[Another Celia]

If you live in a cheap apartment with a door made of cheap pine, an old-fashioned
single-lock door, and wobbly hinges; if you weigh 190 pounds and aren't too weak,
you can grab the handle, push the door against the hinges, bypass the spring lock, and open it. Then, when you come out,
lock it again in the same way.
Slim Varsey once lived in such a place, and perhaps out of boredom, he did such a
thing. At that time, one of his assistants hit him on the temple with a fourteen-inch wrench, and according to the doctor's
X-ray, the company suspended him for three weeks for further examination. He figured
he would extend his leave as long as he could if he could get sick pay, and if he could get a large sum of compensation, that would be even
better; living in such a shabby place would make the compensation seem especially reasonable. Now he felt great,
leisurely all day long.
“Slim isn’t dishonest,” his mother told the juvenile court years ago. “He’s just naturally
curious.”
She was absolutely right.
If Slim uses your bathroom, he can’t possibly not check your medicine cabinet. If he goes to your kitchen to
get a plate, he’ll come out a minute later having already checked your refrigerator and your pantry. He’s six
feet three inches tall, so he knows there’s a bottle of spoiled Italian cherry liqueur on top of your shelf that you
’ve completely forgotten about.
Perhaps Slim feels that knowing everything about you is an advantage—like your secret use of hair growth products,
or that you’re the kind of weirdo who piles up random, colorful socks in a drawer. He does
n’t see it as an advantage, but rather a sense of security, or a compensation for always being labeled a shy, dullard
.
Whatever you call it, you'll find that when he talks to you, he knows everything about you: he knows
how many coats you have in your closet, how long you've had your phone bill, and where you hide your photos. On the other
hand, Slim always insists he knows nothing about you, nothing shameful or embarrassing. He just wants to know
certain things about you.
His current residence is a godsend for him. Rows of rickety doors, each one
a temptation. He didn't touch anything (and if he did, he would carefully put them back in their original place), he
didn't move anything, and in just one week, he knew far more about all the tenants than his landlady, Kemper
, knew anything about them. Every secret operation brought him surprising discoveries, and the more he did, the more he discovered
. He not only knew what these people had, but also what they did, where they did it, how many times they did it,
for how much money, how often they did it, and of course, the reasons for almost everything.
Almost everything… Celia arrived.
At different times and in different places, Slim discovered many strange things in other people's rooms
. An old lady had an electric toy train at the foot of her bed, and had even played with it. An
old maid who loved collecting bottles lived in the building; her collection included bottles of various sizes and capacities, but all were low
, round with long necks. A man on the second floor hid a disassembled .25 caliber automatic
rifle and half a box of .38 caliber bullets in the top drawer of his desk, using it to protect his
possessions.
A girl secretly placed flowers in front of a photograph on her desk in one of her rooms; actually,
it was a picture frame containing eight photos, with only one "appearing" each day. Seven days a week,
eight photos—Slim pondered the mystery: a "new favorite" every day, a different face every week
. They were all movie stars.
Different rooms bear different marks, leave different impressions, wear different cloaks, and reflect different
moods.
A woman returns home impeccably dressed, and after washing off the grime of makeup, the entire room becomes
her world: a distorted body is squeezed into the mirror, clothes hang on the old gas nozzle, and the house
becomes welcoming, comfortable, and cozy, as its owner desires, like a skin enveloping
her body. But Celia Satton's room is not like that.
When she and Mrs. Kemper went up to the third floor, Slim Varsey caught a glimpse of her. Mrs. Kemper walked slowly
, so that even though others had no interest, she could block the way, giving those behind her
enough time to admire her closely. Only Slim was interested in everything. But for days,
Celia remained in Slim's memory. Satton's silhouette was always indistinct, as if she were transparent, or like a chameleon
, simply reflecting the monotonous colors of the walls, carpet, or wood.
How old was she? Of tax age, anyway. How tall? Tall enough. She wore…
the things all women wear: shoes, stockings, a shirt, a coat, a hat.
