Chapter Text
The strawberries are on sale today. Buy one, get one free, and at a fair price too. Red and ripe, possibly overripe. If he buys them, he’ll need to eat them soon, or they will rot. A young boy standing next to his mother stares at him with a gaping mouth, lollipop in hand. It’s been a while since someone unabashedly stared at him. People look, always noticing his right stump and empty sleeve, but most just turn their eyes away. It’s rude to stare. The child doesn’t know that yet; he’s not conditioned to all the ways adults erase people who don’t fit into their clear-cut molds.
Erwin puts down the strawberries, smiles at the child, and moves away from the produce aisle. Instead, he strolls to the frozen food section, buying all the ready-made microwavable dinners. The picture on the carton presents a full plate of chicken pot pie. Erwin shivers, imagining the taste: bland and mushy like chewing the carton the dinner is served in. Calling it unappetizing is generous. He’ll end up ordering out, anyway. What’s the point of even pretending that he’ll eat anything he buys today? The only reason he went on this outing to the grocery store was to appease his therapist, who advised him to step outside his comfort zone and go outside his apartment, even if it was just to the nearby store.
Instead of dwelling, he shoves ten packets of the first microwavable dinners he can find into his cart, moving on autopilot, shutting his mind blank. Ice cream. Chips. Two six-packs of beer. Something harder as well, a whiskey perhaps. He needs detergent, probably? Something to clean the bathtub. He hasn’t cleaned the bathroom in... God knows how long. Mike told him to get a maid, but that’s just another person Erwin would need to communicate with and see regularly, someone he would need to show what a mess he is behind closed doors. It’s easier if he just does it alone.
As he picks up the laundry detergent, he notices a young man, a boy really, crouching on the other side of the aisle, reading the instructions on the back of the Lysol detergent bottle. The boy’s face is a juxtaposition of delicate, doll-like features—a pointy nose, soft cheeks, and sharp eyes marred by a gruesome laceration spanning from his forehead to his chin. So young, yet already marked with such violence. Erwin can’t even fathom how the boy got a scar like that.
The boy must notice Erwin’s gaze as he turns to him, slowly, carefully, like a young deer in front of an entranced hunter. His face is expressionless, a blank canvas, but it is riddled with unreachable beauty. Ancient, yet impossibly young. Ageless, like a painting in a museum on a ripped canvas. He’s never seen a face quite like it, and even if he had his inspiration back and could push through his writer’s block, he’s still not talented enough to describe this young man with words. Knowing how uncomfortable it is to have a stranger’s unwanted gaze, Erwin averts his eyes and moves to the checkout line, but he can feel it at the back of his head, those pale gray eyes burn holes into his back like lasers, tingling with white heat, branding his skin.
After Erwin checks out, he realizes he’s bought more than he can carry in his one hand. Even if he only has to walk ten minutes to his flat, the plastic bags might rip as he uncomfortably clenches them, gripping them like a fisherman does to a great catch.
“‘I may not be as strong as I think, but I know many tricks and I have resolution,’” Erwin mutters under his breath, quoting Hemingway. The words travel to him upstream from the river of his memory, filled with phrases and books. A young woman with a cart filled with fresh produce approaches him.
“Excuse me, sir, do you need help?” she asks, sheepishly. She’s probably seen him struggling with his bags and felt pity for him.
“It’s quite alright,” Erwin says, summoning the most courteous smile he can muster. “I can manage.”
Erwin nods and hangs one of the lighter bags around his stump, walking back to his flat. The plastic bags strain in his hand’s grip, their thin plastic ripping as he walks. He knows he should probably call a cab, yet he perseveres through gritted teeth. He keeps walking, beads of sweat glistening on his upper lip. It’s hot, the first really warm day of late spring. A humid summer is ahead of them. At least now he’ll have an excuse not to leave his air-conditioned flat.
Slam.
His groceries hit the pavement as the plastic bag rips. Cartons of frozen food now stare at him from the floor, as if mocking his disability. Erwin fixes his eyes on them, stunned, a sudden wave of nausea spilling in his stomach like fresh cement, filling him up from the inside until he’s stiff and unmoving. Anger surges, flaring hot. He’s had enough! In a fit of rage, he drops the bags on the floor and picks up the frozen dinners, walking to the garbage bin. He’ll throw it all out. Worthless, nutrient-deficient, poor excuses for a balanced meal! As he reaches the garbage can, a low voice calls to him.
