2.2 Nescience (2)

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My fever went away eventually.

That was the morning I was introduced to Nfierre.

I blinked against the early morning light, the haze of fever taking a nice break and lifting her heavy drapery from my shoulders. The fatigue clocks out. The relief of the sheets, warm and oppressive skins make my own fleshsuit happy and free to be no longer damp with the lingering sweat of delirium. 

I don’t remember what I dreamt about. I don’t remember much at all.

I let out a breath. Sat up slow.

A routine. That was all I needed.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, gentle unsocks meeting heated floors with a grounding sensation. I reached for the blankets, smoothing them over with calming gestures. The husky sat where it always did, a quiet guardian at my bedside. My fingers ran absently over its head, pressing into the softness. 

*Boof.*

There. Bed made. Husky happy. The shower was next. 

Potentially the most average shower I’ve ever had. Hot water streamed over my dark skin, dragging away the remnants of my sickness, washing away the strange dreams that still clung so sweetly to the edges of my thoughts. I remember unclean film. Old film. 

But, by the time I stepped out, I remembered nothing again. 

I felt a real sensation, tangible and unending. I felt clean. Squeaky clean. I dried off my hair, dressed myself in comfy PJs, ran a comb through my damp hair, and brushed it into a resemblance of order. Where toothpaste foamed in my mouth, there was cool mint that bit at my senses and with all I had, I scrubbed away the sleep. A splash of cold water was all I needed on my face, and when the rivulets ran and dripped down the ceramic of the sink, all I could feel was that rain. 

All I had for myself was the capacity to take one, deep breath.

One that went deep, deep down.

I was a little furled up today. Clothes were baggy, the self-done bleach stains in the hoodie a bit too grungy for my tastes. ‘M’ was funny. I don’t know why I said that. ‘M’s not that funny, but a lot of her outfits were clean, neat, rigid and near to my ideas of royalty. A lot of her stuff was black, gothic, and vampiric. This stuff was hidden beneath the stuff I kept picking out, outfits that were rather simple. Bands I had never heard of, strange shows I didn’t know, and cloaks! I had to grab a book on fashion. I didn’t know much, in all honesty. What I picked today was the middle ground between the two extremes, what I labeled as “posturish grunge.” It kept itself neat and tidy, but also not tidy at all, and rather uneven and dirty. It kept the people in my head who were rather prissy unhappy with my brutish appearance, and the people who were punk in my head unhappy with my uprighteous looks. It was my favorite, because I could disappoint both sides. And when I stepped out of my room, I regretted my choices instantly.

That’s cause I bumped into her.

I didn’t just see her. I felt this lady from the moment I opened the door. She was standing about a foot away, her hand hovering somewhere around the handle. She reminded me of some sort of pop star or celebrity. The high kind. And there was this current to her, an electric static, wrong in the way déjà vu is wrong. The first thing that hit me was damn, girl, color. Her dress was this pattern of green and purple butterflies flittering about, and her jacket was a sort of red Mars-like cut. The jacket was off the sides though, and the off-shoulder cut left her collarbones exposed, delicate, precise, painted on with the finest brush anyone could. . . hope to brush with, I guess. A single blue flower was pinned just below her shoulder, almost unreal in its vibrancy. Gloves ran sleek over pale hands, green silk encasing her fingers, snug against her knuckles, her wrists. Damn, she doesn’t. . . really have it on. It’s a weird mix of shit. Like, the colors are very clash-y. I don't know if I'd draw something this loud and flashy. The gloves, they climbed her forearms like ivy, a crawling pace that went just shy of her elbows. When she shifted around, her fabric sighed. Her skin was so very pale. The kind of pale that reminded me of moonlight on fresh snow, a gleam of white marble, something sculpted rather than born.

Maybe I could make an art piece out of this. 

Then, her face. It was feminine, but it had that sort of proud, knowledgeable ‘man’ look. High cheekbones, sharp and defined, lending her an ethereal, almost inhuman elegance. Lips with this white shade, a light mark. . . the color of something ghastly pale like from some sort of white-screened game, of powder that stains your fingertips. Her hair, just as impossibly white, fell in cascading waves, catching the light with an eerie silver sheen, a shade too unnatural to be anything mortal.

But her eyes–

Her eyes, man. A bright, smoldering green, the kind that burned from within, that seared itself into the memory. They were bright acid. Intense, and I knew how intense they felt, cause they were my eyes. I knew because when the light missed the greens, they looked fully black. A black that only distorted when it had some light inside, and the light. . . did something to it. Something that made it green.

