Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Have you ever heard of a taxidermied child? I find myself soundly lost. Even suffering is lavish at a time like this.

Is it only when the cast is broken does the mind bloom into colour? Light pours into my eyes, drawn long into a baton-like shape, and a ball of paper crumples open behind them. On it, I put down stray thoughts and feelings that I could perhaps see only through a time machine. They fall like 바둑 stones in antifreeze, or petals in May. It is a terrible confession, heard not even by myself.

안녕히 계세요. You might even find yourself lusting over the same drivel you toss aside; it takes a certain wit to love what you hate most at the turn of a coin and…

It is worthwhile attempting to shatter yourself. Your pieces would be more sharp and distinct than the readymade maximalism of conglomerates you will never come to see.

Please, if at all possible, push away the 20th century from your mind. The spirit of Camus is easily lost in the business of a day before tomorrow. And when it comes to, should we let life sedate with ‘즐거움’ just because it’s reflected in the eyes of another? Warm upon my back, light is not implicit in the sun, and it burns. Yet don’t seek inferno. I pick at the embers. 

I tell you this in hopes you will not be angry at me. I tell you this…

Melancholy is an expression of a ‘성질’. (I’m not sure if it is just facets of this 성질 which I find myself pointing out.) When this 성질 festers into being and entirety, that is when one ceases sight and way and it develops into ‘심술’. A fugue stupor may not be suppressed, I surmise, but instead should be split open and drained like a cyst or an abscess. 

In view of my entirely ordinary experience, I goad myself into such a statement.

A corpse and a madman—among the billions swarming around me, is there any who is not masochistic? Pardon. Is it an insult, my theory that you are dead? 안녕히 계세요.

The structure of the house is like any other ninety-degrees off the road.

Here, they are lined up in neat, identical rows. Their shape and structure all mirror each other twice over. Differences are found only in colour and care. Though even that is not assured. Identities are built off of qualities and imperfections. All can be said to be artificial.

I suppose the same could be said for those who live within these houses. Here, they raise children. So that one day these children may have houses of their own. Still young, most of their time is spent chasing normalcy. Do they not already have it? I have not found mine, so I would not know.

The air is cut through only by the occasional rattling or rumbling or humming of a passing car. Those which pass by must see everything blend into a muddy mess. Those who stop most often find themselves lost in patterns.

The differences are what interest me the most. I look down and out from my window upon my spire and try to characterise each house as best as I can from what each provides. To my side is the edible one. Of course, the house in itself is not edible, it just seems to replicate edibility, if that even is possible. Porous and with a distinct rind, sometimes I wonder why it has yet to rot. The answer is always immediately obvious.

Past that house is another which is more similar to mine in character, at least from the similarities I can make out from my window. It seems saline in nature. In my mind’s eye I can see a shore just below its foundation. I can’t see well past that second house, so I roll my gaze from down the street to up against the horizon. 

The ones further up are queer, only their brightly coloured roofs sticking out above the trees. From what I can tell, they vary only in colour, whether they have a chimney, and in quality. One house in particular is especially run down. The chips in its roof’s edges puzzle me. I can only wonder how they came to form. Sometimes, I wish I could speak to it, so it could tell me its story. Actually, not just the roof. The mundane stories behind objects fascinate me to no end. I wish I could speak to all objects. Nicks and scratches tell so much and so little at the same time.

My wish to speak extends only to objects, though. I speak to nobody. Except perhaps myself, but thought is equivalent to speech in the same way that trees are equivalent to paper. That is to say, not at all. Without semantics, that is. A conversation with myself is not much of a conversation as much as it is a long line of deliberation. I split myself into parts and try to smash them against each other so that a proper thought may rattle out of my head. At other times, I run words through my shut mouth until I am able to form a coherent sentence.

I do not have much opportunity to talk with others, anyways. No, perhaps I do. There is always opportunity to do practically anything. There is never a moment for someone to speak to me. I am seen by nobody, except in especially chance encounters which always end silently and abruptly. I do not leave my house, and my world is confined to one window and nine rooms. Though, very rarely do I explore the other eight rooms available to me. Apart from the one in my room, all of the windows are kept shut and shuttered. As for why, I do not know. Nor do I really mind. 

