by Thea Archer
Frankly, eavesdropping on other people's talks had never been my hobby or something, but I couldn't have delicately left them alone just because that conversation had been about me.
"Why... why do you like Amery that much?" It was Annika's phrase that had caught my attention when I'd passed by the break room.
"Why? And really why? I don't know, An. Maybe because he's not like me, he's like... the opposite of me." Ian replied; I heard a paper rustling on the background and assumed he was folding his another paper crane.
"Not like you?"
"Yes, I mean... He's one of the people you can wholly rely on. You know, at first, I was using him, but over time I realized that... if I had someone like him near when I was still alive, I wouldn't jump."
The thoughtful silence dragged on; I tensed involuntarily, waiting for them to speak again.
"Do you think he hates you?" Annika asked finally.
"No, definitely not, I wish he does," I could hear a smile in his voice. "I doubt that he is capable of hatred. He's... It's like he's afraid of me. I'm not the person he would ever want to have as a friend."
"But you're different. You've never been honest with him — he barely knows who you are."
"I'm scared as hell, An. I want to... I want to tease him, I want to make him smile and laugh. I don't want to be a burden. I'm too... too heavy for him. My past, my real life... it's not something he needs. Especially here. Especially now."
"But you can't give up, right?"
"This is the funniest! I can't; it's like an obsession. Or maybe it's all about my masochistic inclinations."
"Ian..."
"Hmm?"
"No, nothing. It's just... both of you are so... immature and scared. It's so pretty. When you talk about Amery, the cranes come out so pretty. And the wings... as if bigger." Her voice had been full of warmth when she'd said that.
"He's so creative and artistic," Hurl's voice interrupted my thoughts. "Today's youth are so talented."
I blinked, still hazy, and looked at the stack of dossiers in Hurl's hands.
"Are you going to the Archive?"
"Yes, I was go—"
"I'll get it!" I said and snatched the folders out of his hands.
"Oh, thanks."
"Anytime."
I headed toward the Archive feeling worried, nervous and perversely intrigued.
I came through the door, glancing around the high rows of steel filing cabinets.
"Um, Ian?" I called hesitantly. "Are you there?"
"Yeah..." Ian's voice echoed through the walls. "But... sorry, I'm not very good company right now."
I put the dossiers on the table and moved toward the labyrinth of racks.
"But I'm not here for you to entertain me," I said, finding Ian right behind the third row, occupied with the folders in front of him.
He looked up at me, and I felt uneasy.
Perhaps that was the first time I saw that strangest expression on his face — wistful and shockingly sullen. He looked older; it was hard to believe that that was the very same person who recited vulgar verses of his own a while ago. But that face... for some reason, I liked it. It was earnest, sincere. And at the same time, I itched to return his careless smile and make his dark eyes shine playfully again.
His mouth twitched up into the smile, but his eyes retained the misery. I grasped his chin and squeezed his cheeks so that fake smile faded.
"Quit it," I said softly. "I don't need that."
He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. I knelt beside him; a crumpled, thick dossier next to his feet caught my eye, I reached for it.
Manfred Hassler.
"Your... your father?" I guessed timidly.
He nodded, gritting his teeth together. I sat down on the floor next to him, glancing at the dozens of scattered folders around him.
"So that's what you were looking for,' I said.
He glared briefly at me; his eyes were tortured.
"And now I regret it," he choked out and ruffled his hair.
I was silent for a while.
"But... You grew up with him, and you know how his life ended," I said.
"I know well how his life ended." Ian smiled; his expression was contemptuous. "I just wanted to know..." Ian hesitated, but I understood what exactly he didn't dare to say. I opened the last page of the dossier and found the last paragraph.
"Paradise," I whispered.
Ian grinned, staring straight ahead. His eyes were bleak.
"It's probably stupid... to be that angry now," he said.
"No," I objected. "You should be angry. You should be furious."
Ian threw a dark glance at me.
"It's not about actions but a result. He... He just broke a couple of my bones, right? But I..."
I waited for Ian to gather some strength for his next sentence.
"You know, it was a pretty tough week. His violent episodes usually happened between four and six times per month or so. At least I had some time to pull myself together. But that time... I thought I was already in hell. On Monday... he locked me in an old dirty freezer. On Tuesday morning, that neighborhood kid heard me yelling and released me. On Wednesday, he ran me over with his old Opel. And then... you know what happened? I got beat up for the crack on the windshield. On Thursday, I tried to run off to the hospital. But he caught me. On Friday, I woke up from a blow to the head. And then I'd slept till Saturday. And next Monday..."
He paused to shoot a brief glance at me from the corner of his eyes as if trying to find some courage to continue.
I was dizzy; his words looped around in my head, sending a thrill of fear through me. Ian's voice was trembling, but I knew he was restraining the urge to scream out loud. He had the right to shout deafeningly, he had to break this nauseating, ignorant silence with his scream, but in reality, his voice was barely audible. This fourteen-year-old boy's voice never broke into a cry, so no one heard that faint whisper asking for help.
And suddenly, I realized that he was still that boy. He was only five years younger than me, but... His immaturity and promiscuity... Now it all made sense to me.