She carried a bag. When you walk past the window of a bag shop, you see all sorts of suitcases, and
piles of bags of all sizes and shapes all around, none of which particularly catch your eye
—Celia's bag was one of them. Mrs. Kemper often said that it was never too much to bring more things when renting a cheap room; you could always 　　distinguish Mrs. Kemper's voice
in a noisy crowd . 　　 She was so unassuming, so inconspicuous, that people knew nothing about her except that she left early and returned late 　　. Slim didn't enter her room until two days later; he had almost forgotten about her. He finally remembered her 　　when he had already finished his satisfying inspection of the room, his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave 　　, only then realizing that the house was actually inhabited. Until that moment, he had thought he was inspecting 　　an empty house (he often did this, because it allowed him to make a comparison). 　　 He went back, his gaze sweeping across the room. First, he had to make sure he wasn't mistaken; men in this regard…

His intuition was unusual. Then, for a moment, he could hardly believe his eyes; everything
was incredible. After a while, he stood there in astonishment, pondering the contradiction between intuition and sight—a
method his hobby had taught him to analyze people.
The drawers were empty, the ashtray spotless. There were no toothbrushes, toothpaste, or soap. The wardrobe contained only two
metal hangers and a wooden one, the wooden hanger covered in dirty lint; nothing else. The shower
room and medicine cabinet were empty except for the meager offerings of Mrs. Kemper.
Slim went to the bed and carefully turned the faded sheets over. Perhaps she had slept in them, but it was also quite
possible she hadn't. Mrs. Kemper only provided these unironed sheets, and a hard-to-describe dusty
color. Slim frowned, then smoothed the sheets back on.
Suddenly, Slim realized something, slapped his forehead—a slap that aggravated his wound—he'd completely forgotten about
the bag.
The bag was under the bed; it was there, not hidden. He didn't touch it at first, but examined
it carefully to ensure accurate restoration. Then he pulled it out.
It was a black, lightweight travel bag, neither new nor expensive, made of leather, worn a
strange reddish-brown. The zipper was broken, so the bag wasn't locked. Slim opened it; inside was a brand-
new cardboard box containing a thick stack of unused printer paper. A shiny light blue
ribbon surrounded the paper, printed with: "The Writer's Unparalleled Friend, 15% Cotton, Trademark Registered.
" Slim took the paper out of the box, looked at the bottom, flipped through the first and last pages
, shook his head, put it back, closed the box, and put it in his backpack—everything was restored to how it had been when he first saw it.
He paused in the middle of the room for a moment, then decided there was nothing more to see. He went out, locked the door, and quietly
returned to his room.
He sat on the edge of the bed and finally concluded, "No one would live like this."
His room was on the fourth floor of this old building, the highest floor. It was small, dark, dilapidated,
and high up; everyone said it was the worst room, but it suited him perfectly.
Opposite his room was a skylight, its glass repeatedly painted. He had scraped
a small hole in the paint so that he could stand by his bed and see through it to the platform at the corner of the third-floor hallway.
On the platform hung a dusty mirror from an old gas pipe, above which was a gilded eagle covered
in dust. The mirror was surrounded by Rococo-style floral patterns. Slim had run up and down countless
times, making countless adjustments, to find the perfect angle so that he could see the second-floor platform through the mirror's reflection.
Just as radar detectors can distinguish between large and small luminous dots as flying objects or climate changes, Slim
became an expert, able to identify the blurry, distant figures in the mirror. He could
monitor half the tenants' movements without leaving the house.
At 6:12, his eyes lit up; he saw Celia in the mirror, saw her go upstairs.
The sense of unfamiliarity vanished. She leaped over two flights of stairs, her heels springing to life. Reaching the landing,
she turned into the hallway like the wind and disappeared from his sight. Slim listened to the sound of her opening the door (impatiently
inserting the key, slamming the door open, and slamming it shut), while studying her
facial expression.
All the outward appearances were merely pretense. Her eyes swept over cars, fences, stairs, and doors, revealing
nothing but feigned interest; in reality, her heart had already retreated into the room, just waiting for her body to follow.
There must be something inside, or she must be doing something there; she couldn't wait. The urgency was like
that of seeing a long-lost lover or a dying relative. It was a need, not a desire.
Slim buttoned his shirt, gently opened the door a crack, and slipped out sideways. He paused on the platform
for a moment, like a large moose checking the air before stepping into a puddle, then
went downstairs.
Celia lived on the north side of the corridor. Saton's only neighbor—the old maid who collected bottles—
didn't go out at night. She was a very disciplined person, Slim knew that perfectly well.
Making sure he wasn't seen, he slipped to Celia's door and stood there.
