I have been here with you now for four weeks and you you still haven't said my name. And now the only person who knows it here is gone. Not that we knew that much about each other. Michelle and I. I never even asked her what country she was from. She never asked me either though. Some of the Stranded use fake names. For all I know, Michelle could have been doing that. My own name is so common that I can't imagine what I would change it to. Everyone would know it was a lie anyway, if I tried to pass myself off as a Paula or Deborah. I look like who I am. Even when we left the building for a drink, something we started to do everyday, Michelle and I mostly talked about the books. Seldom personal, but then again, our favourite books maybe say more about who we are than anything else does. The books are more important than ever. The Library is about the only place where I'm allowed to make my own choices. But it is only for books. Since I'm not a registered member of your building, I cannot enter The Hub and there is no Connection in your room. "If I play games, then I lose my focus," you have explained to me.
It is strange to not be Connected, but I have gotten used to it. I think I recognise people more fully now that I have less distractions and nothing to work on. Michelle and I had that moment last week, a real connection, where we both showed up at the Library wearing the same pair of socks. Pink with polka dots, black cats dancing across our toes and up our legs. Things we chose in a different life. One we no longer own. "I wish I could have a real one," I'd said to her. She'd nodded saying that it was a mistake for us to wipe cats out, that there was too much bird shit in the world now, and then we both said, wistfully and at the same time, "Must be some hidden out in the world somewhere." Our eyes met and then you know how it goes, it felt like our souls joined and I have no words really because no matter how you try to describe a moment like that, it sounds cheesy and silly. I have never had a moment like that with you. I wonder if you have ever had a moment like that with anybody. I'm not sure that you would want to. You do not seem to care much about anything, except the few times when I have said that I didn't. This you find offensive from my lips, even if you said it yourself just two minutes before, and especially if it is about the mundane, something like planning what's on the evening meal. Sometimes, I call you Douche Bag (I had to explain to you what the word meant) for your attitude, but you just laugh at me like it is an honour to be called such a name . It is not.
You still call me Stupid, but now just half of the time. One night, when I seethed, STOP! again (easily a hundred times by now, you know?), you laughed out loud and replied, "Fine, I will call you Stupid one time and Sweetheart the next", and that is what you do, as though I agreed to your compromise, when I clearly said no to such ridiculous nonsense.
You roll your eyes every time you say something nice. Like it is a lie.
I once thought you were kind to take me in, but now I am not too sure.
I should have went with Michelle.
You told me you loved me three nights ago. What a joke, I thought to myself, as I watched your eyes shining and felt my stomach boil and recoil. Your smile was so wide, like you had just eaten the proverbial canary, and I could see that you believe the words yourself. But it isn't true. You were happy and high, that is all, having just told me a frequent sexual fantasy. You so seldom speak that when you do, I still pay close attention. My friends...then us all at once...hard...choke...brutal...gagging...until you are crying so hard your make-up is running all over your face... I told you I don't ever wear make-up and you added that you will buy me some hair extensions. Then we can use your hair to torture you worse.
I do not ask you how (but you told me some of your ideas last night, even though I said I did not want to talk about it ever again).
It's a queer feeling: to be hysterical with laughter and revulsion all at the same time. You are lucky that I controlled myself, that I did not spew my stomach bile in your face. It probably would have come out my nose.
I have met these two friends of yours, one more vile than you; his eyes wide with meanness, the fake fuck. I like most people, but I wanted to rip his eyes out. Make him blind. It is what he deserves. I understand why you are friends. But your other friend, the one I wish I'd met first, instead of you, I do not understand why you are friends with him. That one, we had a moment too. We would have treated each other right. He would never want to do the things that you imagine for me. I find it rude that you include him, when you must know that yourself.
Your shallowness is tedious.
Today, I stayed in your room. I did not go to the Library. Mostly I just sat on your bed and did nothing, so that the minutes would tick by slower. I fell asleep and lost nearly 40 minutes and almost started crying again when I woke-up and realised.
When you came in, you closed the drapes almost immediately, none of the usual pacing or fidgeting about beforehand. You lit up the Screen and I wondered why, and then asked you why were you were putting it on. We've only watched it twice before, the entire time I've been here. Both times old Hollywood movies. This time you put on the News. "I want you to see this with me," you said to me. We watched the images and the video roll by of Chinese Nationals being arrested in many countries, including yours. Not mine. In the city of Sydney, they are being marched out of the town, single-file, hands tied behind their backs, guns pointed to their heads. Maybe 40 already dead. In Ireland, there is chaos, the bodies being heaped in city streets. The Chinese are losing. Your city shows itself off last. A sting operation. A trick. Some come by buses, some by foot, but all willingly.
"They deserve it," you said to me. "What do you call them in English? Slant-eyes?"
"Human."
"It's where we sent Michelle."