“Oi.”
Erwin turns and finds the same scarred boy from the grocery store standing next to his spilled bags, packing them in his own empty backpack. He looks at Erwin with pale, inquisitive eyes, one milky from the injury. He’s dressed in a leather jacket and skinny ripped jeans. As he stands, Erwin notices platform combat boots that make him look taller. His large backpack dangles from his narrow shoulders, overwhelming his frame.
“What?” the boy says, rolling his eyes, brushing his bangs from his face. His voice is almost unnatural, too low for his petite stature. “I have space in my backpack.”
“Ahh, yes,” Erwin mutters, suddenly feeling ashamed of his rage. He clears his throat and picks up one of his plastic bags.
“Where do you live?” the boy asks, glancing up.
“Not far, to the right, overlooking Helos Park.”
“I see.” The boy clicks his tongue and picks up two more plastic bags from the street. “Go on, I’ll follow.”
Erwin smiles, the corners of his lips moving up with an uncomfortable stretch. He walks the familiar path to his apartment, the boy following. He’s afraid he’ll have to make small talk with his companion and explain himself in some way or another. Talk about the accident. But the boy pays him no mind. Without a single question or remark, he trails behind Erwin like a shadow. As the seconds turn to minutes, Erwin wonders if he imagined the whole encounter. He looks back; the boy still follows, eyes fixed on Erwin's back. Only now does Erwin see how small he really is. Tiny, like a hatchling dropped from the nest, with stunted wings.
‘Why did they make birds so delicate and fine as those sea swallows when the ocean can be so cruel?’ The Hemingway quote comes to him again. Perhaps he should reread the book from his youth. He hasn’t read Hemingway in a long time.
“I apologize if it’s heavy,” Erwin tries to make conversation. “It’s a few more blocks up.”
“It’s fine.”
“I can take another bag to make it easier on you.”
“Nah. Ain’t heavy.”
“I know, but—”
“I said, ain’t heavy.”
Gloomy, almost like an old man trapped in a teenager’s body, Erwin turns back and keeps walking, focusing on trying to discern the boy’s footsteps trailing behind him. There’s a sharp pain in his right shoulder, perhaps from hanging the bag on it. Perhaps imagined. Phantom pains can sting more than when he was heavily drugged and hospitalized after the accident. It’s the ghosts of the things he’s lost that hurt more than the physical pain.
They approach his apartment complex, a historical building in the town center overlooking the lush green park with a statue of a long-lost hero stabbing a giant’s head. Erwin unlocks the main door and walks into the lobby.
“There’s no elevator,” Erwin says, pointing to the staircase. “I’m afraid this is an old building, and the Heritage Preservation Board doesn’t allow any drastic renovation.”
The boy looks at the stairs and then finds Erwin’s eyes, almost cautiously. “What floor?”
“Sixth.”
The boy shrugs and, this time, steps in front of Erwin, running up the stairs with light steps, almost like he’s showing off his dexterity. He sprints like it’s nothing, not even bothering to wait for Erwin.
“Well then,” Erwin whispers under his breath and ascends, every step heavy under his feet.
He, too, didn’t mind the stairs when he was younger. It’s good exercise, he used to say. Good for keeping up his fitness. But as the years passed the stairs became longer, expanding like a Sisyphean task. And he’s not even an old man yet. Nearly forty. He might have forty more years in him. The idea of living in old age seems ridiculous, almost an unromantic chore. An extravagance.
Once he finally climbs up, the boy is waiting for him at the top of the stairs.
“Which door?” he asks unceremoniously.
“613,” Erwin replies, trying to mask how winded he is. The boy is completely unfazed and walks to Erwin’s doorstep.