She was inside, no doubt about it. Light shone from all sides of the old door. Even in complete silence,
Slim could sense the difference between someone being there and someone not…it was utter silence. Heaven knows why she
was so eager to return. When she returned and did what she wanted to do or had to do, he couldn't hear
a sound or detect a single movement.
Slim stood there for about six or seven minutes, his throat tense as he had to suppress his breathing.
Finally, he retreated in disappointment, went upstairs, returned to his room, and lay on his bed, utterly perplexed.
He could only wait. He could wait, after all. No one takes a long time to do something, especially when still
. An hour, two hours…
Five hours passed. At 11:30, a slight noise came from downstairs. Slim, already drowsy,
immediately sprang out of bed and rushed to the small opening in the vent. He saw Celia slowly walk into the corridor,
stand there, and look around, like someone who had been cooped up in a cabin for too long climbing onto the deck, seeking fresh
air and a wider view. She descended the stairs unhurriedly and easily; what followed wasn't so
important, she could take her time.
Slim gripped the doorknob of his bedroom door, but he decided he had to wait.
The temptation to go straight to her room was great, of course, but caution was also crucial. He hadn't known she had a habit of going out at night, so
he didn't know when she would return. Taking the risk would be foolish; if he got caught, it would all be over
. He sighed, impulse yielding to reason, and went back to bed.
Fifteen minutes later, he heard Celia's slow footsteps coming upstairs. He
smiled sleepily, relieved he hadn't been rash. Then he fell asleep.
The closet was empty, the ashtray was empty, the medicine cabinet was empty, and under the bed
was only the cheap backpack containing a box full of thick stacks of printer paper, tied only with a
shiny blue ribbon. Slim flipped through the paper, turning it over and over. He shook his head, mechanically, and meticulously
, reconstructing everything.
"Whatever this girl did tonight," he said dejectedly, "she
'll leave a trace, just as she'll make a sound."
He left her room.
Slim was busy for the rest of the day. He had a doctor's appointment in the morning, and in the afternoon he had to spend several hours dealing
with his lawyer, who seemed determined to: (1) deny any head injury; (2)
prove to Slim and the world that the scars must have been there years ago. He was at a loss. If Slim
had any distinguishing characteristic besides his immense curiosity about everything, it was shyness. These two traits waxed and waned, but
his determination prevailed. His determination was purposeful and required time.
It was past seven when he got home.
He stopped on the third-floor landing, looked down the hallway. Celia's room was quiet, but someone was there.
She must have rushed back again, then quietly done something. Whatever she was doing… Slim
had long understood that speculation was useless; it would only confuse him. Possibilities were countless and varied,
but the truth was only one of them. He had to wait, and he could wait.
A few hours later, Slim saw her come out again. She looked around, but he knew she hadn't seen anything
; her eyes were wide open, completely unguarded. She didn't go out, but returned to her room.
Half an hour later, Slim slipped downstairs, pressed his ear to the door, and smiled. She was washing her underwear at the sink
. Making this judgment was a trivial matter, but Slim felt there was progress. It didn't explain
why she lived like this, but it did explain why she could manage without even a spare handkerchief.
Perhaps… well, he'd think about it in the morning.
In the morning, no "perhaps" occurred. He discovered it, he discovered it, though he didn't know
what it was. He just sneered, without any triumphant joy, only feeling like a clown. Then, he
squatted down in the middle of the floor (he dared not sit on the bed, lest he wrinkle Mrs. Korper's sheets),
carefully taking the box from the suitcase and placing it on the floor in front of him.
He flipped through the stack of printed papers, quickly glancing at the top and bottom stacks—all
blank, nothing to be found. He put the box back in the suitcase, looking again, only
removing some from the top to lift the bundle of papers printed "The Writer's Unparalleled Best Friend" a little higher. Almost
involuntarily, his eyes quickly swept over the pale blue silhouette.
Gently, he untied the paper strip and carefully pulled it out of the paper package, his movements cautious as if afraid of tearing the smooth
packaging. Now he could freely examine the papers. After flipping through them, he discovered that,
except for the top and bottom hundred or so sheets, the rest all had an identical rectangular notch in the middle
, leaving only a narrow edge around the perimeter. These notches overlapped to form a rectangular hole, inside which was
something.
He couldn't determine what it was. It was light brown with a hint of pink, looking like
smooth artificial leather. There were many of them, but the folding method was very clever, so they could
fit perfectly and tightly into the hole in the middle of the paper.
