Recently in Modern Japanese Lit we've been reading something called an "I"-novel. The idea is to write a story that takes place almost completely within the character. There is almost no external plot because it is more important to portray the character as realistically as possible. I was listening to a song by Dido last night, and this story came to me, so I hashed it out and put it here for your enjoyment. Assuming this is the type of story one actually can enjoy. >>;
COLD
What is it about her that affects people so? She is pretty, yes, but not someone that your eye would be immediately drawn to in a crowd. Her features are far too muted and passive for that sort of attention. And yet, when she looks at you and smiles, everything about her lights up, blinds you, and you feel like the only person in the world. Having her looks sneak up on me like that for the first time was one of the most physical sensations I have ever experienced. I’m not the only person it has happened to, either. Every single time we go out somewhere, it happens. The mall, the gas station, a cheesy diner, anywhere. Perfect strangers melt before her, no matter how taciturn they were the moment before she turned to them. She can draw you in, make you feel needed, cared for, and unconditionally loved with only two muscles. She makes people actually feel like people, and she does it effortlessly, unconsciously.
Now, though, the only thing I experience is pain every time I see her beautiful teeth and feel her pale eyes shine dimly at me. It hurts me because I have hurt her, deeply, and completely, but she still gives me her smile. I don’t deserve it. She genuinely cares about my well-being, and communicates it clearly in her little way, but because of my guilt, each time it cuts me like a hot wire through my ribs because I am reminded of what a terrible person I really am.
I guess it could be seen as a sort of atonement, though I am sure that thought has never entered her mind. I can’t bring myself to tear away from her so I don’t have to remember how horrible I have been, and so I have to deal with the hurt. We have never spoken about what I did. She never brought it up afterwards, and I lack the courage to be completely honest to the both of us. So we are left with a semblance of normality that does little to cover the gaping void between us or soften the edge that has crept into our friendship. And still we trudge on, for reasons neither of us can really comprehend. A tribute to the past? A fear of change? Loneliness? I can’t be sure, and of course I can’t ask for her opinion. Not now. I don’t want to know what she thinks of me now. If she has forgiven me, that makes her a better person than I, but I also don’t think I could stomach it if she agreed with my own bitter opinions. I was always taught to learn from my mistakes. I just wish I had also been taught how to live with them later.
I glance to my left. Her scarf is now balled unceremoniously under her desk, vengefully collecting debris from floor. The heavy coat has been successfully removed and is draped comfortably over her desk chair, obscuring all the sharp angles and giving the illusion that the whole mess is now a soft, cushy bowl. She’s perched in the dip at the center with her legs crossed, something she always does but I have never quite figured out how, idly chewing on the clip of her pencil as the professor leads the lecture forward. The notebook in front of her is red, and I can see her sloppy handwriting interspersed with abstract patterns she tends to draw when her mind wanders. Her pigtails have been tidied, and I can see the soft curve of her neck again, exposed now to her ears. The sight makes me remember how cool she usually is to the touch. It’s as if her pale skin lends her a literal coldness, turning her into some sort of organic marble, a cold exterior to confine her warm interior, only allowing it to escape through her smile.
I only remember her being warmer than I once out of all the years we have known each other. She has a habit of coming to my house when she is sad or stressed out about classes, and we will always have a drink or two and chat for hours until she feels better. Before that night, we were always open and completely honest with each other, and this emotional camaraderie led us to be closer physically than we would otherwise have been. We would hug frequently, or snuggle on my couch while watching a movie or listening to music, but it was just for comfort. We were too close to actually be attracted to each other.
That night, when she knocked on my door unannounced and came in already crying, I wrapped her in my arms instinctively, trying to warm her inside and out. She collapsed into me, sagging to the floor, and I had no choice but to go with her. The tile of my entryway felt frigid through my clothing, but I didn’t want to move because I was so worried about her. Her perfume drifted up towards my face, greeting me forlornly with its familiar smell as she vented her frustration through her tears.
“Why does he make me feel so cold?” she sobbed, digging her nails into my shirtsleeves. I rubbed her back slowly, waiting for her to continue.
“I care. You know I care. Why can’t he see it? Why does he have to make me feel so heartless?” She lifted her head from my shoulder and stared up at me imploringly. In that moment I couldn’t tell if she wanted the truth or something comforting. So I just hugged her to me and stroked her hair as she shook. I couldn’t think of anything to say because of my uncertainty. I didn’t know him, and while I believed she was the least heartless person I had ever met, I had no way of putting it into words. Here she was, as vulnerable as I had ever seen her, and despite our closeness, I couldn’t help. She kept crying as I held her, my shirt growing clammy from the moisture, and deep inside I felt an almost physical pain stirring because of how completely I had failed this girl.
Eventually she fell silent and curled up in my lap, shivering slightly as her legs touched tile that had not been warmed by our bodies. I kept petting her hair, half-hoping that she would speak, or fall asleep, anything, so I could break the silence and get her off this icy floor. It was growing distractingly cold, and her perfume was beginning to tickle my nose and stifle my sense of smell. But she showed no sign discomfort, or of moving. Minutes passed, and the only sound that escaped her lips was a small, shuddering sigh.
