Chapter 3
2136words
When my gaze swept past the window, it would only land on the corner of the desk in front of her, or on that drooping green plant behind her. And I could clearly feel that her perpetually downcast eyes were also carefully circumventing the area where I was, as if I were a branding iron that would scorch her retina.
We sat four rows apart, yet felt more crowded than if we were side by side. That awkwardness of having your core secret exposed spread like toxic gas leaking in a sealed space, silently permeating everything, making it difficult for me to breathe all day.
Morning greetings, between-class chatter, teachers calling attendance—all the ordinary school noises seemed to come through thick frosted glass today, losing their usual sense of reality.
All my senses were mobilized to track that silent figure. How many times she turned pages today, the scratching sound her pen made against her notebook, even the almost imperceptible tension in her shoulder line from nervousness—I captured and recorded it all. This wasn't concern, but a beast-like vigilance, an excessive reaction to having my territory invaded.
I know that she must also be perceiving me in the same way. We are like two wolves facing each other in the snow, neither daring to shift away that highly concentrated, invisible attention, because we both understand that the other carries a weapon capable of killing oneself—the seen, real self.
The afternoon class was Art, located in the art classroom furthest from the main teaching building. This class has always been a contradictory experience for me, somewhere between torture and relief. The torture lay in having to submit a sketchbook "for inspection," filled with harmless still lifes and landscapes—a perfect disguise I created to comply with the system. The relief came from being able to legitimately draw during class, quietly processing some of the "visual noise" constantly flooding my brain. Today, however, both feelings were replaced by a single emotion—panic. We both had to submit our sketchbooks, and although I knew mine was just a disguise, the mere thought of the word "sketchbook" seemed to trigger PTSD from last night's disaster, causing my stomach to churn.
I almost walked into the art classroom right as the bell rang, heading straight to the corner by the window in the last row, which was another version of the "library sanctuary." However, just as I put down my drawing board, I saw Alicia Hayes walk in as well, and without any hesitation, she walked toward the empty seat beside me, separated only by an aisle.
I froze, my brain momentarily shutting down. This didn't make sense. According to our tacit agreement throughout the entire day of practically wanting to physically isolate ourselves from each other, she should have chosen the seat furthest away from me. But she just quietly sat down, as if her name was written on that seat. The gentle way she put down her drawing board and art supplies sounded like thunder in my ears. What exactly did she want? Was this some kind of show of force? Or some higher-level defense strategy that I couldn't understand?
The theme of this class was "hands." We were asked to observe and draw our left hands in various positions. I lowered my head, concentrating all my attention on my knuckles and skin texture, my pencil moving frantically across the paper, creating sharp, chaotic lines filled with irritable emotions. I used this method to resist the erosion of that silent pressure field beside me.
But even without looking up, I could feel her presence. The faint scent of soap and drawing paper emanating from her, the gentle sound of her brush tapping against the water bucket each time she dipped it in paint—all these were like bewitching sounds penetrating my ears, constantly reminding me that the person who knew my secret, and whose secret I also knew, was sitting less than a meter away from me.
The bell finally rang, and I felt like a prisoner granted amnesty, stuffing the drawing of the grotesque claw into my "homework" sketchbook at top speed, wanting nothing more than to escape this suffocating space immediately. Just as I stood up, a lazy, raspy voice called out to me. "Kiritani, and Alicia."
My body froze. It was the art teacher, Mr. Daniel. He wore an old T-shirt stained with various colors of paint, its original color indiscernible, his hair as messy as a bird's nest, and an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth—the quintessential image of an unkempt artist. He was standing at the podium, holding two sketchbooks in his hands, one mine and one belonging to Alicia Hayes. We had submitted them before class. I noticed Alicia Hayes's shoulders also visibly trembled.
"Come here for a moment." Mr. Daniel beckoned to us, completely ignoring the curious glances from other students in the classroom. My legs felt as heavy as if they were filled with lead, each step forward incredibly difficult. Alicia Hayes followed behind me, and I could hear her almost inaudible, rapid breathing that had become hurried from nervousness. Like two criminals about to receive their sentence, we walked to the front of the classroom.
Mr. Daniel didn't speak immediately. First, he slowly flipped through my disguised sketchbook as if examining some treasure. His fingers were rough and strong, with dried paint still lingering in the crevices of his fingernails. My heart was in my throat. I was one hundred percent certain there were only apples and vases inside, but under his gaze that seemed capable of seeing through everything, I felt all my pretenses being stripped bare. Then, he stopped at the "hand" I had drawn today.
He stared at that drawing for a full half minute, that hand filled with chaotic lines, as if struggling to tear through the paper. Then, he looked up at me, and in those perpetually drowsy eyes flashed a sharp light. "Togiya," he began slowly in his hoarse voice, "do you know what's in your drawing?" I instinctively lowered my head, not daring to meet his gaze. He didn't wait for my answer and pointed at the drawing, "In here, there's a force trying to break free from everything. A very pure destructive desire that desperately wants to tear apart all constraints. Very good."