I felt my breath catch. The static didn’t fade. It didn’t settle. It didn’t allow for any comforts. I swallowed, realizing only then that I had been holding my breath.

“. . . Ah,” I managed.

She smiled.

Fuck, dude! She’s gorgeous and I just said ‘ah.’ That was my first word!

Sure, her art style of dress is. . . esoteric, to say the least, but she's gorgeous.

Her smile didn’t vanish right away. It lingered for a few seconds, like it wanted to make sure I knew it had happened. 

"You must be Jesse," she said, voice soft, low, like paper. Shit was tight. I think I nodded? I hope I nodded. My brain had turned to mush.

"I’m Nfierre," she went on, like this was all normal, like I wasn’t visibly dying. "It’s a pleasure."

“I. . . ah. . . uh. . . me too. Yeah.”

I’m so good at this. 

She nodded back and turned away, walking out to help Androkasiai in the kitchen, the smell of something cooking. Butter and what I know now to be soy, again. That weird mix of savory and rich and smoky. I could hear cloaky momma woman humming–off-key by the way–and something sizzling. My legs didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay in my room forever. Melt into the floor. Disappear. But instead I walked, because what else do you do when the world’s watching and your skin’s on backwards?

In the kitchen, mother was at the stove again, cigarette dangling from her lips, pan in one hand, wooden spoon in the other. I peeked over her shoulder. There was something in the pot that looked kinda like stew. Beef, maybe onions, carrots, and beside it, she was frying rice with cabbage, scallions, and something that I didn’t even have to smell to know was Jameson.

"You look like hell," she said without turning around. She was wearing the black fuzzy coat with the red scarf. I don’t know how she does it. The kitchen is burning hot, to the point where I have to take my hoodie off and let my ‘Zero’  shirt with the white star shine out. But, today, she’s cozied up more than I am, wearing pajama pants with little snakes on them, red slithering guys that crawled around her muscular legs. She still scares me, even in PJs.

"Thanks," I muttered. Hopefully, she doesn’t kill me for my rudeness. I should, probably help too. Nfierre. that was her name, was already seated at the table– I thought she went to help? How the hell did she end up there–? Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, watching me like I was late to something important. She was also in my chair, the one I usually sat in. I didn’t know where to sit because of that. 

Nfierre blinked once, slowly. The silence got weird. Like she was giving me time to do something right, except I didn’t know what the fuck that was. I read about polite society, on how picking a spot to sit is usually reserved. Was I supposed to sit now though? Say something? Bow?

“Please. Sit.” 

Nfierre’s voice was quiet, but not entirely soft. Wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it, didn’t have the vocabulary at the moment to attribute the right word to it. A very solitary voice, if that makes a whole lotta sense. Also, she just ordered me to sit, in someone else’s house. That felt kinda weird, but I obliged. I moved too fast, almost knocked over the chair pulling it out. Smooth. Real graceful-like, dumbass. I sat stiffly, like the wrong move would get me kicked out of the house or launched into orbit. My knees bounced. I told them to stop, but they didn’t listen. Not to charming old me, they wouldn’t.

Across from me, Nfierre sipped from a cute teacup, stamped with a blue-haired man wielding a sword. Inside was something purple and sort of pink. On the counter was some elderberry tea. I don’t know if that’s what she was drinking. Taking a look at my own glass, the same liquid was inside. Except, my teacup had a red-haired man with an axe. I don’t remember seeing these anywhere in the cupboards.

Nfierre’s fingers were very delicate, like even sipping was ceremonial. Her eyes never left me. I felt peeled. Not in a weird way, just like. . . like she could already see everything I was trying not to show.

“Jesse,” she stated. Affirmatively.

I nodded too fast. “Yeah. Jesse. Uh, hi.”

I sounded like a child. Great. Awesome.

She didn’t smile, but her expression shifted slightly, like the faintest breeze passed over her face. Downstairs. In a cabin. In the dining room. Without windows. “Androktasiai tells me you’re Vilcabamba’s son.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know who that was.

“I. . .” My throat felt dry. “I guess I am? What?”

Nfierre didn’t follow up. She just nodded, more to herself than me. Like she’d confirmed something, filed it away. Is this how people say hello?