I pushed her hair away from her face and bent over her to check if she had fallen asleep. Her eyes were open, and as I shifted they focused in on me. We stared at each other for a few moments, and then she blinked and shivered slightly. I realized as she did this that I could not understand what she was thinking. I had no idea of what was going on in her head, and I didn’t know why. Had she shut herself out, or had I lost our connection myself? The pained guilt I felt from not knowing what to say transformed within me, turning into a solid pit at my solarplexis that ached almost unbearably. I hadn’t realized until that moment how used to our closeness I was, or how much I needed it. She was right here in my lap, more than half her body touching mine, but I felt suddenly completely isolated and alone.
I grabbed her to me, pulling her up from the floor and back into my arms. “Come on, hon, we need to get off this floor. You’ll catch cold.” There was no response from her. My words had not succeeded in breaking the silence or removing the barrier between us. I felt a sort of desperate anger at my failure to get close to her again. I rose, carrying her with me, but she must not have been ready to stand, because our balance went wrong and we half-fell together into the wall. “Come on,” I urged, and was surprised to hear how rough it sounded in the quietness between us. She looked at me again before steadying herself, and obediently followed me to the living room. We sat down on the couch, and she mechanically pressed close against me again. Her proximity and distance caused the hurt I was feeling to intensify. I had no idea what she was thinking, if she knew what I was thinking, or what to do. I began to feel slightly frantic.
She was leaning against my shoulder. I twisted to face her and brought her eyes level to mine, pressing our foreheads together, capturing her gaze with my eyes in an attempt to pull her back in to me. She looked at me vacantly for a few moments.
“Are you okay, hon?”
“Yes,” she replied softly. But I couldn’t tell. Usually there was a sense of whether or not she was being honest, but this time I was left outside her with only the words. I was amazed at how much it upset me. I wanted to do anything to try to get closer to her again. I pushed her over and lay down alongside her, wrapping her in my arms and holding her tight against my stomach. She made a soft noise and remained silent, and I was shocked at how cold she felt against me. I began to rub her sides and back to warm her.
She turned to face me, looking at me expressively, but I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I stared deep into her eyes, trying to find my way in to her, but she felt like an empty shell against me. I pressed my lips against hers in frustration, forcing my way into her wonderful, loving mouth with my tongue, trying to break back in to where she was hiding from me. She didn’t resist, and soon I had moved to her neck, running my lips and tongue along her cool, silken skin. Gradually I felt her warm until she was almost boiling, and the cold, firm girl I was so used to became malleable beneath me. She felt like living lava, and every time I touched her she burned deep into me, filling me with her warmth.
We didn’t sleep together, but that wouldn’t have made our situation any worse. I had already done all the damage I could do to her by the time I picked her off the floor of my entryway. She finally pulled away from me as I began to slide my hand into her underwear, my breath hot in her ear. She curled up defensively on the edge of the couch, and it took me almost a minute to notice she was crying again. The tears slid silently down her cheeks, but as soon as I realized what was going on she began to sob openly. The reality of what I had just done to this delicate girl hit me all at once, but again I found there was nothing I could say. After a moment she collapsed against me once more, still almost unbearably hot to the touch, and still crying, begging for comfort from the one who had caused the pain.
I had never hurt too much to cry before that moment.
How do you pick up the pieces after that? I hugged her until the tears stopped again, washed her face, and made her tea, sitting with her silently until she left to go home. The next day she greeted me normally, and our relationship resumed as if nothing had happened, though we both knew better. Now we sit together in classes, have lunch occasionally, and appear to everyone else that nothing has changed. But not once since then has she come to my house. A vague sense of jealousy suffuses me as I wonder who she goes to now for comfort. It fades just as quickly as it came, however, because I know that there couldn’t be anyone else who became as close to her as I have. It’s just the way she is.
She feels me looking at her and turns to me briefly, idly spinning her mechanical pencil with her right hand. We make eye contact, and for one instant I can read her again. Her eyes get brighter when she is upset. They gain more depth, like she’s hoping she can drown the source of her hurt within them and quickly move on. Right now, they shine at me vividly, drawing me in, showing me her pain. She’s not angry because she needs me. She’s lonely, and I’m the only one who can make her feel like someone understands. Even though I threw all the trust she had given me back in her face, she can’t stop now. So the hurt is something she accepts. And knowing that fact only makes mine hurt even more. In this moment there is nothing for either of us to say aloud, but I want to pull her out of class anyway, into the tiled hallway, and say the words we both already know. Her gaze simultaneously gives me hope that she will help me move past this and a deep fear that this is our last true communication.
The professor calls on her, and as suddenly as it came, the moment is gone. She flashes me her dazzling smile with no trace of sadness, then turns back to the blackboard and nibbles thoughtfully on her pencil as the thinks of a reply.
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