My room is where I spend a large majority of my time. Not for any particular reason, other than that it’s where my bed is housed. The mattress lies on the floor, opposite of the door. I had a bed frame once. Though I don’t remember where it’s gone. Lining the rest of the sparse wall, with the window separating them from the mattress, are my bookshelf and wardrobe. 

My wardrobe features only a spare few garments woefully attempting to split the space within. I wear only track pants and t-shirts. All of my pants are black, and all but one of my shirts are also black. I do not receive new clothes often. In fact, I have not received new clothes in quite some time. While I do not have any preference for black clothing, they seem to last the longest and to look the most passable even when never washed. So, all I am left with is a short series of near identical black clothing, alongside one white shirt. This does not bother me, though. My clothing is comfortable and thus raises me no concerns. 

I used to receive new clothes often, but that was quite some time ago. That was due to my seemingly never ending growth. This growth was a slight yet constant annoyance at the time. Having to account and adapt to it was bothersome. That was around the time when I ate lavishly. Or perhaps lavishly is not the right word. I ate more than I do now, though that was not due to anything other than happenstance.

It was quite a while ago. When I was brought food consistently; several times a day, I believe. I simply ate it all, because it was a bother if I didn’t. I don’t remember why it was a bother, I just remember shoveling it all down my throat to avoid the annoyance. Now I am brought much less food. Sometimes none. I don’t care much for the change, because I’m never hungry. I have noticed that I have stopped growing, though. And that my bones have become more prominent. This is discerned only when I try to sleep, for I have to shift from side to side to ease the pain in my joints.

The bookshelf holds only two books. That is to say, there are only two books left. One is almost a complete husk, with more than half of its pages torn out, and the other is still relatively complete. That’s because one of them is a piano textbook, with coated paper, while the other was once a novel. The coated paper of the textbook bores me. It takes no shape but a careless mimicry of its folds, and yet it still can never return to its original form. It can neither hold down a change, nor discard of a crease. It cannot even tear properly. Thus, it is useless to me. Perhaps even less than useless. If I have any concerns in my life, they are in regard to this paper. This is because playing with paper is one of my main recreations. 

I tear a page from a book, and with this paper I do many things. First, I hold it up to the sunlight pouring in from my window so that its words may show themselves to me in their mirrored disposition. I then try to read the words on the other side of the page through the side facing me. I have gotten quite good at this. I have been doing this for as long as I can be bothered to remember, so this serves as no surprise. 

When I tire of this, often after reading both sides several times in this fashion (I refuse to read the pages properly), I move on to the destructive phases of my play. In my mind, I begin by breaking down the page into paragraphs. I try to derive their structure and purpose. While incomplete, each feels like a step, an isolated leap towards understanding. Then I split these paragraphs into sentences. I run their words through my sealed lips to feel as they flow over my tongue. Their pace arouses many different feelings within me. Most feelings are pleasant. Pleasant like the feeling of running my fingers over my laminated wood floor. Afterwards, I break these sentences down into words. Every word carries weight, though some more than others. From these words I gaze within myself to see what each word elicits from my subconscious self. I analyse the significance and subtext of each word, only to put them back together and see how these associations form the essence of the sentence, paragraph, and page. 

Once I have meticulously broken the page down to its every constituent, I move on to the final stage. Sometimes I fold it in many queer ways. Other times I leave it as it is. Most often, I tear it into pieces. Almost every time, the ritual starts with raising myself from the floor; it is rare for me not to be on the floor during the first two parts of the process. I then move towards the window, most of the time just taking a single step forwards towards it, and I then throw the page—or whatever is left of it—out into the air beyond. I watch as it flutters in the wind in a million different ways. My eyes follow it for as long as it is within sight of the window, or until it touches the ground and rests still. From the moment it leaves my fingers until it has already reached far beyond my world and lay itself to rest, I am so enchanted by this short spell of transcendence that the disappointment of its landing almost seems to kill me every time. Truly, the most profoundly pleasurable part of the process is the act of destroying the page to then give it flight.