My brain buzzed. Destructive desire? Force? Was he talking about my random, vented scribbles? Those out-of-control lines born from anxiety and panic were actually "force" in his eyes?
Next, he picked up Alicia Hayes' sketchbook. Unlike mine, her notebook was clean and tidy, each page seemed to have been carefully cherished. He turned to the "hand" drawing she had made in class today. Her style was completely opposite to mine - soft and delicate lines, with extremely gentle treatment of light and shadow. The hand was quietly open, as if accepting something, or giving something. Mr. Daniel's expression softened as he looked at it.
"Next is Alicia," he turned to Alicia Hayes, his voice becoming somewhat gentler, "your drawings have a tenderness that can heal everything. Looking at this hand, it feels as if it could soothe all wounds, could calm even the most turbulent winds. This too is a remarkable power."
Healing? Gentle? I glanced at Alicia Hayes beside me, who buried her head even lower, almost shrinking into her own collar. I knew that, like me, she was plunged into tremendous confusion by Mr. Daniel's unexpected comments. Our creations, born from our respective psychological disorders—one meant to expel malice, the other a silent cry for help—were somehow interpreted by him as something completely opposite, even positive.
While both of us were still in shock, Mr. Daniel revealed a mischievous smile as if his prank had succeeded. He snapped our sketchbooks shut with a "clap" and, in a tone that brooked no argument, announced a decision that nearly gave me cardiac arrest on the spot.
"So, I've made my decision." His gaze swept back and forth between the two of us. "For this year's school festival art exhibition, I recommend that you two collaborate to create a large painting. As for the theme... let's call it 'Collision'! Let's see what happens when your two forces crash violently together. It will certainly be interesting."
Collision. This word exploded in my mind like a bomb. With her? Collaborate? Paint a picture? This was even more terrifying than having to take off my headphones and give a speech in front of the entire school. My first reaction was to refuse, to immediately, instantly shout "I don't want to" with the greatest volume I could muster in my entire life.
"No! I..." My lips moved, words of refusal already surging to my throat. But just as I was about to make a sound, from the corner of my eye I glimpsed Alicia Hayes's reaction. Her entire body was trembling, not a slight tremor, but like a small animal drenched in a downpour, shivering violently from the cold. Her face was even paler than last night in the library, and those eyes that always looked alarmed like a fawn's were now filled with pure terror and despair. One hand clutched her sketchbook desperately, while the other was writing something on it rapidly, almost neurotically. Even without seeing it clearly, I could guess what she was writing.
That expression... it was identical to how I imagined I would look if my secret were ever exposed to the public.
My voice became stuck. Those words of refusal were like a block of ice lodged in my throat, neither going up nor down, suffocating me. Seeing her frightened appearance was like looking at the most pathetic version of myself in a mirror. What surged within me at that moment wasn't sympathy or some kind of knight's spirit, but a more fundamental self-projection triggered by the presence of someone similar. Refusing her felt like denying the part of myself that was equally terrified of the world.
She finally finished writing, trembling as she held up the sketchbook in front of Mr. Daniel. On it, written in handwriting that seemed about to shatter, were the words: "I... I can't do it." The force used to write those three words was so strong it almost tore through the paper.
However, Mr. Daniel merely glanced at us and burst into laughter, completely dismissing our concerns. "Can't do it? How can artists say they can't do something? Don't worry, teacher believes in you." As he spoke, he unceremoniously reached out his arms from behind us, like herding ducks, one hand on each of our backs, pushing us toward a room at the back of the art classroom. "Come, come, I've prepared a place for you both."
"Teacher! Wait!" I finally found my voice, but it was too late. He pushed us through a jumble of easels and plaster statues to a tightly closed door. He kicked the door open with his foot, then gave us a forceful shove, sending the two of us stumbling into that room.
"This is the art preparation room, normally no one comes here. From now on, this will be your secret base!" Mr. Daniel stood in the doorway, wearing a satisfied smile, as if he had accomplished something magnificent.
With a "bang," he closed the door from the outside. The world instantly fell silent.
The two of us were locked in a room filled with dust and the smell of turpentine. In the center of the room stood a huge blank canvas, almost two people tall, like a silent, oppressive white wall. Sunlight shone through the dusty windows, cutting the air into countless beams of light, with innumerable tiny dust particles dancing aimlessly within those beams.
We stood there, wordless across that enormous blank space. I could hear my own heartbeat, and beside me, her extremely suppressed, almost inaudible breathing. Silence, a deathlike silence, stretched infinitely between us, lasting for a very, very long time. So long that I felt I had become like those dancing dust particles, weightless, losing all sense of reality.
There was no sound in the room, only the rustling of leaves from the old camphor tree outside the window when the wind blew through them. Over and over again, as if trying to grind this frozen moment of time into dust as well.