The smell of butter and miso and fried rice kept rising, pressing in around me. Damn. The foods we’re pulling out today are kinda. . . out there, you know?  

“Eat,” Androktasiai said, stabbing a spoon and two sticks into a bowl and sliding it onto the table in front of me. “Don’t make me feed you.”

I jumped. “No- yeah, I’ll– I’ll thanks.”

The bowl was full of everything. Beef stew, thick and dark and steaming. How the hell am I supposed to eat that with sticks? Fried rice shot through with green onions and shreds of cabbage, bits of egg, something that smelled a little like whiskey-? Did she spill some inside while she was drinking? That irresponsible- This was a wild dish. I don’t entirely know what I’m eating here.

I picked up the sticks, but my fingers felt numb. I’ve seen Androk use these before, though, I wasn’t great with them. That was why my stomach twisted. I didn’t know how to use the sticks properly.

And, this small little inability to do something right, set me off instantly.

Honestly, I knew the truth. I didn’t deserve this. This wasn’t mine. Sitting here, with food, and warmth, and two people who– what? I didn’t even know them. I was just some kid Androk found. Some broken, useless stray. I’m surprised she hasn’t killed me by now. Now she’s showing me off to her friends.

I thought of my mom. Her hands that I couldn’t remember. The way she might’ve smiled. I don’t really recall her face. Don’t really recall anything about her, honestly. I forced down a bite. It tasted good. Too good with how overwhelming the dish was. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I getting all mushy for no reason?

Nfierre’s gaze didn’t waver. I glanced up, met her eyes for half a second, and looked away like they burned. Why is this chick looking at me? I didn’t know what she saw in me, but something told me, deep down, that it was nothing she wanted. She saw just how unspecial I was.

That feels, a bit too negative. Did the sticks really set all this off?

I didn’t eat fast. Couldn’t. Sticks suck. Every bite felt like a test, like if I enjoyed it too much, someone would take it away from me. The food was warm, real, and mine, and I hated that I wanted more of it. I looked over at Nfierre again. Quick glance. She hadn’t touched her bowl. Her hands rested on the table, still as stone, one palm flat over the other. She was waiting, for what, I didn’t know. Maybe for me to choke and die.

“Is it alright?” she asked, eyes flicking to my half-finished bowl. Don’t even know why she asked. I looked back in anger, but not at her. Just, at me, I guess. I panicked.

“Yes! I mean, it’s great. It’s– seriously, it’s the best thing I’ve had in, like, forever.” Too much. Too loud. Shut up. Why do you talk like this? You’re embarrassing yourself. You sound like a stray dog someone let inside and now you’re barking because you think it’ll get you a treat.

Androktasiai let out a snort from over the stove.

Nfierre only nodded. “I’m glad.”

I assume she helped make some of it. Honestly, there were some ingredients here that I don’t remember ever seeing before, so she probably brought some stuff too, but man, why does she care what I think? And yet, for some reason, I just wanted to see her smile again. Make her happy, or get her approval or something. But, uh, after that, it got quite quiet for a while. I focused on the food. Chewed. Swallowed. Tried to breathe normally. I didn’t deserve this. Not this food, not this house, not these people.

My “mother” would’ve loved this, I thought, stupidly. I’m lying through my damn teeth here though. I don’t know anything about my mother anymore. In my head, she’d have eaten seconds, thirds, smiled around, teased Androk and Nfierre. But, in truth, I don’t know her. I didn’t know anyone else but her, and yet. . . I knew nothing about her. Not her favorite color (my eyes, she said), not her favorite food (whatever mine was, she said), not the way she slept, (like a dead person.)

My chest hurt. I kept chewing, but my hand didn’t like any of my head. It froze halfway to my mouth. Wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. I was. . . something else. Hollowed-out. Like if you cut me open, all you’d find is something slimy and gritty.

“I’m happy you’re visiting,” I lied. It sounded so fake, I almost laughed. “It’s not often I get to meet mom’s friends.”

I don’t know which I was referring to.

Nfierre tilted her head- not judging. Just seeing me.

From behind, the sound of a cigarette being tapped out, the soft rustle of cloth. Androktasiai moved closer, plate in hand, slumping into the seat beside me with the grace of a bear deciding not to smash the table.

Her elbow nudged mine. Not hard. Not soft.

“Morning, kid.”

I stared at my food. Nodded. My throat was tight again.

“Morning.”