This, I have done thousands of times. From the moment I wake until the sun no longer gives me its light to read, all of my time is spent repeating this ceremony. When the sun has set, I then move to sleep. And thus my routine marches on for one more day. Other than this, there is little I have that could be said to be a consistent recreation. The scenery outside my window changes little, and no longer presents me anything new. And while my room was once more populated with belongings, they have all disappeared. I vaguely remember, in a half-asleep haze, seeing my mother drag out an appliance or piece of furniture while I lay in bed. This has only been a mild worry to me. I have found little use for all that which she has taken from me. After all, I have no need for anything, really. Some days, especially recently now that I have nearly run out of books, I let the hours pass as I simply just stare out of the window. On these days, I think to myself that I could survive in this room with nothing. It is not uncommon for me to sleep on the floor, so I really could do away with the mattress. And I change very rarely. I have worn my current set of clothes for what feels to be years. Thus, in an empty room, I feel I would find little change from my current situation. It is at times like these that I feel that my current furniture is in fact more of a nuisance than anything. I wish that my mother would come once again in the night and whisk away what is left within my room, leaving me alone in my barren paradise. All I have want of are more books with proper paper and my window. Even these, I don’t feel I need. In a dusky, sealed off chamber I have no doubt I would still find myself content. In fact, perhaps I might find myself more content than I find myself now.

Despite my near perfect situation, the human world which I have shunned for so long still seems to try to creep into my own little world. Once, a long time ago, it was my mother who would knock thrice a day, once for every meal she would bring me. These interruptions annoyed me profoundly, for they seem to always come far too often and always at the worst moments. My serenity would be shattered for food which I did not care for, yet it would find itself in even more peril if I had not accepted her white elephants. 

That was not nearly as bad as that day, though. The constant sound of metal on wood would find its way up into my room and made itself unbearable all-throughout the hours. I could barely hear my own thoughts, and sleep would not find me for as long as it would reverberate in the walls. When it finally stopped I felt relief deep in my heart, a relief so cleansing I found it within myself to leave my room. This was the only time I had done so before recently. So exhausting was it, having to endure that pounding upon my ears and head, that I found myself hungry; the only time I remember being so. I do not remember the feeling of being hungry, though. Only that I was. The memory is from that long ago. I shambled out of my room and down the stairs. I faintly remember being afraid of heights once. Was I afraid of other things as well? I cannot remember. From the bottom of the stairs I made way to the kitchen. Though, I would not make it. In the living room was my father, hanging from the ceiling fan. I don’t remember what came to be after that. All I know is that following this a lot less came to bother me. 

For a long while, my world came to a serene stop. There was no more knocking, nor any noise apart from the dull purring of the world around. Despite the fact I was left properly alone, my routine still continued off-sync of the world around mine. Mostly just because I had become accustomed to it. I still make use of the bathroom only in the earliest hours of the morning, before the sun has time to even approach the night sky. While this ideal state had continued for a long while, things have changed, both slowly and abruptly. The meals which I once found waiting for me when I awoke had moved just beyond my door, before disappearing entirely. This disappearance is the reason for my recent movement beyond my room. Alongside that, there comes an incessant knocking every so often. Thankfully, it comes from the front door, so it is not too hard to ignore; though it is annoying at times. What is perhaps most annoying are the periods in which the house has no power nor water. While I do not mind having to fast, the change in temperature is deeply irritating. My room, which usually composes itself at an optimal temperature–neither too cold nor too hot–suddenly finds itself either freezing or smothering. While never serious enough to cause me any concern, I still prefer the days in which the house conducts itself properly. Thankfully, those ideal days outnumber the unideal. 

Unfortunately, I find myself in a period of these off-days. This seasonal unpleasantry is subsided by a seasonal pleasantry, though. As I reserve what little I have left upon the bookshelf, I turn my mind instead to perhaps my favourite pastime. The only thing to truly pierce through the still air of my room are the songs of birds. I watch these birds with rapt attention. They perch and move and sing and fly as they please. They are like the pages of my books if they never fell to the ground. Colourful. Dull. Small. Large. I watch the little birds form rows on powerlines. I watch the medium birds fly from height to height, constantly shifting their gazes around. I watch large birds soar high up in the sky, tracing an invisible circle in the atmosphere. In my tower, where nobody else can reach, my only visitors are the birds. Sometimes, I sit up against the far wall from the window. I sit so still and so quietly that, every once in a long while, a bird perches upon my windowsill. Mesmerised, I hold my breath as the bird snaps its head around on a swivel, as it lifts a wing to ruffle the feathers beneath with its beak, as its head bobs up and down and it sings its song. If I were to be anything but what I am now, I would choose to be a bird. But as my life is already perfect; it suffices just to watch. Though I do sometimes try to catch them. It is always a fruitless effort, after all they have wings and there is no way for me to lunge across the room in time to grasp one within my hands, and no bird would land within arms reach as I lean out the window. Despite this futility cutting my time watching the bird short, I continue to do so. The prospect of growing closer with these beings which I can only watch wistfully as they trot about the mundane is irresistible. There seems to be something implicit within my constitution which yearns to chase the contrails of such unreachable things.

