Another Celia

Another Celia: You live in a cheap apartment with a door made of cheap pine, an old-fashioned single-lock door with 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 lock it again the same way when you come out. Slim Varsey once lived in such a place, and perhaps out of boredom, he did such things. 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'd extend his sick leave as long as he could, 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, enjoying his leisurely days. "Slim isn't dishonest," his mother had told the juvenile court years ago, "he's just naturally curious." She was absolutely right. If Slim uses your bathroom, he can't possibly leave your medicine cabinet unchecked. Ask him to get a plate from your kitchen, and a minute later he'll have already checked your fridge and 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 thinks 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 might not see it as an advantage, but it's a sense of security, or a compensation for being labeled a shy, clueless person. Whatever you call it, you'll find that when he talks to you, he seems to know everything about you: he knows how many coats you have in your closet, how long your phone bill has been outstanding, 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 lodgings were a godsend. Rows of rickety doors, each one a temptation. He touched nothing (and if he did, he carefully put them back in their original positions), moved nothing, and in a week, he knew far more about all the tenants than his landlady, Mrs. Kepper, knew. Each secret operation yielded surprising discoveries, the more he did, the more he learned. He not only knew what these people had, but also what they did, where they did it, how many times, for how much money, and how often they did it. And of course, he knew the reasons behind almost everything. Almost everything… Celia arrived. At different times, in different places, Slim discovered many strange things in the 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 lived in the building who collected bottles of all sizes and capacities, but all were low, round with long necks. A man on the second floor had a disassembled bottle… A .25 caliber automatic rifle and half a box of ammunition. .38 caliber bullets were hidden in the top drawer of the desk, used to protect her belongings. Another 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 photographs, only one of which was displayed each day. Seven days a week, eight photographs—Slim pondered the mystery: a new favorite every day, a different face every week. They were all movie stars. Different rooms bore different marks, left different impressions, wore different cloaks, and reflected different moods. A woman returned home impeccably dressed, and after washing off the grime of makeup, the entire room became her domain: distorted figures crowded into the mirror, clothes hung on the old gas nozzles, and the house, as its occupant wished, became welcoming, so comfortable and peaceful, like a layer of skin enveloping her body. But Celia Satton's room was different. Slim Varsey caught a glimpse of her as she and Mrs. Korper went up to the third floor. Mrs. Korper walked slowly, so that even though others had no interest, she could block the way ahead, giving those behind her enough time to admire her closely. Only Slim was interested in everything. For days, Celia remained a blur in Slim's memory. Saton'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 blouse, a coat, a hat. She carried a bag. When you walk past a shop window selling bags and trunks, 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 crowd of voices. 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, for it allowed for comparison). He went back, his gaze sweeping across the room. First, he had to be sure he wasn't mistaken; a man's intuition in this regard was unusual. Then, for a moment, he simply couldn't believe his eyes; everything was unbelievable. 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 was no toothbrush, toothpaste, or soap. The wardrobe contained only two metal hangers and a wooden hanger, the wooden one covered in dirty wadding; nothing else. The shower and the medicine cabinet were empty except for the meager supplies provided by the stingy Mrs. Kemper. Slim went to the bed and carefully turned over the faded sheets. Perhaps she had slept there, 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 as he made the sheets, restoring them to their original position. Suddenly, Slim realized something, slapped his forehead—a slap that aggravated his wound—he had completely forgotten about the bag. It was under the bed, placed there, not hidden there. He didn't touch it at first, but examined it carefully to ensure a precise restoration. Then he pulled the bag 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 Best Friend, 15% Cotton, Trademark Registered." Slim took the papers out of the box, looked at the bottom, flipped through the first and last few pages, shook his head, put them back in their place, closed the box, and put them in his backpack. Everything was back to how it had been when he first saw it. He paused in the middle of the room for a moment, feeling 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 vent, the glass of which had been painted many times. He had scraped a small hole in the paint so that he could stand by the bed and see through the hole 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 ran up and down countless times, making numerous adjustments before finally finding the right angle so he could see the second-floor platform through the mirror's reflection. Just as a radar detector can distinguish between large and small luminous points as flying objects or weather changes, Slim had become an expert, able to identify the blurry, distant figures in the mirror. He could monitor half the tenants' movements without leaving the apartment. At 6:12, his eyes lit up; he saw Celia in the mirror, and the unfamiliarity vanished as he saw her go upstairs. She leaped over two flights of stairs, her heels springing to life. Reaching the platform, 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 the cars, fences, stairs, and doors, revealing only feigned interest. In reality, her heart had already retreated into the room, merely waiting for her body to follow. There must be something inside, or she had to do something there; she couldn't wait. That eagerness was like that of someone about to see 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 sensing 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—she never went out at night. She was the kind of person with an extremely regular life, something Slim knew perfectly well. Making sure he wasn't seen, he slipped to Celia's door and stood there. She was inside, without a doubt. Light shone from all sides of the old, worn door. Even in complete silence, Slim could sense the difference between someone being there and someone not… it was utterly still. Heaven knows why she was in such a hurry to come back. And when she returned to do what she wanted to do, or had to do, he couldn't hear a sound, couldn't detect a single movement. Slim stood there for about six or seven minutes, his throat tense, trying to suppress his breathing. Finally, disappointed, he retreated upstairs to his room, lay on his bed, and pondered endlessly. He