“I can take it from here,” Erwin says, unlocking the door. He doesn’t want the boy to see the state of his apartment. Messy is the only word that captures it. Suddenly, a hot coil spools in his belly, a disgusting creature at the pit of his stomach—lying and watching, judging, baring its teeth with jarring glee. The boy will see what Erwin’s hiding, all the dust and empty cans and the overflowing ashtrays. I won’t. I can’t let him see.
“Really, I can manage on my own,” he adds, sterner.
“Fine,” the boy says, tucking his bangs behind his ears before crouching to unpack Erwin’s groceries. “So, do I just put your stuff on the floor?” he asks, disgusted.
“Yes, that’s alright.”
“Suit yourself,” he grumbles. He puts the food on the floor, visibly wincing. “Okay, there you go.”
Erwin nods stupidly. “Thank you for your help.”
“S’fine,” the boy grumbles, looking at his boots. “It’s whatever.”
“Well, I appreciate it. You’re very kind.”
The boy looks up, his plump lips pressed in a tight line. He clears his throat and jumps on his feet.
“Okay… well,” he stutters, his voice not as low as when he initially approached him, but with a hint of youthful innocence. “Bye then.”
He turns back and runs down the stairs, disappearing in a flash.
Erwin keeps looking after him, listening to the light footsteps descending all six floors in seconds. He smiles and unlocks the door, greeted by the dusty, stale air. He sighs and walks to the kitchen, unpacking the groceries. Once he’s done, he sits on the burgundy couch, covered in scribbled papers. He lights up a cigarette and takes a long inhale, but the smoke doesn’t sit right in his lungs. Instead of the usual satisfaction, it makes his fingertips itch. Frustrated, he takes another quick inhale and crushes the cigarette. Standing up, he walks to the window and opens the blinds, letting in the spring sunshine into his abode. He pushes open the windows, letting the light breeze in. The short boy from earlier stands in front of the window, looking up as he nervously paces on his feet. Once he spots Erwin, he waves, quickly turns away, and walks to the park with his hands tucked in his pockets.
Erwin smiles, watching his delicate frame disappear. Suddenly, the realization strikes him like a bell tolling at midnight.
He doesn’t even know the boy’s name.
Mike and Nana invite him to their son Junior’s seventh birthday. Erwin flips over the invitation, a simple card with a dinosaur on its front, contemplating how to decline politely and not hurt his best friend’s feelings. The idea of spending an afternoon drinking and eating barbecued hamburger patties with his college friends, discussing sports, their research, and their growing children brings a taste to his mouth worse than warmed beer. And then there’s Erwin, divorced, living off his book royalties from a decade-old hit novel and his father’s life insurance payout. No one asks him the uncomfortable questions about his missing arm and his ex, now married to his other best friend, Nile. Or about the accident. They only ask him about the two college classes he’s teaching at the local university as an adjunct professor and about plans for his next book. Those questions hurt more than the hard-hitting ones. It’s easier to talk about his personal tragedy than about his disappointing writing career.
He won’t go.
He sends a quick message to Mike, apologizing vaguely for not attending the birthday party and giving his best to Nanaba. Instead, he’ll order a birthday gift and send something to Junior. Not having the slightest idea what a boy his age might like, he types in “birthday gifts for a seven-year-old boy” and scrolls through lists of toys, gadgets, and electronics. He tries to remember himself as a child, just starting school. Every birthday, without fail, his father gifted him with a book, a mandatory reading. His father bought the books from an antique shop, often gifting him with rare editions that he only later came to appreciate. He walks to his bookshelves, searching for the books he received as a boy. His fingers dance over volumes of books he’s accumulated over a lifetime. Books are companions, each one coming to a person at the right time in their life when they are ready to accept them. They shape their readers, and stories become intricately interwoven in their lives. A story shapes a reader, and a reader changes a story’s meaning depending on their life experiences—one cannot exist without the other.
Finally, his eyes land on three volumes of books with yellowish covers from age: Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince. He smiles and flips through the pages, scanning the familiar illustrations. There it is, a perfect gift for a boy. So much better than a new Lego set or a video game. Toys are temporary, but books, they live forever. He visits a nearby independent bookstore and buys a copy for Junior. Leaving his apartment is usually a chore he tries to avoid, but strolling purposefully to be surrounded by books, that’s different—Erwin can do that.