It was on a day like this when I was hanging out of my window and the sun was high up in the sky. It was around the time where days drag on long and seem to muddle into each other. The whole air of it all made me want nothing more than to start work on a long nap. But I had just awoken, so such a thing would be challenging. So instead I chose the window. The air felt cool on my face and all was quiet. All that fell upon my ears were the rustling of trees and the whispers of the wind. Perhaps it was this exceptional silence that brought upon me an exceptionally rare occurrence. I had not set my mind on being especially still, and I had no thoughts of birds for there were none around, yet, all of sudden, on the crown of the roof below my window and within arms reach, a crow had perched. I had not even known I was in its presence until it had placed itself before me. Never had I even seen a crow before in my long time spent gazing from this window. For a moment, all I could do was but watch as its jet black feathers glistened in the sun. At first, it was facing me and my window. I watched as its head twitched around. Then, it locked its gaze squarely onto me and tilted its head. Was I the one observing it, or was it observing me? All I had known at the moment was that it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It then ruffled its wings before turning its back to me. In this, I saw an opportunity I could not let slip. I steeled my resolve and moved to hold my breath, before realising it was already being held. And I lunged.

With a swift hop the crow slipped beyond my grasp, but it was already too late; I could not stop my momentum. Pain bloomed across the left side of my face as I rolled down the roof’s slant. In a futile attempt to regain control, as I fell off the roof entirely I extended an arm to grab it; resulting only in a rusty downspout tearing a large gash in its side. And thus my back hit the hard ground, with my head only narrowly missing the hedge in front of the dining room window. After a short moment, I moved to raise myself up only to find my right arm failing me. Placing my left hand upon it, it drew a distinct red line across my palm. Placing the back of my hand on my face resulted in a similar outcome, though drawing a ㅜ instead. Sat upright, I sighed and looked back up to the roof where I had fallen. My window doors, still open, shook and swayed gently in the wind, and from the sill the crow continued to gawk at me. Almost as if it had taken my place. Despite the unfortunate turn of events, I could not find it in me to hold any disdain for the crow. Without the need for careful deliberation, I knew that this was entirely the product of my impulsive and irrational behaviour. Almost seeming to pity me—after raising myself to my feet and lifting my gaze to it once more—it cawed and took flight. With a quick flap of its wings it had vanished into the air and sky above, and right behind it my window slammed shut—as if the crow closed it as it left. 

I moved quickly to the front door. While unfortunate, I had no intention to dwell on my folly. I planned to return to my room immediately. Both to ruminate on my newly collected memories of the crow, and also due to the fact that the whole escapade had already worn me out. I had no issue with the brightness of the sun from my window, yet now without the darker corners of my room to retreat to, it came to feel quite a bit more irritating. I squinted and covered my eyes with my open hand, viewing the world only through my right eye and between my fingers. Eventually I had to drop my hand, but that was only once I had reached the door. With my shadow upon it and the doormat, the light was not so intolerable. What I did find intolerable, though, was the unfortunate fact that the door was locked. And that I had no key. I never needed one, for I never left my house, so there was no use feeling miserable over things which I could not change. With another sigh, I resigned myself to my fate and sat down with my back against the door; hoping only that my mother or father would return home soon and allow me back to my room. 

And then I remembered that my father is dead. I thought to myself that never had I sighed so much in my life.

Now, a bit less disoriented by the bright sun, I open my eyes and look across the street, only to have my view blocked by somebody on the road looking back at me. At this, I tried to recall when the last time someone had set their gaze upon me was. I remember encountering my mother when I moved to use the bathroom, which was some time ago, but other than that I could think of no time that another human had me set within their sights. Not even from my window did anybody look at me. So isolated was my room that even in an eternity not a single person would see me looking down from it. Such was the absolute luxury the room gave me. Though, due to my extensive imprudence, I found myself deprived of this. I felt almost naked under her gaze. Speaking of her, she stood perfectly still in the middle of the street, one foot on the ground and one still on her scooter. Her pink hair flowed serenely in the wind, and her cyan eyes were transfixed on me, seeming almost shocked. And then she had opened her mouth.

