C2 Her

The stairs are my life; I discover new emotions as I grow older, and I face challenges that make me stop for a while. That’s my theory. The only thing that’s missing for this to become a complete life is people. I’m lonely; I want to meet others; I want to talk; I want to interact; I want to love someone; I want a family.

Without a clear answer, I walked like I was supposed to. Going up is what I do; it’s the only thing I’m good at.

"Hehehe." I heard a soft giggle in the distance.

"Is anyone near?" I whispered. I shouldn’t have; no one can hear a whisper.

"I will wait." The voice of a lady said, "Come quickly!"

I ran toward the voice; I don’t understand why I put in the effort to reach her quickly; that girl is important; I want that girl in my life; I need her.

I was panting once I reached her. She was beautiful, not because she’s the first other human I see, but because the girl had the most gorgeous eyes I could imagine. She had a slim figure, which I am guessing by her waist, as her lower body was covered by the dress she was wearing, or was it just the corset hooked to her skin? Either way, it suited her wonderfully. I wondered if she found the short petticoat she was wearing underneath the dress heavy, but she walked so lightly and so elegantly. What’s a woman like her doing in a place like this? I laughed at the question, "What am I doing here?"

"Are you someone?" She asked me, and I couldn’t answer.

"Heeey! "Do you find it hard to speak to women?"

"How dare I speak in front of such a beautiful maiden?" "Why are you on the stairs?"

"And you dare ask questions now; you’re very amusing!" I didn’t think of myself that way; I am just a boring man, not sure if he’s dead or alive.

"Why are your knees scrapped?" Also, why are you naked?" My knees? There is no way I got hurt.

"Look! "They're all red; let me put a bandage on them; sit down." We can’t sit down, we need to keep going, how else are we supposed to reach the end if we stop, I have to reach the end, I have to reach the top, what lies at the end of the tower that’s expanding, suddenly, I wanted to know more, she sat me down…

The girl put bandages on my skin; I don’t know why she carries one. The girl handed me some clothes; I don’t know why she was prepared for this situation. Why do the clothes fit me? Why did she have clothes for men on the stairs? She confuses me.

"So, who are you?" She said, "I’m a man." That’s the only thing I knew, so that’s what I said.

"You must also not know yourself; can you describe what I look like?" She got up and signalled to me to do the same; we were to walk up again.

"You are a woman; you’re tall enough to reach my shoulders; you’re skinny, perhaps too skinny."

"That’s rude! "I can see all of that; describe my face."

I took a deep breath, and repeated, "When I took a first glance at you, your lips were the first thing I noticed, they are not too pink, and they are not pale at all, the perfect shade of the perfect colour, your lips are captivating, they look soft, I want to feel them, then I looked up and saw your eyes, your eyes threatened me sweetly, that if I ever dare look at others, they would leave me, if I could stare at them all night, I’d say I stayed up looking at the stars in the sky, though they look better than any stares, and it confuses me that a person with those features, didn’t get enough, and still looked for beauty in others, how come your nose is so well structured? "It's not out of place like you would expect it to be; you asked me to describe your face, and I can’t find the right words." Can perfection really be described by imperfect words?

"Wow, you sound in love with me." Love? I don’t think so. I thought it was a rule to know someone before loving them. I may not know much about the world and its secrets, but I know this is not love. I’ve only just met you, and you’re new to me. You’re pleasing to the eye, but I don’t know if you’re pleasing to the heart yet.

"Describe me." I told her I wanted to know more about myself.

"You’re tall, kissed by the sun, your body is well toned, you have curly hair, I loved how bored you looked, and I feel that if I stared any longer I would be eaten by your gaze. It’s weird because it doesn’t stop me from staring deeply into your eyes; if I had to pick something from you as my favorite, it would be your eyes. Well, I guess we both like each other's eyes." She spoke, and I couldn’t stop staring at her lips as they moved.

"Are you real?" "Or is this a dream?" I asked; I could never be too sure.

"I’m not a dream, this I know; am I real?" "I'm as clueless as you are." She paused, an unsettling pause, the more I talked to her, the more I realised that she paused a lot, she was always unsure of what to say, unsure if she should say it. "Do you value your life?" she asked.

"I… I think… "What makes a life valuable?"

"I had all the time to think, so I have various answers; the first one is, if others depend on you, you become important to them; the second one is, if someone valuable died for you, shouldn’t you honor his death by keeping your life safe?" "It only seems logical, to me at least, that the third one, and it should’ve been the most obvious one, is if that life is your own, because I think it makes sense that I value my life and you value yours, and I don’t think it’s okay for humans to want to die."