"I stole a cigarette from him... " he glared at me and continued slowly. "I was smoking in the courtyard of the house, thinking how beautiful a garden would've been if there wasn't for all these old scrap metal on the terrace. And then... Then I just threw a cigarette in the window and went to school. And after class, on my way home, I imagined this house burned to the ground, imagined how I was looking for my books in the ashes, imagined how the policeman regretfully informs me of his death..."
He raised his face and smiled.
"That's exactly what happened," he whispered. "Exactly as I imagined."
'...he died when I was fourteen, and... God, it was the best day of my life!' I remembered his words.
"But you know, Amery, you know what? I do not regret it. I never for one moment regretted that. But... Somehow, I've always felt guilty for not regretting."
I was staring at his face for a moment while wrestling with despair.
"You... Now you probably despise me even more," he said under his breath; he was watching me intently, carefully, waiting for my reaction.
Maybe Ian couldn't regret what he'd done, but I did regret it. I regretted that that monster had died so simply, unpunished, and ended up in Paradise. Death didn't seem me scary at all. Yes, this is the culmination of life, but certainly not the worst thing that might happen to a person. A child who was raised in endless pain — that's what a real nightmare is. A child who doesn't know why he is breathing — that's what is terrifying mean.
"No. No way," I said in a low voice, and he buried his face in his hands as if trying to hide his embarrassment and hopelessness.
"Hey," I touched his hair, and he leaned against me heavily, as if suddenly exhausted; I wrapped my arms willingly around him, hugging him to my chest tightly. I yearned to comfort him, but I was at a loss to know how. He made a deep breath, but I
knew it was useless and caressed his cheek gently, soothingly.
We were silent for a long moment until I heard Ian's muffled a snicker.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing, it's just... I'm jealous of all your exes. Of all the men who were in your arms like me right now, but hearing your heart pounding, feeling your warmth."
I assumed it was time for me to laugh.
"Well, then, you're jealous of no one," I murmured.
Ian's head snapped up.
"What do you mean?"
I pursed my lips for a moment, not quite able to meet his gaze. I should have kept my mouth shut.
"Do you mean you haven't had anyone?"
I looked away from his face trying to find words. It seemed, for the first time, I was glad I was dead enough not to blush.
His eyebrows rose in disbelief. "Like, never?"
I opened my mouth to say something and then closed it again. I was too ashamed.
"But how, I mean... Why?" He stared at me, stunned.
"I-I..." I stuttered. "I just... couldn't."
His gaze became serious again.
"Did you have some... issues with your..."
"No," I ruffled my hair nervously. "I mean... I had an issue, but it... it wasn't physical. Well, partly physical."
He waited. I was looking down at my hands so that I couldn't see his expression.
"I'm asexual," I admitted.
He blinked astonished.
"Asexual? But you... You're not gay?"
I chuckled nervously.
"Well, they call it... homoromantic."
He was silent, digesting what he'd heard. He sounded disturbed when he spoke again.
"Does that mean that you... don't have sex, but you can fall in love?"
"Um, yes," I replied. "I was in love once before."
"And... And that didn't work out?"'
"Of course not. He said... he said that I'm sick and should be treated. But I've had my thyroid checked, my hormones checked, and etcetera — everything was just fine. I mean... I wanted to be normal; I was ready to fix whatever was wrong with me, but... there was nothing to fix."
He shook his head, wonderingly.
"Wow..." he only said.
We were quiet for a moment; Ian seemed to be waiting for me to say something.
"What are you thinking?" I asked.
"Well... To be honest, I'm curious if... you know..."
"Let me guess, you want to ask, did I masturbate?"
He smiled apologetically.
"Yes. But like... really rare. Sometimes my body just needed that, and that was once a month or two maybe."
"And you never enjoy that?"
"No. I mean... Physically, maybe… Partly. I'd rather was sleeping, you know."
Ian burst into laughter; I felt really stupid.
"Stop it," I muttered.
"Sorry! It's just... Whoa."
"Do you think I'm weird?" I asked tentatively.
He laughed again at me, his eyes warm.
"No! You're fine how you are… No, you're awesome how you are."
I stared at him dubiously.
"You would've never said that if you were alive. I mean, you were the one who craved one thing."
"Believe me, I would have said that if I had met you a few months before my death."
I pursed my lips and said nothing.
But his pause was very short; Ian laughed, and I turned to stare at him wildly.
"What?" I demanded.
"You're... so odd!"
"I... I know that, thank you." I said acidly.
"No, no! I mean... I just told you I killed my father, but all you're worried about is whether I think you're a weirdo because you don't like sex."
I chuckled too.
The pause was even shorter this time.
Ian looked up at me again. "So... you dislike intimacy at all?" he asked hesitantly.
"I don't have a sexual aversion, but... Ugh."
"Ugh," Ian repeated with a puzzled smile.
"Well, I really like kissing, hugging, holding hands and stuff — I can cuddle for hours. But it's sensual for me, not sexual."
Ian was silent for a moment, and then he stretched his hand to touch the back of my hand with his fingertips, shyly.