“What the fuck?”

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.

Chapter Text

Concern and worry flashes across her face, and I wonder if this is the same stranger who scowled at me an eternity and a now and a yesterday ago. I’m exhausted. But it was at that moment where I threw the fodder from my mouth to the ground that I realised something. For what reason does the stranger do these things to me other than pleasure? There must be some sort of pleasure in these acts. Pleasure… pleasure… 즐거움… What kind of pleasure, how it felt, or even how it came from such acts was a mystery to me. I could not discover it, I surmised, without doing such acts myself. But that would be a bother. Despite my general disinterest with everything else, I found myself unexpectedly engrossed in that joy which I could not know. Perhaps, I thought, if the opportunity ever arises I would do research into this 즐거움. 

As I mulled over this, she led me into the forest. I felt that she could kill me here, and nobody would know. I think to myself for a moment and realise that I could die at any time and it’s likely nobody would realise. Such is my existence. I think to myself that perhaps dying here would not be all that bad. I am tired, and would appreciate the rest. She took a seat at the end of the pier and I stood next to her, at least until she grabbed my wrist and pulled me down. 

“So, Sunny…”

It disturbed me that this stranger knew my name. I was almost shocked into movement. Almost. 

“What’s… Like, just, what? Why? What’s happened to you? Where have you been all this time?”

Another deluge of questions. But this time she spoke with pity. It was a lot less accusatory. I still could not find myself comfortable with them, though.

“I’ve been in my room.”

“The whole time? You haven’t left it for thr—four years straight?”

I nod. She placed her palm to her temple and seemed to push it in until she was leaning back. Her expression seemed utterly lost. I understood somewhat how she felt. She was an outsider being introduced to the inside world. As I am an insider being introduced to the outside world. Such things do not overlap.

“So, like—have you been eating? And your—Yeah wait, you said your dad was dead?”

I shrug.

“I ate when I felt I needed to. And I had found my father hanging from the ceiling one day. Such as it was.”

She looked at me with a stare that held a million questions. I did not want to answer more, but it’d be a bother if I didn’t. I could not understand why she wanted to understand me so completely. I did not flood her with questions. 

“Okay…”

She breathed deeply.

“You at least remember who I am though, right, Sunny?”

I stared at her blankly. I didn’t know how I was to respond. The streets and houses and food were all as familiar to me as she was. Her face falls before she speaks again.

“Sunny, it’s me. Aubrey. Remember? We used to play together as kids? With Basil and Kel?”

The names she throws at me roll over my mind and tumble to the floor. I do not remember these hypothetical strangers, either.

“Hero! Mari! We had picnics together, don’t you remember?! You—you helped me find my sh—”

“I remember Mari.”

How could I forget? She was my sister after all. Though not by choice, I suppose. I didn’t have any particular feelings about Mari. I hung her. I remember that. As for why, I do not remember. It was simply something that happened. A stale memory in my head. A remnant of when I, too, was part of the outside world. It’s all that’s left of the outside world. A blemish or scar upon my skin. Mari’s gone now, so any feelings I could have for her don’t matter, I think to myself. 

“Well—of course you do, but—”

She seemed deeply agitated. I did not understand why. I could not understand what I had said that would offend the stranger. Or was it Aubrey? Aubrey. No matter how many times I repeat it, the name seems unfamiliar. Aubrey brought herself to her feet. I felt I needed to mirror the action.

“So what? You locked yourself in your room day and night and just forgot about the rest of us? Was it nice? Living in your own little bubble? Forgetting about the rest of us in your little paradise?”

I could not tell if these were questions she wanted me to answer. I mean, questions are meant to be answered, right? I nod tentatively.

She scoffed.

“What?”

I shrug.

“It was nice. Is nice. My room is nice.”

She seemed almost shocked by my words before reeling herself back in.

“You’re a fucking psycho. So none of it mattered to you? Us? Your friends? The time we spent together? After that you just stopped thinking of us entirely?”

I shrugged again and accompanied it with a nod. She looked disgusted. I didn’t find myself or my words disgusting.

“Don’t you care at all about what we went through? The fact that we suffered while you were sitting up in your room like none of it mattered in the slightest? Wait—do you… Do you even care that Mari killed herself?”