"Is it weird if someone wants to die?"

She looked me in the eyes, making sure I wouldn’t be able to look elsewhere. She had a way of making me a captive to her words, just by glancing at my eyes and saying, "If you want to die, it’s weird."

I didn’t ask her why; I just took her answer as it was. To me, dying was never an option; it was just something that I would accept no matter how young or old I was. Maybe I am already dead; aren’t the stairs my way to the afterlife? They are dark and gloomy, and they smell of dirt, but I’m so used to their smell that I started to love it.

I don’t know if I am allowed to say that it’s weird to meet another person on the stairs; I was always alone, and I think her presence is comfortable. I don’t want to wake up and not find her. I don’t love her; I just quickly got used to her.

"How long have you been here?" She asked me. How long? I wondered, "The way you take your steps, it seems like you know the place by heart."

I almost felt offended by her remark—those are the stairs in my home; of course I know them, but it’s her; her words would never offend me.

"I like the way you look; you’re a handsome guy, and if I were alive, I would want you to be my husband."

"Are you not alive?"

"Who knows? "I haven’t eaten in days; I’m not tired; all I did was climb the stairs and sing and laugh; I’m probably not alive."

The question we both asked but didn’t have an answer for was, "Instead of thinking too much about it, why don’t we talk about something else?" I suggested something else.

I felt the contradiction between my heart and lips. I wanted to think; that’s all I ever wanted, but now I want to talk.

"What do you like?" she asked.

"How do I know if I like something?" I wasn’t sure.

"Umm, I just like things; for example, I like music; I used to sing."

I’m sure she has a beautiful voice, but I wasn’t sure if I should ask her to tell me more. I wanted to know how to like, and if she could teach me, I would like her.

"Do you think you should eat?" "Food is necessary for survival, but on the other hand, getting to experience different flavors is fascinating. My ears are like taste buds; they may not be crucial, but they sure help me experience life to the fullest."

I didn’t quite understand where she stood, and she couldn’t help me find love; after all, I do not eat.

"Do you know what keeps people going?"

"Survival instinct," I answered.

"No." She said, "It’s desperation; humans are desperate; we make decisions out of needs, and the more we need, the more desperate we become; naturally, since humans are greedy, we’re desperate."

I don’t get it; what does she mean?

"When you’re alone, everything you do, every path you take, it’s because you need others; you need something other than your shadow to talk to; that’s why you ran to me."

I don’t remember that I ran.

"Let me tell you something: if you have a dream and you’re not desperate enough, it’s never coming true."

"What is a dream?" I asked.

She glanced at me quickly, in all secrecy, but I caught her eye. "Dreams are hope, every person that hasn’t given up on living yet is clinging to one dream or more, it’s something that you want in your life, and you keep chasing it, however, if it is only there to be talked about and chased, it’s not a dream, it’s false hope, it’s a lie, I heard that somewhere."

"I want you in my life; are you my dream?" I wondered.

"You’re mine."

Maybe it isn’t such a bad idea to be owned by her; I think that, and I know that it will make me lose the only thing I own, myself.

"What is life all about?" I asked.

"It depends on what you believe in; some people think that their whole life is already pre-written."

I think that’s beautiful: "It’s pleasant to know that everything I do will eventually lead me to another, and that I’m fated to meet the people I did and to make the choices I did, and if I go back in time and change something about the past, it’s still just another twist of fate. It puts me in a safe place mentally."

"Does it free you from the responsibility of what you do?" The fact that a higher power has already decided everything for you." She asked.

I marched in silence; though beautiful, she had thorns for lips, and each word of hers pierced my heart.

"Do you regret something?"

I couldn’t answer; I didn’t understand the question, "Regret?"

"How can I explain this?" She grabbed her umbrella and said, "My umbrella is very dear to me; I don’t go anywhere without it. If one day, I stand by the entrance, ready to leave, and I look at it and decide not to take it, I’m going to regret it if it rains, naturally, because I could’ve prevented getting wet, but I didn’t. That’s regret; it’s the feeling of guilt you have after doing or not doing something."

The girl put me in a dilemma: how do I prevent regretting something if I’m going to feel guilty if I do it and guilty if I don’t?

"I would rather regret the things that I did, but at least I would’ve given it a shot."