I felt everything in my body run cold. I think my heart stopped for a few seconds. She was right. Michelle was right. "You helped to send her there?" I asked you. I had to force my lips not to curl. Forced myself not to snarl.
"Now I'm your only friend," you said in reply. You said it in glee. You even clapped your hands twice, wore a self-satisfied grin on your face.
I looked down at the brightly, beaded bracelet wound tight around my wrist, and began to play with it, to avoid eye contact with you.
It is strange to not be Connected, but I have gotten used to it. I think I recognise people more fully now that I have less distractions and nothing to work on. Michelle and I had that moment last week, a real connection, where we both showed up at the Library wearing the same pair of socks. Pink with polka dots, black cats dancing across our toes and up our legs. Things we chose in a different life. One we no longer own. "I wish I could have a real one," I'd said to her. She'd nodded saying that it was a mistake for us to wipe cats out, that there was too much bird shit in the world now, and then we both said, wistfully and at the same time, "Must be some hidden out in the world somewhere." Our eyes met and then you know how it goes, it felt like our souls joined and I have no words really because no matter how you try to describe a moment like that, it sounds cheesy and silly. I have never had a moment like that with you. I wonder if you have ever had a moment like that with anybody. I'm not sure that you would want to. You do not seem to care much about anything, except the few times when I have said that I didn't. This you find offensive from my lips, even if you said it yourself just two minutes before, and especially if it is about the mundane, something like planning what's on the evening meal. Sometimes, I call you Douche Bag (I had to explain to you what the word meant) for your attitude, but you just laugh at me like it is an honour to be called such a name . It is not.
You still call me Stupid, but now just half of the time. One night, when I seethed, STOP! again (easily a hundred times by now, you know?), you laughed out loud and replied, "Fine, I will call you Stupid one time and Sweetheart the next", and that is what you do, as though I agreed to your compromise, when I clearly said no to such ridiculous nonsense.
You roll your eyes every time you say something nice. Like it is a lie.
I once thought you were kind to take me in, but now I am not too sure.
I should have went with Michelle.
You told me you loved me three nights ago. What a joke, I thought to myself, as I watched your eyes shining and felt my stomach boil and recoil. Your smile was so wide, like you had just eaten the proverbial canary, and I could see that you believe the words yourself. But it isn't true. You were happy and high, that is all, having just told me a frequent sexual fantasy. You so seldom speak that when you do, I still pay close attention. My friends...then us all at once...hard...choke...brutal...gagging...until you are crying so hard your make-up is running all over your face... I told you I don't ever wear make-up and you added that you will buy me some hair extensions. Then we can use your hair to torture you worse.
I do not ask you how (but you told me some of your ideas last night, even though I said I did not want to talk about it ever again).
It's a queer feeling: to be hysterical with laughter and revulsion all at the same time. You are lucky that I controlled myself, that I did not spew my stomach bile in your face. It probably would have come out my nose.
I have met these two friends of yours, one more vile than you; his eyes wide with meanness, the fake fuck. I like most people, but I wanted to rip his eyes out. Make him blind. It is what he deserves. I understand why you are friends. But your other friend, the one I wish I'd met first, instead of you, I do not understand why you are friends with him. That one, we had a moment too. We would have treated each other right. He would never want to do the things that you imagine for me. I find it rude that you include him, when you must know that yourself.
Your shallowness is tedious.
Today, I stayed in your room. I did not go to the Library. Mostly I just sat on your bed and did nothing, so that the minutes would tick by slower. I fell asleep and lost nearly 40 minutes and almost started crying again when I woke-up and realised.
When you came in, you closed the drapes almost immediately, none of the usual pacing or fidgeting about beforehand. You lit up the Screen and I wondered why, and then asked you why were you were putting it on. We've only watched it twice before, the entire time I've been here. Both times old Hollywood movies. This time you put on the News. "I want you to see this with me," you said to me. We watched the images and the video roll by of Chinese Nationals being arrested in many countries, including yours. Not mine. In the city of Sydney, they are being marched out of the town, single-file, hands tied behind their backs, guns pointed to their heads. Maybe 40 already dead. In Ireland, there is chaos, the bodies being heaped in city streets. The Chinese are losing. Your city shows itself off last. A sting operation. A trick. Some come by buses, some by foot, but all willingly.
"They deserve it," you said to me. "What do you call them in English? Slant-eyes?"
"Human."
"It's where we sent Michelle."
I felt everything in my body run cold. I think my heart stopped for a few seconds. She was right. Michelle was right. "You helped to send her there?" I asked you. I had to force my lips not to curl. Forced myself not to snarl.
"Now I'm your only friend," you said in reply. You said it in glee. You even clapped your hands twice, wore a self-satisfied grin on your face.
I looked down at the brightly, beaded bracelet wound tight around my wrist, and began to play with it, to avoid eye contact with you.
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