Mari didn’t kill herself, I thought to myself. But whatever, I suppose. I shook my head. I had no cares in the world.

Shock rocked through my head and I almost fell to the ground before I caught myself. Was it lightning? An earthquake? Divine retribution? I look at her. Ah, no, I thought. She had punched me. It was an interesting experience. And it looked as if it wouldn’t be my only time. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you! Mari—your sister… And you—! You—!”

I opened my mouth to explain myself, but she interrupted me by punching me again. I began to think I was too tired to hold myself steady after every one. I planned to just let the next one take me to the ground.

“You left us all behind! Didn’t even think about us! Just abandoned us like we were trash! Why! Doesn’t any of it matter to you?! To anybody?! Anybody but me?!”

I was moved once more, and this time I had let myself be carried by the force. But, there was no ground under me. I thought to myself that I am a bit foolish. Not a bit. Really foolish. First I chase birds. And then I forget we were on a pier. I sank into the water like a stone. A 바둑 stone.

The world grows quiet; sound, numb. The way that it is with water. And being submerged. I wonder as to why this ‘feels’ familiar. I ‘feel’ something well up within me like the bubbles in my plaster walls. But it remains elusive to me. Like birds. And also like the bubbles within my plaster walls.

I think to myself that perhaps I was right. I really was to be killed in this forest. Killed? Is this a murder? Murder is disagreeable. People struggle when they are murdered. I speak from experience. I find this act of dying more or less agreeable. I am to die in this forest.

I open my eyes and rays of sunlight shoot down from above. Above? Is there any up or down in water? I ‘feel’ inverted. Like I have fallen into a mirror. Up is down and down is up. Light pierces through and dissipates into the water around me. 

I am floating. My mind ‘feels’ notably clear. Like there has been some haze clouding it for so long that has finally passed over. I am suspended but I am also ‘unfeeling’. Suspended? I don’t ‘feel’ so. No. I don’t ‘feel’ anything. That’s what it means to be ‘unfeeling’, I think. I do not ‘feel’ suspended. Kind of. The ‘feeling’ of being suspended is the ‘feeling’ of the lack of ‘feeling’ grounded. 감각. 감정.

감각. 감정. Feeling. 감각. Feeling. 감정. Sensation. 감각. Emotion. 감정. Feeling. Feeling. 감각. 감정. Unfeeling. These things… 그러나 그것들은 내가 잠이 드는 것과 동시에 내 방에 담겨서 철철 넘치는 그 흐늑흐늑한 공기 에 다 비누처럼 풀어져서 온데간데없고, 한잠 자고 깨인 나는 속이 무명헝겊이나 메밀껍질로 띵띵 찬 한 덩어리 베개와도 같은 한 벌 신경이었을 뿐이고 뿐이고 하였다.

What does it mean to be ‘unfeeling’. What does it mean to be ‘feeling’. What does it mean to ‘feel’. A million questions whirl through my head. How I know this, I don’t know. I am floating. How I know this, I don’t know. I am there. How I know this, I don’t. I am not there. I don’t know this. 

Someone’s there. A shadow is cast upon me. And something bubbles up. How I know this? Because even under plaster, the bubbles still push up. I run my fingers over them. Feeling. Feeling. Wood veneer. Plaster. Glass. Plain wood. How is it feeling? How is it 감각? How is it 감정? 

Ah, is it maybe her eyes? I try to see my face. It’s hard. I try to see my face. It’s not clear. But there’s something there. Ah. But it’s her eyes? I can’t be sure of this. Research. I must do 연구. I must do 조사. 

The mirror is there. I gaze into it. Nyctalopia.

I dissolve into the bubbles around me. Each bubble grabs a part of me. A crumb. And in these bubbles and in the large great mirror there shines a single ray of light. This has happened before, I remember. A bubble pops.

Diving. We were trying to dive. And then there was a spider. I remember now. I was afraid of spiders and drowning before. Why am I not anymore? Mari saved me. From fear? Or just from drowning? What does it ‘feel’ like to be afraid? What is the 감각 or 감정 of fear?

I am not afraid of death. I never was. Maybe. So why was I afraid of heights and the water and the spiders? 

