Mirage (ON HOLD for revision)

Chapter 17: If it's really painful, then scream

“She just doesn’t talk.”

Art stood by the doorway of the women’s ward the following afternoon, staring at the seemingly lifeless figure of the girl on the bed. The young mother took a liking to him, or rather, she was happy that someone else besides Mari’s younger brother was taking an interest in her.

“Not even a single word?” Art asked in disbelief.

“Her brother comes here every day, reading and talking to her like a fool. But he doesn’t seem to mind.”

“What happened to her?” Art asked hesitantly, painfully aware that he was prying into other people’s lives without the right to do so.

“Life, I guess?”

It was Art’s first time seeing anything like that, an empty, living vessel so much like a conch shell in the way a disfigured mirror of her past echoes with just one look at her.

“You can try to talk to her, you know. No one would mind. Her brother has school so he only comes in the evenings. It may help her come back faster with more people waiting for her,” the woman perused, looking at Art’s troubled expression. He looked pained by holding back the urge to come closer, if only by curiosity.

“Is it really ok?” Art asked in confirmation, taking a tentative step into the room.

“Go ahead,” the woman answered as she rocked her baby to sleep. “But I doubt she would go back. If I were her, I would rather just die,” the woman whispered to herself.

Art saw a stool at the corner of his eyes and gingerly pulled it closer to the bed, moving back a little when his knees touched the cold frame. It gives off an eerie feeling, the nothingness in her eyes in stark contrast with the evidence on her body.

“Hi,” Art mumbled awkwardly, turning his face away in embarrassment as if she could see him. “My name is A—“

He hesitated for a moment, staring at his calloused hands. In the evenings, he would make scale models until his eyelids could barely hold itself open, dismantling them by morning so no one would know. When perfect has already been set, and beautiful defined, there really isn’t much room for anything but to live it up.

“Mari, my name is Obra,” Art continued, almost in a whisper, as if what was said is especially only for Mari to hear. “It’s a pretty disgusting name, isn’t it? My mother gave me that name. It means ‘art’.”

He lost track of all the mundane and unimportant things he said, going on and on about architecture at the risk of seeming like a fanatic. But then again, he admitted that he is one. By the time he all but discussed their whole introduction to architecture textbook, it was already evening.

“Ah crap, it’s already this late. Your brother must be coming soon,” Art said distractedly as he looked at the sky outside the window. It was overcast, and he couldn’t tell anything else except it was already night. He returned the stool to where it was and looked around the room for the mother. But she was already asleep. He checked his watch and saw it was already 9p.m. “That’s odd. Where’s your brother, Mari?”

Nothing.

He slumped on the stool, leaning on the wall for support, as he stared at Mari.

“What exactly is there to gain in that silence? If it’s really painful, you should scream.”

Art waited for a reaction for several seconds, which didn’t amount to much.

“How stubborn.”

 Without having consciously decided to, Art stayed rooted on the spot through the night, staring at Mari as if willing her to wake up.