could only wait. He could wait, after all. No one takes a long time to do anything, especially when still. An hour, two hours… five hours passed. At 11:30, a slight noise came from downstairs. Slim, already half asleep, immediately jumped out of bed and rushed to the small hole in the vent. He saw Celia slowly walk into the hallway, 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, with an air of ease. What followed wasn't so important; he could take his time. Slim gripped the doorknob of his bedroom door, but he decided he had to wait. The temptation to rush to her room was great, of course, but caution was paramount. He hadn't known she had a habit of going out at night, so he didn't know when she'd return. Taking the risk would be foolish; if caught, it would be all over. He sighed, impulse yielding to reason, and returned to bed. Fifteen minutes later, he heard Celia's slow footsteps coming up the stairs. A sleepy smile spread across his face, relieved he hadn't been rash. He fell asleep. The closet was empty, the ashtray empty, the medicine cabinet empty. Under the bed was only the cheap backpack containing a box filled with a thick stack of printer paper, the paper bound only by a shiny blue ribbon. Slim flipped through the paper, turning it over and over. He shook his head, mechanically, and meticulously, reconstructing everything. “Whatever that girl does tonight,” he said dejectedly, “she’ll leave a mark, just as she’ll always 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; and (2) prove to Slim and the world that the scars must have been there years ago. He was utterly bewildered. IfIf Slim had any other distinguishing characteristic besides his immense curiosity about everything, it would be shyness. These two traits were intertwined, but his determination prevailed. His decisions were 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 impatiently and was now doing something silently. Whatever she was doing… Slim had long understood that speculation was useless and 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 an extra handkerchief. Perhaps… well, he'd think about it in the morning. In the morning, no "perhaps" happened. 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 bearing the inscription "The Writer's Unparalleled Best Friend." 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, as if afraid of tearing the smooth packaging. Now he could examine the papers with abandon. After flipping through them, he found 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, and looked 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 thinking hard for a few 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 found that there were more identical things underneath. He put the untied layer back, making sure he could fold it back the way it was. Then he continued to peel open the bottom layer. He quickly noticed that the substance had an irregular shape, almost certainly a single large piece; folding it into a tight rectangle would require considerable patience and great skill. Therefore, he began to unfold it very slowly, occasionally pausing to refold it. More than an hour passed, and from the parts that had been opened, 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 something very similar. The top layer, the first piece to be peeled back, 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 human model over five feet long. The hair, in particular, was astonishing; if it weren't for the wrinkled, matted hair, it would have looked like a real face belonging to Celia. Slim closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he confirmed it was indeed true. He held his breath, extended his index finger, and carefully, slowly pushed open the left eyelid of the human skin. Beneath it was an eye—yes, a light blue eye, slightly moist, but flat. Slim sighed in relief, closed the eye, and leaned back, sitting on his heels. Kneeling on the floor for so long, his legs had unknowingly become numb.
He looked around again, banishing the unreal illusions from his mind, and then began folding the thing again. It took him quite a while, but when he finished, he was certain he'd done it correctly. He put the printer back in the box, then into his suitcase, tucked it under the bed, and finally stood blankly in the middle of the room. This was how he looked when he was deep 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; there was rust 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 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, though smaller than most, was fortunate to have a proper wardrobe, not a rickety floating closet. He crawled in, knelt down, and snorted contentedly at the looseness of the old, unpainted floor. Moving one footboard aside, he found it easy to access the gap between the third and fourth floors. He removed the boards until he had about fourteen inches of space. 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 ceiling, he had to ensure not a speck of dust fell into the room below. He spent the whole day doing this, finally finishing the preparations in the afternoon. He began prying 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 chipped away. When he had cut less than an inch long, he lifted the knife, pressed the tip against the sheet metal, turned it slightly, cut about a sixteenth of an inch, then turned again, repeating the cut along the same path until he felt the width was sufficient. He checked the time, 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 very satisfied. The small hole, from beginning to end, was only a step away from the corner above the bed, like a thin pencil line, lost in 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 again in the evening rush, a shout here, a door closing there, footsteps echoing on the stairs. As he sat down on his bed, he ignored them all. 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. Saton's faint 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 avid 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 below the door, and the bathroom sink. She had rushed in, as hurried and flustered as he knew it. 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 didn't even notice where the bag was; she 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 the surface, revealing a hole she'd dug out. She shook it like a grocer opening a paper bag, so the long, soft thing stretched out. She carefully laid it on the linoleum carpet, arranging it with her arms at her sides, legs slightly apart, face up, neck straight. Then she lay down on the floor, head to head with the deflated airbag. She placed her hands above her head, pinching what should have been the ears on her flattened portrait, adjusting them for a moment until they were 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 looked like it was glued to hers. Then she lay down too, wearily placing her hands on the floor at her sides, closing her eyes, just as she had positioned herself for "the other." A long time passed, and nothing happened, except for the strange way she was breathing. She was breathing deeply, but very slowly, like someone panting heavily after a long run. This went on for about ten minutes, then her breathing became shallower and even slower than before, until after half an hour he could barely feel it. Slim remained motionless there for over an hour, until his body screamed in protest.