He didn't dare touch it again. After pondering for several minutes, he vigorously rubbed his fingertips with his shirt until his
fingers were almost dry and oil-free before pinching the corner of the top layer and slowly peeling it open. He
discovered that underneath were even more identical things.
He put the unfolded layer back, making sure he could fold it back the same way. Then he continued to uncover the next layer.
He quickly discovered that the substance had an irregular shape, almost certainly a single large piece; therefore
, folding it into a tight rectangle would require considerable patience and great skill. So he
began to unfold it very slowly, occasionally pausing to try folding it back up. More than an hour passed, and from the unfolded
parts, he was able to determine what it was.
Was he sure? It didn't resemble anything he had ever seen before.
It was a human skin-like material, made of some very similar substance. The top layer, the first
piece to be uncovered, was on the back, which was why it was unclear what it was. If possible
, it could be considered a balloon, the only difference being that a balloon is much smaller when deflated than when inflated
. Slim could only conclude that it was a life-size mannequin over five feet long.
The hair, in particular, was astonishing; if it weren't for the wrinkled, glued-together hair, it would have looked real.
It had Celia's face.
Slim closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he realized it was indeed real. He held his breath,
extended his index finger, and carefully and slowly pushed open the left eyelid of the human skin. Beneath it was an eye—
a pale blue eye, slightly moist on the surface, but flat.
Slim sighed in relief, closed the eye, leaned back, and sat on his heels.
Kneeling on the floor for so long, his legs had become numb.
He looked around again, banishing the unreal illusions from his mind, and then began folding the thing again
. It took him a while, but when he finished, he was certain he had folded it correctly.
He put the printer paper back in the box, then into his suitcase, stuffed it under the bed, and finally stood blankly in
the center of the room. This was how he looked when he was deeply lost in thought.
After a moment, he began to examine the ceiling. Like many old houses, the ceiling was
made of patterned tinplate. Much of the sheet metal was peeling and rusty; rust was everywhere, and in one or two
places, the edges of the sheet metal had drooped. Slim listened intently at the doorway for a while,
nodded to himself with satisfaction, pulled the handrail, went out, locked the door behind him, and went back upstairs.
He returned to his floor, stood in the hallway for a while, and began calculating the positions of doors and windows in the foyer
to pinpoint the same things downstairs. Then he went into his room.
His room was smaller than most, but fortunately, it had a real wardrobe,
not a rickety, floating closet. He crawled in, knelt down, and found the old, unpainted
floor so loose that he couldn't help but snort with satisfaction.
Moving one foot aside, he found it easy to reach the gap between the third and fourth floors. He removed
the board until there was a space about fourteen inches wide. Then, almost silently, he began
cleaning away the grime and lime. He did this with extreme care, because when he finally broke through the tinplate in the roof,
he had to make sure not a single speck of dust fell into the room below. He did this all day, finally finishing
the preparations in the afternoon. He began to pry open the tinplate with a knife.
It was thinner and softer than he had worst imagined; so he almost cut
through it on the first try. He carefully gripped the sharp knife, inserted it into the small groove he had just made, and slowly cut downwards. When he had cut
less than an inch, he lifted the knife, pressed the tip against the sheet metal at a small angle, cut about a
sixteenth of an inch, then turned it again, repeating the cut along the previous path until
he felt the width was sufficient.
He checked the time and then returned to Celia. Stone lingered in his room for a long time, admiring
the appearance of the work he had just done on the other side. He was quite satisfied. The small hole, which had remained
a mere step from the corner above the bed, was like a thin pencil line, obscured by
the intricate patterns of dust and rust on the tinplate. He returned to his room and sat down to wait.
He heard the old house come alive with the evening rush of life, a shout here, a door closing there,
footsteps echoing on the stairs. He ignored them all as he sat down on his bed. His hands
were clasped between his knees, his eyes half-open, motionless like a fully fueled, oiled, and tuned
machine, just waiting for the slightest touch of a switch. Just like that, Celia. The faint
sound of Stone's footsteps startled him.
To use his new peephole, he had to lie prone on the floor, half in the closet and half out
, so that his head was in the hole, just enough to see the floor below. Since he was doing it entirely voluntarily, any
inconvenience was worth the trouble—a mentality shared by many other enthusiastic enthusiasts, such as rock climbers,
cave explorers, duck hunters, or birdwatchers… When she turned on the light, he saw her with satisfaction,
most of the floor, the third under the door, and the bathroom sink.