"Do you like it?" he asked in a whisper.
I met his gaze and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly.
"I like this."
Ian blinked as if surprised and straightened up. His other hand reached toward me; he stared into my eyes as he stroked my cheek softly.
"What about this?" he asked.
I exhaled sharply — it sounded like a nervous chuckle. I raised my hand to touch his hair, lightly brushing them with my fingers.
"What about this?" I echoed.
He was watching my face, I felt his fingers at the back of my head, and I knew what it was coming next.
And I wanted that. I was nervous and scared at the thought of allowing him to kiss me, and yet also encouraged by chance to feel his lips with mine.
My mind was dazed, slow, perplexed. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to touch him so badly; this desire adsorbed my whole being.
What was I doing?
We're dead, I reminded myself. We're dead, and we have no future, no perspectives, no chances, nothing. And we're stuck in this nothing.
"No, please."
I didn't even notice my eyes were closed when I said that. I was so ready for that kiss, my mind was about to give up, but my common sense was on my side.
I opened my eyes to see his torn expression.
"I'm... sorry," he murmured and pulled away.
My chest suddenly ached with emptiness. An irrational impulse to stop him, to touch him again, nearly overwhelmed me.
"Ian..." I exhaled, but he spoke before I could say something else.
"I have to clean up that mess," he said, not looking at me. "You should go."
He smiled; the smile was serene, and it did not touch his eyes.
"Ian, you—" I tried again.
"Just go."
He turned his gaze away — another wave of despair run through me. I wanted to keep him talking, but he definitely couldn't deal with any more conversation. I made a deep — not soothing in any way — breath and forced myself to leave the Archive while feeling his gaze on my back.
13. OVERSHOOT
"You know, my worst fear was dying on my way to the supermarket or something, with the ugliest clothes on and messy hair."
Another small talk about death? I thought. I had to admit I wasn't sick of it yet.
We were standing behind the reception desk, gathering into the piles the dossiers of recent arrivals. Actually, at first, we'd been alone with Ian, but somehow he always managed to crowd a bunch of people around himself, even while being silent and calm.
Amused silence dragged on, I spoke first. "What's the difference?"
Judith looked at me with concerned, are-you-insane expression.
"Imagine if I became a ghost, I would wander for centuries dressed in sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt."
Ian laughed; his carefree, infectious laugher made everyone chuckle too. My gaze flickered to his deeply unbuttoned shirt and traced across his exposed collarbones; the topmost fastened button was only one tiny movement away from falling out of the buttonhole.
"But in the end, I died in a stunning scarlet dress, which..."
"Combined perfectly with the blood leaking from your head," Ian finished her sentence.
Judith shrugged.
"Yeah... It didn't make any sense since right now I'm wearing that dull office disaster."
"Since I worked in a bank, I feel like I was born in these clothes, I lived in it and died in it. And even after that, I'm still wearing this shirt." I grumbled. "I'm cursed."
Ian giggled.
"Speaking of cursing, in my life, I have worn that kind of clothes only three times, and then I swore I'd never wear it again."
"What happened?"
Judith asked curiously.
Ian shifted his weight from foot to foot; the topmost button now was unbuttoned, exposing his stomach.
I was beginning to get annoyed with myself.
"The first time I wore a white shirt and black trousers I happen to be on the date in a restaurant, so when I went to the bathroom people kept asking me for the bill or menu. The second time was at the mall — that woman asked me to bring an XS size of her crap to her fitting room. Well, the third time: the Vienna hotel, me and an old man who was complaining about the towels in his room."
"What the hell?" asked Moritz.
"That's what happens when you're an Asian," Ian replied, smiling.
"Oh..." Judith murmured.
"Oh." Moritz echoed.
"Judith," Matthias caught up with the conversation a bit belatedly. "So, you had some severe cranial trauma?"
I peered sideways at Ian. I couldn't pretend I didn't notice the looks of women, locked on his chest. That sharp pang of jealousy made me frustrated, almost angry. I felt selfish, stupid, irrational. I wanted to monopolize him.
Ian caught my glance; I took advantage of that to gesture to his shirt. He looked down at his shirt, and then up at me again, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips; he straightened up and glared defiantly at me.
"Not really," Judith answered. "I got shot in the head. It's sort of ironic since I was a PUBG streamer."
"You were a streamer?" asked Matthias, he seemed awed, almost reverent.
"What is PUBG?" I frowned.
"Online battle game," Ian answered for Judith.
"I also streamed Resident Evil and World of Warcraft. I had about three hundred thousand followers."
"You're awesome," Matthias said.
"I know," Judith shrugged. "But what I want to know is, what was that shootout about?"
"But it's kind of beautiful. Like in the movies." Moritz said, embarrassed.
I glanced at him with disapproval.
"No, it's not. A corpse with the brains blown out is never beautiful, even in a sparkling red dress," I said.
"What about you?" Judith turned to me. "Why did you die? It was an accident, right?"
I nodded.
"The car flipped over several times, and then, as if something clicked in my head, and that's all — I'm here."