And his head throbbed with pain from eye strain. He hated moving, but he had to. He quietly slipped out of the closet, stood up, and stretched. He comfortably indulged in this luxury. He felt the need to think carefully about what he had just seen. But he knew perfectly well he couldn't—not now. After relaxing a bit, he climbed back into the closet, put his head in the hole, and stared unblinkingly at the peephole. She remained lying there quietly, completely relaxed, so much so that her palms were turned upwards. Slim continued to watch. 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 again. This continued for a moment, and then the empty sac above her head began to fill out. Celia. Stone began to deflate. Slim was utterly shocked, involuntarily stopping his breathing until he couldn't hold it any longer. Once the process began, it 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, had to be liquid, because only liquid could freely fill a soft container in this way, or cause a soft container to slowly and evenly flatten. Slim saw that the fingers, which had been stacked on the palm, slowly stretched out due to the expansion, slightly bent like a normal hand when relaxed. The elbows moved a little, 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 slumped loosely to either side with a thud, the heels stacked together, the toes pointing in opposite directions. The entire exchange took less than ten minutes, and then the newly filled body moved. It tentatively bent its hands, bent its knees and then stretched its legs, sitting up with its back to the floor. Its eyes opened with a tremor. It placed its arm above its head, making some nimble and skillful movements. Slim heard another soft-hard "click," and now the empty head fell straight to the floor. The new Celia. Stone sat up, sighing as she gently wiped her hands on her body, as if trying to speed up circulation and restore feeling to her cold skin. She stretched, as comfortably as Slim had done just minutes before. She looked well-rested and full of life. Above her head, Slim glimpsed a crack, revealing some damp white substance, but it was closing. A moment later, there was nothing on her head except a small groove in her hair. She sighed again and stood up. She picked up the other, dressed woman from the floor by the neck, shook off the clothes in a few swift movements, and tossed them onto the bed. She carefully picked up the clothes, spread them out, and arranged them in the room. Underwear was in a basin, and tops and skirts were hung on hangers in the closet. For some purpose, she calmly walked to the bathroom, so Slim could only see her calves. He heard the same faint sound coming from inside, the same sound he had heard outside her door before, as if she were washing underwear. She appeared at the appropriate time, 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 took the crumpled empty shell from the bed, shook it, 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 hanger, flattened it, and hung it on the horizontal bar of the hanger at her waist, along with the other clothes, on the closet door. Then she lay down on the bed, not to sleep, not to read, and not even to rest—she looked perfectly well-rested—she was just waiting to do something. At this point, Slim's bones began to groan again. He quietly crept back, moved 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 could see nothing. He spread his jacket in the closet to prevent light from leaking 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 speculate about what might be strange about her or what hidden secrets she might reveal. He simply collected evidence steadily before considering analysis. He discovered that her daytime activities, if one could say so, were more surprising than any wildest guess. She worked at a small convenience store on the east side. Her lunch was in the convenience store's dining area, consisting of a green salad and a staggering amount of milk. After get off work in the evening, she only drank a small cup of milk at a hot dog stand and ate nothing else. Her pace slowed down at this time, and she walked with obvious fatigue. Only when she was almost home would she quicken her pace, 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 forced to believe it. A week passed, and Slim spent three days secretly following her, and every evening observing her strange rituals. Every 24 hours, she would change her body, carefully washing and drying it; when she wasn't home, she would fold up the other one. During that week, she only went out twice at midnight, for walks in front of her apartment or wandering around the neighborhood—clearly more of a routine than anything else. At work, she was consistently silent, but not unnaturally so; when spoken to, she would respond 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 needing no one. She showed no personal interest, never going to the movies or the park. She had no dates, not even with girls. Slim guessed that she didn't sleep at night either, but simply waited quietly in the darkness for it to be time to get up for work. Slim thought for a long time and finally concluded: in the society we live in, amidst the bustling crowds, many unfamiliar life forms 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. If they cannot completely imitate humans, they don't necessarily have to live like humans; even humans themselves are incredibly diverse. Celia Stone's peculiarity didn't frighten Slim, which also reflected his eccentric personality. He was still the same; if there was any difference, he was now more settled 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 even happier. He was still very curious. However, his curiosity didn't lead him to approach her on the stairs or on the street, like other men might, to get to know her and understand her. He was too shy to do so. Nor would he go around telling anyone about the strange behavior he'd seen each evening; that wasn't his style. In his view, she hadn't done anything wrong. He believed that everyone had the right to live and strive for life, if they could. Yet, his curiosity had shifted 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 to their current state, cloaked in the guise 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 thinking wasn't that complicated. He only cared about things simpler, more fundamental than that. 