He looks around his apartment, a spacious two-bedroom with tall ceilings and hardwood floors. Dust particles swirl in the golden afternoon, sparkling like swirling snowflakes. A thick coat of it rests on his mahogany commode, where he has propped his 55-inch flat screen. Four carry-out cartons lie in a pile on the coffee table in the middle of the room. He’ll clean it up later, tonight even. It’s not a big task, picking it up and throwing it in the trash, nothing major—a simple thing, not a Sisyphean task. So why is it so difficult?
After he dresses up, he leaves his apartment, walking through Helos park, lush and brimming with young people and tourists. The town is always bustling with activity, so much life and vibrancy on this summer afternoon. Erwin observes the scenes on the busy streets—a young man playing guitar, two women in summer dresses, a group of children playing in the fountain—as if he’s an audience member in an elaborate theatrical play. The life around him doesn’t seem real, but askew—palpable under his fingertips, yet somehow unreachable. He’s a stranger to this world; he’s a part of it, yet he is detached. He walks, lost in a haze, suddenly aware of every step he takes. At the bottom of his stomach, there’s a strange feeling, an instinct that something is amiss. He can’t quite pinpoint what it is, yet he’s certain. Something is off.
He blinks, squinting at the sun. Could it be the heat? But he’s suddenly painfully aware of his movements as if he’s the one being watched and every person on the street has come out to monitor him silently. He turns around, scanning his surroundings. Nothing. He finds nobody paying particular attention to him. But as he continues walking, the eerie feeling intensifies. There’s a painted target on his back, a red “X.” He’s being watched.
“I’m going mad. He turns around again. It’s his hypervigilance acting up. He should probably bring this up in therapy and unpack it. Nobody’s looking at him. It’s his own insecurity, flaring up like an old wound, making him exposed like a naked man on a stage for everyone to laugh and mock him. Stop. Stop thinking. It’s all in your head. Nobody’s looking. Nobody cares. And yet... and yet, his forehead is drenched in cold sweat.
Erwin reaches the bookstore and stops right in front of the display window, artfully decorated with a variety of books from different genres. He takes a long inhale and wipes his sweaty forehead. In the reflection, he spots something amidst the ever-moving sea of passersby—a single black dot that remains motionless. A solitary figure, standing still next to the streetlamp a couple of meters behind him. He narrows his eyes, thinking it’s a mirage, a dark spot in his vision caused by exhaustion and heat. He closes his eyes, takes a long breath, opens them, and rubs the corners of his eyes. But the black dot remains, smudging the window like a splatter of ink. This time, the figure appears closer, the edges more defined. It’s a man.
No, not a man.
A boy.
Erwin turns back, his heart leaping out of his chest.
Nothing.
He’s greeted with nothing but a river of people, each carrying on with their own business. No trace of the elusive figure.
“I’m losing my mind,” Erwin mumbles, and steps inside the bookstore.
Inside the cozy store, air-conditioned and vacant except for a middle-aged couple and a cashier, Erwin loses himself in the stacks of colorful books. Once he’s on his home turf, in this literary wonderland, he breathes easier. Still, as he passes the contemporary literature section, he cannot help but notice a stack of shiny new hardcovers; In Vino Veritas, by his college peer Zeke Yaeger. During their university days, he always followed Erwin around and worshipped the ground he walked on. Now, Zeke is a celebrated author with a bestselling travel memoir, and Erwin is what – a failure. A disappointment.
Erwin avoids the stalks of recent releases and explores children’s literature instead. He searches the alphabetized shelves and finds the book he’s looking for: The Little Prince. The same familiar cover from his childhood stares back at him—a blond boy dressed in green on a lonely asteroid.
As he approaches the cashier to check out, he notices the couple glancing at him, whispering amongst themselves. This time, he’s certain he’s the topic of their conversation. They approach him, cautious at first, the woman clutching a book in her arms.
“Excuse me,” she says with a whimper in her voice. “This is you, isn’t it? Erwin Smith—the Erwin Smith!”