She had rushed in, as hurried and flustered as he knew her. As she turned on the light
, she had obviously tossed her handbag onto the bed; because when the light came on, it was in mid-air. She
hadn't even noticed where the bag was, just hurriedly groped under the bed to pull out the old handbag, opened it, took
the box, took out the papers, untied the blue ribbon, removed the stack of papers covering it, revealing the hole she had dug inside.
She dug out what was hidden there, shaking it like a grocer opening a paper bag, so that
the long, soft thing stretched out. She carefully laid it on the linoleum carpet, arranging it with arms
at either side, legs slightly apart, face up, neck straight. Then she lay down on the floor,
head to head with the deflated bladder. She placed her hands above her head, pinching what should have been the ears on her flattened portrait
, adjusting it for a moment until it was aligned with the top of her head.
Slim faintly heard a crisp "snap," like someone suddenly
flicking a long fingernail off the edge of a thumbnail.
Her hand slid to the other cheek, pulling hard on the empty head, as if trying to establish a
connection. Now the other head seemed to be glued to hers.
Then she lay down, wearily placing her hands on the floor beside her body, closing her eyes, just as she had
positioned the "other" one.
A long time passed, and nothing happened, except for the strange way she breathed. She breathed deeply,
but very slowly, like the slow-motion panting of someone after a long run. About ten minutes passed like this
. Her breathing became shallower and even slower than before, until, after half an hour, he
could hardly feel it anymore.
Slim remained motionless for over an hour, until his body screamed in protest
and his head throbbed with eye strain. He hated moving, but he had to. He quietly
stepped out of the closet, stood up, and stretched. He comfortably savored this luxury. He felt
the need to think carefully about what he had just seen. But he knew clearly that he couldn't
—not now.
After relaxing a bit, he climbed back into the closet, put his head in the hole, and looked directly into the peephole.
Nothing had changed. She still lay there quietly, completely relaxed, so much so that her palms were
turned upwards.
Slim continued to look. Just as he was about to conclude that the girl would lie there all night and
that further observation would be pointless, he saw her temple suddenly twitch, then twitch again. This
continued for a moment, then the empty sac on the top of her head began to fill out.
Celia. Stone began to deflate.
Slim was utterly shocked, involuntarily holding his breath until he couldn't hold it any longer.
The whole process, once it began, proceeded rapidly. It was as if "something" was being transferred from the girl's clothed
body to her naked body. That "something," whatever it might be, must be liquid, because
only liquid can freely fill a soft container in this way, or slowly and evenly flatten a soft container
. Slim saw that the fingers, which had been resting on the palm,
slowly stretched out due to the expansion, slightly bent like a normal hand when relaxed. The elbows moved slightly,
resting more normally against the body. Yes, it was now a body.
The other was no longer a body. It lay ridiculously limp inside the clothes, the sleeping face
slightly distorted after being flattened. The fingers were too soft to support their own weight and fell onto the palm. The shoes
collapsed loosely to either side, heels overlapping, toes pointing in opposite directions.
The entire exchange took less than ten minutes, and then the newly filled body moved.
It tentatively bent its arms, bent its knees, stretched its legs, and sat up with its back to the floor. Its eyes
opened, trembling. It placed its arms on its head, performing some nimble and skillful movements. Slim heard another
soft-hard connection, a "click," and now the emptied head fell straight to the floor.
The new Celia. Stone sat up, sighing as she gently rubbed her hands on her body, as if trying to
speed up circulation and restore sensation to her cold skin. She stretched, as comfortably as Slim
had done just minutes before. She looked well-rested and vibrant.
On the top of her head, Slim glimpsed a crack, revealing something damp and white, but it
was closing. A moment later, there was nothing on the top of her head except a small groove in her hair.
She sighed again and stood up. She grabbed the other garment by the neck, picked it up from the floor,
shook it off, and tossed it onto the bed. She carefully picked up the clothes, unfolded them, and arranged them in the room.
Underwear was in the basin, tops and skirts hung on hangers in the closet.
For some purpose, she calmly walked to the bathroom, leaving Slim with only her calves in sight.