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 papers, moved the blue ribbon aside, removed the stack of papers covering the surface, and took out the second Celia. Saton placed her on the bed, then put the papers, the blue ribbon, the box lid, and the bag back in their original places. He put the folded contents of the 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 came 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 restlessly, her steps frantic. She looked pale and haggard, her hands trembling. She haphazardly dragged the bag from under the bed, grabbed the box, opened it, and unlike her usual actions, turned the box upside down and emptied its contents. She was stunned to see only papers inside, some with a rectangle cut out in the middle, some intact. She cowered by the bedside.Those two minutes seemed endless to her. Then she slowly stood up, looked around, and rummaged through the pile of papers again, finding nothing. Despair gripped her; 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 watched the city outside, watched night fall, the city draped in black, the streetlights flickering, each a symbol of life, yet also a sign of its inevitable end. She drew the curtains and returned to the bed. With her soft fingers, she piled the papers up and carried them to the dressing table. She took off her shoes and laid them neatly on the floor beside the bed. She remained lying on the bed in that extremely relaxed position, arms outstretched, legs slightly apart. Her face was like a mask, the facial tissues beginning to sag. Her complexion was flushed, making her look sickly. There was a brief breath, but only a brief one. Her upper abdomen twitched for a moment, but only a moment. Then nothing more. Slim stepped out of the peephole, backed down, and sat on the floor, deeply troubled. He was just curious; he didn't want her to get sick, much less die. He was certain she was dying. How could he know the needs of this sleep-substitute creature? How could he know the consequences of delaying the body replacement? How could he know the organism's mechanisms? He had planned to sneak away 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 a doctor? She didn't. She hadn't even tried; she must have known her situation well. (If a species' survival depends on keeping secrets, then for the survival of the group, the individual should die silently.)
Well, maybe not calling the doctor meant she'd be alright. Besides, the doctor would definitely ask a lot of stupid questions. She'd probably have to tell the doctor about another skin condition… If Slim called the doctor, he'd be the one being questioned. Slim didn't want to get involved. He was just curious. He thought, "Let's go check again." He climbed back into the closet, his head close to the peephole. He immediately realized, Celia. Saton was definitely not going to make it; her face was swollen, her eyes bulging, her tongue purple and drooping—long 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'd hidden and rush down to give it back to her, but that impulse quickly vanished as he saw a wisp of smoke coming out of her nostrils, and then—Slim screamed, jerked away from the peephole, his head slamming heavily against the floor, and covered his eyes with his hands. If you took an extra-large light bulb and burned it an inch away from you, you would smell the same odor Slim smelled through the small hole in the tin ceiling. He was in excruciating pain, seeing the flickering flames before his eyes. After a while, he struggled to open his eyes;
it hurt, and the shape of the small hole appeared before his eyes, but at least he could see. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. He smelled the smoke from the burning, a greasy, foul odor he had never smelled before. There were shouts, violent banging on doors, followed by screams. The next day, the story was in the papers. The reports were mysterious. Charles Volt had reported on similar cases many times—people burned by a sudden, intense heatwave, yet their clothes and sheets remained intact, making an autopsy impossible. The newspapers said it might be a heatwave unknown to humankind, or perhaps only a very strong, very rapid heatwave could cause such an effect. The reports 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 lost interest in the matter. That evening, he sealed the hole, and the next day, after reading the news, he wrapped the item he'd hidden in his shirt drawer in newspaper; it smelled rotten and couldn't be opened. On his way to the law firm on Wednesday, he threw it in the trash. He moved that afternoon after his lawsuit was settled. [End of text] [Last edited by shinyuu1988]

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