I wanted her to shut up, honestly. Androktasai started drinking with one hand, the other resting on the table near mine. Just there. Not touching. But close enough that I felt the heat off her skin. No one spoke for a long time. I didn’t hate the silence. I hated how much I wanted it to last.

Androk still didn’t eat. I’ve never seen her eat. Every bite felt guilty, like Androk would chide me for eating when she didn’t. Though, I knew the opposite was true, I still don’t understand why she doesn’t eat. 

I looked over at Nfierre again. A second quick glance. She hadn’t touched her bowl still. It’s been like five minutes since I last checked, and the steam from her dish isn’t rising anymore. I shut my mouth and kept eating, minding my own damn business. The food didn’t go down easy, but I kept chugging along. Bite after bite, mechanical, like if I stopped, the room would notice and say something. Like they’d notice. Like she would.

I shifted in my seat, tried not to squirm.

“Are you. . . not hungry?”

She blinked, slow, gaze drifting down to her untouched food.

“No,” she said, almost like it surprised her too. “Not really.”

I looked up. That was a mistake. Her eyes, black, deep, and endless were on me. No more greens. She was out of it. I don’t know how else to say it. Like she wasn’t seeing me, she was barely recognizing me. Like something else familiar just blinked back at her from behind my face, and neither of us understood how it got there.

I’m a fucking alternate of myself, I guess.

She stood. Chair barely scraped the floor. Her footsteps were soft, soft as I expected. She weighed less than she should.

I froze. Fork halfway to my mouth. She walked around the table slow and careful, like I’d break if she moved too fast. I didn’t know what to do. She knelt beside me. No words. No warning. Just, wrapped her arms around me tight. I stiffened, completely. My body didn’t know how to process it; contact, warmth, her cheek pressed against my shoulder, I didn’t understand. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

And then I felt her shake. Her breath caught, barely. Her fingers clutched at the fabric of my shirt, like she was trying to affirm something she thought she’d lost. She was crying. I didn’t know what to do.

I sat there, heart hammering, chest burning, and my throat tightened in that ugly, awful way, and I– I didn’t mean to cry.

It just happened. Like my body didn’t care what I wanted anymore, like I wasn’t in control of my own responses. Tears fell, hot and fast, and I didn’t even know why. I didn’t know this woman. But for a second, I felt like she knew some part of me, and some part of me recognized her. And I didn’t feel alone in her eyes.

Her grip didn’t loosen. I didn’t know how long we sat like that. I was frozen, crying like an idiot, she was holding on like the world might fall apart if she let go. The air felt heavy. Too warm. My face was wet, and I couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t even pretend to be okay.

Androk just stared over. Sipped her drink.

Then I heard it. Barely a whisper from Nfierre's lips.

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice cracked. I didn’t think it could do that. Nfierre, with her perfect posture and perfect silence and perfect control and perfect freaking face, was breaking apart against my arms like I mattered.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered again. “I’m so sorry.”

Her breath hitched. She wasn’t crying like me, messy and loud. Her tears were quiet. Like she was trying to stop them, even now. I didn’t get it. None of it. What was she sorry for? She didn’t even know me. Why was she acting like she did?

“It’s okay,” I mumbled, stupidly. “You don’t. . . it’s okay, I’m fine, I’m not. . .”

She shook her head against me, slowly. “No– no, it isn’t. You. . . you can come to me. Whenever. Whenever you need someone who understands, you can come to me.”

My head turned slowly, creaking like stone. What the fuck are you on about? I wanted to ask what she meant, but the words didn’t come. I just sat there, letting her hold me, letting myself be held, and for once, not thinking. That’s a lie, I can’t stop thinking.

Androktasiai didn’t say anything. I glanced up. She was at the sink now, back turned, cigarette lit again, smoke spinning around her like a set of fresh smoky armor. She didn’t move, didn’t look. Like she’d seen this before. Like she was letting us have the moment.

Eventually, Nfierre pulled back. Her eyes were red at the bottom, but not swollen, not puffy. She wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve, slow, composed. Almost like it never happened.

But, where she winces, I could tell crying that hard hurts. She didn’t seem like the type to cry, and. . . honestly, it worried me. I didn’t know what to say. What did I do?

“Why?” I asked. Barely more than a breath.

She looked at me, long and steady, and for a second, I thought she’d answer. But then she smiled. Small. Sad.

“I’m not alone,” she said. “That’s all.”

What was she talking about? Why? Why was my life so confusing?

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