She turns the book around, pointing to the back cover where Erwin’s author photo stares at him. He’s smiling, a smug thing filled with self-importance. His hair is slicked back with pomade, and he’s wearing a well-fitted suit and a cravat that his ex-wife picked for him—a picture of a man destined for greatness. Erwin can barely recognize himself.
“Guilty as charged,” Erwin says, as if waking up from a dream.
“We’re such fans, aren’t we, dear?” she exclaims, looking at her husband.
“Marleyian Prophecy is one of the best thriller series there are,” the man says. “I read it on the plane from New York to Tokyo and couldn’t put it down the entire flight.”
“A rollercoaster!” the wife adds. “How do you even come up with such wonderful twists? Just delightful!”
Erwin smiles, trying his best to mimic the man he’s supposed to be, a famous mystery writer. People rarely recognize him in public anymore. It used to happen more often when Marleyian Prophecy was topping the charts as the number-one bestseller. But that was when he was a guest on late-night shows and had a profile in the Eldian Times. Ten years later, only the people who purchase his books at an airport remember what he looks like.
“Thank you,” Erwin says. “I’m glad I provided you with some entertainment for your travels.”
“Oh! It was absolutely riveting,” the man says. “And it was hilarious, too. I kept chuckling every time the sidekick appeared. What was his name again, darling?”
“Detective Keller and Captain Engelchen.”
“Oh, yes! Captain was such a riot. So foul-mouthed.”
“That he was,” Erwin says. He doesn’t enjoy discussing his own writing. It makes him feel old, like all that promise and youthful spunk has evaporated from his body like steam. “Would you like me to sign it?”
“Please,” the woman says. “We’ll tell our book club all about it.”
Erwin autographs their copy, feeling a thick cement sitting at the bottom of his stomach. But as he’s writing his signature, it feels like he’s forging his own name. He’s no longer that Erwin Smith. That man is gone now. He died in that car crash. Or perhaps he died before. Maybe… maybe he never existed at all.
As he hands over the signed copy to the lady, he nods and turns to the register, hoping that he has had a conversation with his readers successfully, avoiding the question that’s become the bane of his existence. But here it comes, without fail.
“So, when’s the next book in the series coming out?” the husband asks.
Never. Erwin wants to throw a snide remark, ugly and vindictive, but keeps his mouth shut. Instead, he gives a rehearsed, cryptic answer.
“When the muse visits me again.”
“Of course,” the wife says, almost embarrassed, glancing at Erwin’s missing arm. She opens her mouth to say something else. That look of pity he elicits so often. “Thank you for signing the book, Mr. Smith.”
Erwin quickly pays for the book and leaves the bookstore. He almost runs home, reminded at every corner why he prefers to keep to himself, staying in a room of his own. At a nearby kiosk, he buys a pack of cigarettes and then climbs up to his dim apartment. As he steps in, he looks around at the chaos of his living space. The cleaning supplies still sit in the plastic bag on the kitchen counter, the ashtray overflowing with cigarette buds and ash. There’s an empty whiskey bottle on the coffee table. The air stinks of smoke and dust. Despicable. What would his dad say if he saw his son living like this?
Cleaning is too overwhelming. He doesn’t even know where to start. Instead he closes his apartment door, stretches, and rolls his shoulder blades. Then, he walks to the gramophone in the corner and puts on a record, one of his most beloved ones—his father’s favorite, too. He sits on the sofa, lights a cigarette, and takes a drag. Guitar chords fill the room with gentle strumming, almost like a lullaby, and a dark voice of a bard sings a melancholic tune.
There was this terrible sound
And my father went down
With a terrible wound in his side
He said, Try to go on
Take my books, take my gun
And remember, my son, how they lied
The cigarette burns in Erwin’s fingers as he listens, eyes dry, heart hollow. He swallows it all down and seals it inside him, the taste of burning ashes on the tip of his tongue. Time passes, shadows getting longer, until the last sun rays disappear and the sun drowns in the yellow river and the city smog.
And the night comes on…
The weekend passes, and so does Junior’s birthday party. Mike gives him some grief for not attending but thanks him for the present. Hange informs him that Marie stopped by with Nile and their newborn daughter. Erwin’s glad he avoided that encounter. His life with her is a blur. Although they spent a decade together, by now all the memories have faded like old photographs. When he sees a picture of his time with her, he stares at the handsome couple blankly—feeling nothing but detachment: no affection, no regret, and no anger. Inside him is a hollow, chilly space, not a place of warmth, but an empty casket.