We? There was a we. There was… A gentle voice, but his insistence on yesterday and proximity was a bother. A heart of excitement, but his anticipation of tomorrow and pleasure was a bother. And…

I remember the girl. Like I remember Mari. I don’t have any particular ‘feelings’ towards both. I don’t have any particular ‘feelings’ towards any of them. Bothersome, maybe, but everything is. Their memories are distorted and opaque and unclear. Like I am seeing them through water. I am seeing them through water.

I am in water. I’ve forgotten to breathe, I realise. Silly me. But I can’t breathe. Silly me. How do you breathe again? I don’t remember. I don’t even need to breathe. Silly me. There’s light. I think. I don’t know where it’s coming from. 

There’s also someone there. 

Knock knock! I called out: I’m not there! 

Knock knock! I say again: I am nowhere to be found! 

Knock knock! I word mouthlessly: Who’s there!

Knock knock!

It’s the sun!

What does the sun look like? Why do you ask me? Because I’m named after it? But I’m not? You can’t ask me things I don’t know. I don’t know anything. You can’t ask me things. Please stop. I shut the door. I return to my room.

It’s white. That’s about it, I muse. There’s a broken lightbulb hanging from oblivion. Other than that, there’s white. I pull my bedding quilt over myself and go to sleep.

It’s white. It’s still white. The lightbulb is still there. Such things don’t change. The lightbulb is translucent. Or what’s left of it, I suppose. 

It’s white. I pull down the bedding quilt. And there’s a door. Oh god, I think to myself. Doors are meant to be opened. I am thankful at the very least that there is no outside. 

Knock knock! I take a few steps.

Knock knock! I place my hand on the doorknob.

Knock knock! I think it’s such a bother.

Knock knock! I step back.

Knock knock!

It’s a stranger!

It was my knuckles on the door this time.

I opened my eyes. I was nothing more than a mere congestion of a nervous system, a lump like a pillow stuffed with buckwheat husks or cotton shreds. A groan escaped my lips, and my eyes opened to see a stranger’s face far too close to mine. No. Aubrey’s face. She’s changed, I thought to myself. She pulled back, bringing another stranger’s face into my view. Ah… He too was someone I remembered.

Kel? These names were unfamiliar to me. Familiar, yet unfamiliar. Kel, Kel, Kel, Kel Kel Kel Kel Kel… I rolled his name off my tongue. It lost all meaning quickly. I noticed that they were saying something. Noise bounced off my head at all angles. Loud noise. They were shouting. Aubrey looked… Agitated? Embarrassed? Fed up? I wasn’t sure. It was some sort of mixture of these emotions. Maybe. She just looked to be in great emotional turmoil.

Kel was clearly frustrated, though. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me up. I keep on finding myself being led by my wrist. I just wished to return to my room. Aubrey and Kel share more words and lively exaggerations before Kel pulls me out of the forest and back into the clearing. He started speaking to me and I struggled to organise myself into a state ready to take in and process his words.

“Hey, Sunny, are you alright? It’s been so long, man! I can’t believe that after all this time, Aubrey would do that to you! Let’s just get you, like—uh—”

I came to realise I was soggy. Wet. Very wet. It made sense once I had rationalised it. I was in water. I was also still very, very tired. His energy served only to further wear on my nerves. 

“I need to return home.” was all I could mutter out.

“Oh! Well, alright! I can’t really blame you, I mean… Yeah! Let’s catch up sometime, alright man? And let me know if Aubrey’s causing you any more trouble! I promise you, I’ll send her running!”

I nod numbly. He then pulled me into a hug and I felt as if I were being strangled.

“Good to see you after so long, man. Next time open the door for me, wouldya? Now, I gotta run to HOBBEEZ, I'm running a bit late on something, but you know where to find me!”

The outside world ground me into dust. With a sheepish scratch to his head, he left like a storm, and I felt as if I were a house turned to rubble in its wake. Perhaps I was already a corpse. I thought I would shamble like one, but to my surprise I found I could still walk. Thus, my bare feet carried me home once more. Bare and numb. I walked.

I returned to my home. The door was still locked. But there were other things awaiting me. A nailed bat and a red box with a white cross. My legs ached unbearably. My heart pounded heavily. I had not noticed it while I was walking, but I was out of breath. Cold sweat stood out on my back. I regretted that I had gone out. I wanted a long, sound, sleep, forgetting all this fatigue. I wanted a good, long sleep. Despite myself, though… 

With both objects in hand, I trudged back to the forest. 

I was to do 연구. 조사. 

I was to look into 즐거움.