We stopped talking after that, not because I had nothing to say, I had plenty of things to share, and I don’t know if she did too, she did however space out, I’d like to believe she did, that she was still full of life, and that she’s not hollow inside, but the expression she gave, the look in her eyes, a woman looking nowhere, the way she walked, rhythmic steps, a soulless melody, she sang the notes to my awakening, and I didn’t want to wake up.

I was conflicted; she confuses me—is she real? I refuse to believe that the warmth surrounding her is nothing but a spectre of my imagination, a shred of a memory. I wanted her to be real, but I was afraid she wasn’t. I looked at her and didn’t speak.

A part of being away from her scares me, and I want to figure out what it is. It could be, as she said, my desperate need for others, or did I say that? I can’t remember anything. It could be that she is of great importance to me, or it could be that I just started growing a soft spot for her presence.

No matter from which angle I look at it, she could take my breath, and I would beg her not to leave. For her, I won’t survive; what’s my life compared to the life that shone through her eyes? I would do anything to bring it back.

Her existence is the sole proof I have that I exist. And if she’s nothing but my imagination, then I am unreal. If she looks at me, I know I’m something to look at; if she speaks to me, I know I’m a mind that speaks; if she’s here, I know I exist.

I should be afraid of change if changing how I live makes me this way.

Life would be easier if we didn’t have to choose between speaking and staying quiet, listening and not caring, laughing and crying, living and dying; life would also be easier if we didn’t care, but what do I know about life?

"Do you care?" I asked her, I hoped she’d answer, and I hoped she was still there.

"No."

"How do you know that?"

She replied, "I don’t help others; if I see a person struggling, I would walk away; if they ask for my help, I would do the bare minimum; I don’t cry easily, and I don’t laugh easily; if it’s not related to me, I ignore it, and if it’s related to me, I ignore it too." If someone tells me to do something I don’t want to do, I pretend they never spoke, and if they do something I hate, I pretend they don’t exist. "Life is easier because I don’t care."

From her words, I picked out a simple part; it intrigues me more than anything else, and I think it’s in my nature to pick out the details and ignore the rest. I asked her, "Why do people ask for help?"

She looked at me with her pretty, lean eyes, glued to my mind as if she saw that I was better than myself.

"It’s because we’re weak alone, it takes a lot of effort to survive on your own, you more than anyone would know that, you were alone for a long while."

I don’t know what she’s talking about; I was never alone; I was always with her.

Conversations are hard to keep, but I’m just glad she hasn’t given up on showing me her mind and teaching me about my soul. Here she is, a shred of my soul; she speaks to me; her weird attire keeps me close to her; I am attracted to this girl.

"How do we survive?" I wondered.

"Instinct, it’s what keeps us going; we try so hard to live all the time, to breathe."

"Yeah, but how?"

She didn’t have an answer, or she just didn’t want to share it. I might as well try finding it on my own; perhaps that’s part of it—the fact that each person has their own tool of survival and that I should search for mine.

I know what I need to begin with: water, food, and warmth. But here I am, living and not needing any of them. Do I have to keep fighting? Destroy every wall in my way, find all the keys, and open all the doors.

I can still be alive without a home or a family, without people, but I’m afraid I’ll lose my sense of self, I’ll lose sight of who I am, and I’ll forget my person. Maybe I am not surviving, I have no idea who I am, and I’m not creating a new person of myself, I’m just walking not knowing where, I’m guessing to my death, and if that’s the case I’m not surviving.

Do I want to just survive? Or do I want something more? Something grand, some significance to my life—that’s if I’m alive.

There’s a chance I’m past that stage; I don’t have time to redeem myself any more. I just want to know who I was and who I am.

"A home," she said. "You need a home to survive."

If home is the answer, then I took the long ride there. I don’t understand; it’s not a necessity.

"I think it’s important to find some place to belong to, and whenever you’re lost, you can find a way back." When you’re done with a tiring journey, you can rest there. It’s a beautiful sensation, warm and unique; I long for it every day, and I wish to be there all the time. No matter where I go and how far I look, nothing can compare to the beauty of my place. Go to the core of the earth, and you’ll still look for the end of my love for it. "Imagine beauty, and you’ll find yourself looking at my home."

"Where’s your home?" I got curious—what could this surreal place she’s praising look like? Would I love it as much as she does? Would I love her then?

"Silly, you’re mine."

It’s unfair… She burned down my world with the words of her heart.

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