On Tuesday, he has to leave the house to make his appointment with his therapist, Dr. Finger. It’s a pain that he can no longer do these weekly sessions virtually, but Dr. Finger said that he needs to establish a routine that gets him out of the house. For now, he’s agreed to take a walk four times a week, go to the grocery store, and attend rehabilitation therapy for his arm. He mentions his swimming routine to Dr. Finger. Since four months ago, he’s been swimming in an Olympic pool. Swimming is simple enough. No need to make eye contact in the gym or see too many people during a run. It’s just him and the unnaturally blue water. The only thing in his life that’s simple and calm. Dr. Finger is happy to see him moving his body again. She scribbles something in her notebook and smiles at him as he leaves her office.
It’s raining. One of those warm thunderstorms that appears from nowhere and is gone in a flash. Erwin forgot his umbrella. His socks have soaked from his loafers, but he doesn’t mind it. It’s peaceful. He takes a cab home and looks at the rain-streaked window as they drive back to his home, trailing each raindrop with his window, its path uncharted but predestined.
As he enters the apartment, he checks his mail, receiving only the newest literary magazine. He throws them in the trash without even flipping through the pages. Elitist junk. He walks up the stairs, leaving wet footprints behind him. As he opens the door, the air smells lighter, almost like the cloud has been lifted and the rain cleansed the stench of cigarettes. Had he left the window open? He takes off his shoes and changes into more comfortable clothes: a pair of joggers and a jumper. Hunger growls in his belly. Erwin opens his phone, tempted to order in again, but he reminds himself that he still has all those microwavable meals he bought nearly a week ago but hasn’t touched. He’s not a wasteful man, at least, he tries not to be.
Erwin opens the freezer and takes out a frozen chicken pie. He punctures the foil and preheats the oven, following the simple instructions on the box. Once he puts the meal in the oven, he opens the fridge door, reaching for a can of cool beer.
To his surprise, on the first shelf of the empty fridge, sit two cartons of strawberries, red and ripe. The same ones he held in his hands but decided not to buy. He stares at the bloody-red fruit, bursting with juices, such a stark contrast to the white emptiness surrounding it. The fridge light flickers, the faint sound buzzing. Erwin slams the door shut and steps back three paces. Then, collecting himself, he steps forward, as if daring the invisible entity sleeping inside the cold, white casket. He opens the door, thinking he dreamed the fruit up. Yet, on the shelf, the strawberries remain. Red and ready to be devoured.
He turns around, an icy shiver passing down his spine, like an icicle stuck to the tongue. Did he buy the strawberries, after all? Did he forget all about it? He’s going insane... it must be the pills. Or too much liquor or cigarettes or some other vice.
With a shivering hand, Erwin reaches into the fridge, taking the carton of strawberries. They are washed, still wet, as if they’ve just been rinsed. He opens the plastic, hearing the crinkling under his fingers. The fruit is juicy and plump, daring him to take a bite. He shouldn’t, and yet, he plucks a berry with his fingers and plops it in his mouth, takes a bite. The sweetness drips down his tongue, like nectar rushing through his veins. It tastes like spring and youth—it tastes alive.
Erwin takes another bite, savoring it, then he takes a deep breath and walks to the window. He opens the curtains, unveiling the rainy townscape. Through the streaked glass, Helos park looks greener than he’s ever seen it. It’s quiet, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle. And then, on a bench on the other end of the park, he spots something; a figure wrapped in a black jacket, sitting motionless. His heart races, fear freezing his body, the juices still dancing on his tongue. Standing up, the figure turns around, their face hidden by a dark hood.
The strawberry sours in his mouth.
The figure looks back, this time up, staring straight at his window—directly at him.
Erwin meets its eyes; one grey like the storm, the other milky-white. Scarred.
It’s him—it’s the boy.
Erwin blinks, stupefied. But the boy turns around, walking away slowly, disappearing under the curtain of heavy rain.