He heard the same faint sound coming from inside, the same sound he'd heard outside her door before,
as if she were washing underwear. She appeared at the opportune moment, took some hangers from the closet to the bathroom, and returned
with the underwear hanging on the hangers. She hung them on the open closet door. Then she picked up the
crumpled, empty garment from the bed, shook it again, rolled it up, and took it into the bathroom.
Slim heard a longer sound of running water and scrubbing, as if it had been soaped and
rinsed twice. Then she came out shaking the thing, which looked obviously wrung out, ran it through a wooden
clothes hanger, flattened it, and hung it on the horizontal bar of the hanger at her waist, along with other clothes, on the closet door.
Afterward, she lay down on the bed, neither sleeping, nor reading, nor even resting—she seemed to
have rested very thoroughly—she was just waiting to do something. At this point, Slim's bones
began to complain again, and he quietly crept back away from the peephole, put on his jacket and
shoes, and went outside to find something to eat. An hour later, when he returned home, she had turned off the lights, and
he couldn't see anything. He spread his jacket in the closet to prevent light from leaking from his room through the peephole into the downstairs ceiling
, closed the door, read some comics for a while, and went to bed.
The next day, he began to follow her.
He didn't try to guess what might be strange about her, or what hidden secrets she might reveal
. He simply focused on gathering evidence before considering analysis.
He discovered that her daytime activities, if one might say, were more
astonishing than any wildest guess. She worked at a small convenience store on the east side of the street. Her lunch was in the store's dining area, consisting of a
green salad and a staggering amount of milk. After work in the evening, she would only drink a small
glass of milk at a hot dog stand and eat nothing else.
Her pace slowed at this time, and she walked with obvious fatigue. Only when she was almost home would she
quicken her pace again, suppressing an intense urge to rush into her room, and then… engage in something more pleasurable.
Her entire activity was witnessed; Slim, though initially disbelieving
, was now compelled to believe it.
A week passed, and Slim spent three days secretly following her, and every evening he spied on her
strange ritual. Every 24 hours, she would change her body, carefully washing and drying it; when she wasn't home,
she would fold up another one.
During that week, she only went out twice, once at midnight, for a walk in front of her apartment or to wander around the neighborhood—
more like a routine than anything else.
At work, she was consistently silent, but not unnaturally so; when others spoke to her, she
responded in a very soft, unpleasant voice. She had no friends; she maintained
her aloofness by using excuses like lack of interest, inability to find anyone, and not needing anyone. She showed no personal interest, never going to the movies or the park. She didn't date, not
even with girls. Slim guessed that she didn't sleep at night either, just quietly waiting in the dark
for it to be time to get up and go to work.
Slim thought for a long time and finally concluded: in the society we live in, among the bustling crowds
, many unfamiliar beings are carefully and strictly guarding certain wondrous secrets if they
are not allowed to be revealed. If a person likes to sleep hanging upside down like a bat, and can design
a sleeping position so that no one can see him or where he sleeps, then of course, this bat-like person might
sleep all day.
However, if they cannot completely imitate humans, they don't necessarily have to live like humans; even humans themselves...
They were all so different. Celia Stone's peculiarity didn't frighten Slim, which reflected
his eccentric nature.
He was still the same, except that, if anything, he was more composed than before he observed her.
He knew what she did in the room, how she lived. Before, he knew nothing. Now
he knew. This made him happier.
He was still very curious. But his curiosity didn't lead him to strike up a conversation with her on the stairs or in the street, like
other men might, to get to know her, to understand her. He was too shy to do that.
Nor would he go around telling anyone about the strange behavior he'd seen each evening; that wasn't his style. In his opinion
, she hadn't done anything wrong. He believed that everyone had the right to live and fight for it, if they could.
However, his curiosity had changed somewhat. He didn't want to ponder what kind of creature it was,
whether its ancestors, like humans, had gone through a cave-dwelling era, developing and evolving alongside humans, evolving to
the point where they now wore the cloak of human clerks. He couldn't yet conclude that, in the face of
the challenges of survival, the best way for a species to coexist with humans was not to fight them, but to become
one of them.
No, Slim's thoughts were far less complex. He only cared about things simpler, more fundamental than these things
. He shifted his focus from "what is it" to "what will happen."
So on the eighth day, a Tuesday, he went into her room again, took out the bag, opened it, took out
the box, opened it, took out the paper, moved the blue ribbon aside, removed the stack of papers covering it, and took out the second
Celia. Saton, placed her on the bed, and then put the paper, the blue ribbon, the box lid, and the bag back in their original places. He put the folded bag under his shirt, went out, carefully 　　locked the door
in his peculiar way , and went upstairs.
