texture was porous. Being unable to make any connections; this house remained as all but an enigma to me. I continued to sit before it and try to dig up anything to which it was alike as I was told to “Wait here”.
As the stranger knocked on the door to the house—to my shock and horror—the stranger within answered. This behaviour was unknown to me. Could this stranger, the outside stranger, perhaps also be the one who knocked on my door? Awaiting my opening of its as the inside stranger did? It would explain as to why she was there when I had fallen. And such an interaction made sense, rationally. Doors are meant to be opened. But such a statement is overridden by the axiom of ‘the world outside is suffering’. I then conclude: ‘the inside stranger is a masochist’. One of the inside world, as I, but who has willingly allowed such suffering into her life with a simple knock on her door. But why only when knocked upon? I link myself to her eyes. The outside stranger is birdlike. Perhaps from her window, the inside stranger cannot see any birds. Then, to fill this hole within her, she hurts to chance at chasing birds. I realise that I, too, am the same. Drawn out upon a knock to my window by a crow. I am also a masochist.
Leaning out of the doorway, the inside stranger spoke hurriedly. Especially with the distance, I had quite some trouble parsing her words.
“Huh, Aubrey? What is it?”
The outside stranger took some time formulating what it was she was to say, yet she still stumbled over her tongue.
“Kim, do you have any like, bandaids or gauze or something like that in there? Look, I’ve got this uh… ‘friend’ who got beat up pretty bad.”
The inside stranger snickered and, with a smirk, asked: “You have friends?” She laughed before a voice bellowed from deeper within the house, leading the inside stranger to vomit out a long string of consonants and vowels which had no meaning upon my ear. She then retreated inside, leaving the door open. After a period of waiting she returned; announcing it by throwing something at the outside stranger, which she caught, before slamming the door on her face. This, I realised, was the behaviour of a true sexual deviant. Horror!
I sat, terrified, clinging onto my legs as I imagined myself acting in such a way. Certainly, that was my body and my voice within the inside stranger, but those were not my words. The stranger moved towards me, before having stopped for a moment. I presume she was in thought. After turning her head to look around—in such a way that only further cemented my impression of her as a bird—she then shook her head and made some sort of hand motion. Gesturing towards me, perhaps? I struggle to think of any other target or reason to gesture, but I cannot be sure of anything when it comes to the outside world. So much of what I thought certain has already been jeopardized. I was only able to raise myself up with a concerted effort, mostly fighting the shaking in my bones and the weariness of my flesh. I felt light headed after doing so, but with the stranger steadily pacing away I hurried myself to meld into her back.
She stopped at the crossroads for a moment. I had thought our destination to be certain—but it seemed I was mistaken. She glanced down the street, only to scowl. With another shake of her head, she hurried me along. I had a feeling she did not want to be seen. I thought the same. What a bother it is.
I felt a wave of relief wash over me as my house came into view. I then remembered that I was stranded, but even so, waiting patiently on the doorstep is preferable to all of this anxious movement. Placed upon my doorstep once more, she set my back against the door and revealed what the inside stranger had given her. It was a red box with a white cross on it. She laid it on the ground next to us and set to opening it. Before removing anything from within the box, she grabbed my right arm and hissed through her teeth looking at it. This, I could not understand.
She started by dabbing a wet cloth on the gash. It tingled a bit, I thought. It was a queer feeling. Like moving your arm after it had fallen asleep. She then produced a roll of a cotton like material before cutting out a strip, measuring it to be just a bit longer than the wound on my arm. It was cuffed to my body like a restraint with tape. It was not long before I began to see red seep through the white. With another wet cloth in hand, she leaned in and started work on my face. I took this moment to closely examine hers. While I had spent much of the time with my eyes upon her back, I found that—as is it with many things—it was her front which was more appealing to look at. Her features were attractive, I found. Even while wracked with concern and perhaps anxiety. I thought to how I must look to her, and came to realise I did not know how I look. Never did I turn on the lights in the washroom, and with a case of nyctalopia and no other available mirrors, I realise that I am but a body without a face; at least to my knowledge. I focus on my reflection in her eyes. It is hard, at first, for I find her eyes mesmerising. They remind me of the feathers of those blue birds which I sometimes come to see all year round. But once I had moved past that, I came to see that I, too, have a face.
It was in her eyes and on that doorstep had I realised that I am a physical apparatus. That I am a 기구.
It was only after that long moment had I realised she had stopped moving her hands. The moment having ended with her averting her eyes and hastily moving back. Putting my hand to my face, I felt some fabric like cloth taped to it. And then I wondered. For what was that all for? I struggled to understand why she had dragged me up and down and across roads just to bring me back and staple some scraps to my body. What did she have to gain from this? There was no reason to do such a thing. All it had done was bury the feeling of my skin. In fact, it was a bit of a bother. I felt that when I returned to my room, I would remove these and return to a more bare and comfortable way of life. Since I had nothing to do but wait, I had set my mind on trying to reason what was this stranger’s reason for such an act. Before I could, though, the stranger who—to my surprise—had not left, interrupted my thought.
“So… uh… when was the last time you ate, exactly?”
I wanted to sigh, but I held myself back. Such a question was as difficult to unravel as the one I was already processing. Time was a foreign concept to me. How was I to answer satisfyingly? I could not even guess, for I had no reference for what was reasonable. Year, week, day, hour, month, second, decade, minute… How am I to translate my existence to hers? To translate ‘inside’ into ‘outside’? I ate when I last felt I needed to. I feel I need to on whims. I am never hungry. Perhaps I don’t even need food. I have never tested this hypothesis, though. I settled on a shrug.
“Well, how about I buy you some Gino’s or something?”
She opened her mouth as if to say something more, before having stopped herself. This validated my actions, I felt. Withholding words is a common courtesy of the outside world. Why she withheld hers, I also did not know. So many things I do not know. Did she feel it would be a bother to say those words? Whatever she had said, I would not make a fuss. There is nothing she could do to make me bothersome. Does she know this? I have tried my best not to be a bother so far. Or perhaps it is typical to expect bothersome things from the outside world. This, I do already. I expected this proposition to be a bother too, so I intended to refuse. Instead, I found myself being dragged along again.
We entered the clearing the stranger once scowled at. I wonder why she brought me here so lightheartedly when she so clearly avoided it earlier. What change has there been in such a short time? So many questions whirl around my head as we enter one of the doors of the large building. The stench of grease instantly assaults my senses. I keep my eyes on the checkered table cloth as my head spins. The stranger asked me a question, but in my haze I sputtered out some non-answer. She then brought us what I could only presume to be food. It looked revolting. She encouraged me to eat, and I suddenly remembered why it was a bother not to. Oh, what luxuries I have found myself robbed of. All to chase a bird. I grabbed a slice and shovelled it down my throat. Another is scarfed up. And again. And again. I ate my fodder like a pig. Or a hen. And it was done. I found myself rather relieved at its finality.
She asked if I wanted some fresh air after that. I nodded as eagerly as I could in my deeply fatigued state. I was led outside, and then I came to and felt as if I was going to peel my skin off and seep into the cracks in the pavement. I tapped her shoulder, and she turned her head over to gaze at me. “What’s up?” she asked. “Please, if you may, give me a moment.” I would respond. And then I shuffled off. Placed my hand against a tree. And gave up the contents of my stomach to the ground.