He placed his spoils under the four shirts in the last drawer, sat down, and
waited for Celia. Saton returned home.
She was a little late that day—about twenty minutes. The lateness seemed to increase her fatigue and
her urgency; she rushed into the house, her steps frantic. She looked pale and haggard, her hands
trembling. She hastily dragged her bag from under the bed, grabbed the box, opened it, and unlike her usual actions
, turned the box upside down and emptied its contents.
Seeing only papers inside, some with a rectangle cut out of the middle, some intact, she was stunned. She huddled
by the bed; those two minutes seemed endless to her. Then she slowly stood up and looked around.
She rummaged through the pile of papers again, finding nothing. Despairing, she let out a weak sound, a
sigh, a sorrowful sob, and then the room fell silent.
She dragged herself to the window, her shoulders slumped wearily. For a long time, she gazed
at the city outside, watching night fall, the city draped in a black cloak, the streetlights flickering, each
a symbol of life, yet also a harbinger of its inevitable demise. She drew the curtains and returned to the bedside.
She piled the papers with her soft fingers, then carried them to the dressing table. She took off her shoes and
placed them neatly on the floor beside the bed. She remained lying on the bed in that extremely relaxed manner, arms outstretched
, legs slightly parted.
Her face was like a mask, the facial tissues beginning to sunken. Her complexion was flushed, appearing sickly. There was a
brief breath, but only a brief one. Her upper abdomen twitched for a moment, but only for a moment. Then nothing more
.
Slim left the peephole, retreated, and sat on the floor, deeply troubled. He was merely curious
; he didn't want her to be sick, much less die. He was certain she was dying. How could he know
the needs of this kind of sleep-altering creature? How could he know the consequences of delaying the alternation of bodies? How could he know about
the structure of this creature? He had planned to sneak down the next day while she was away and return it to its owner. He just wanted to see,
just wanted to know what would happen, just wanted to satisfy his curiosity.
Should he call the doctor?
She didn't call the doctor. She hadn't even tried; she should know her situation well. (If
the survival of a species depends on keeping secrets, then for the survival of the group, the individual should die silently.)
Well, maybe not calling the doctor meant she would be fine. Besides, the doctor would definitely ask a lot of stupid questions
.
She would probably have to tell the doctor about her other skin condition... If Slim called the doctor
, then Slim would be the one being questioned.
Slim didn't want to get involved. He was just curious.
He thought, "Let's go see again."
He climbed back into the wardrobe, his head close to the small hole. He immediately realized, Celia. Saton was definitely not going to make it
. Her face was swollen, her eyes bulging, and her tongue, purple, was drooping—long, hanging down the corner of her mouth
. Just as he saw it, her face became even darker and more wrinkled, like carbon paper crumpled and then unfolded
.
He had another impulse to take what he had hidden and rush down to return it to her, but this impulse
quickly vanished when he saw a wisp of smoke coming out of her nostril, and then—Slim
yelled, jerked away from the hole, and slammed his head hard against the floor, covering his eyes with his hands. If you took an
extra-large light bulb and burned it an inch away from you, you would smell what Slim smelled through
the hole in the tin ceiling.
He was in excruciating pain, and the image of flickering flames flashed before his eyes. After a while, he struggled to open his eyes;
it hurt, and the shape of the hole appeared before his eyes, but at least he could see.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. He smelled the smoke from the burning building, a
greasy and unpleasant odor he had never smelled before. There were shouts, violent banging on the door, followed by screams.
The incident was reported in the newspapers the next day. The report was very mysterious. Charles Volt had reported on similar
cases many times before—people were burned by a violent heatwave, but their clothes and sheets were intact, making an autopsy
impossible. The newspapers said it might be a heatwave unknown to humankind, or perhaps only a very strong
and rapid heatwave could cause such an effect. The report said the deceased had no relatives, left no clues
, and no suspects, leaving the police shrouded in mystery.
Slim didn't tell anyone anything. He was no longer curious about it. That night he
sealed the small hole, and the next day, after reading the report, he wrapped his belongings, which
smelled of decay and couldn't be opened, in newspaper. On his way to the law firm on Wednesday, he threw them
in the trash.
After his lawsuit was settled, he moved that afternoon.
[The End]

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