POLLUTING

He kept a pair of subscription eyeglasses tucked in the inner pocket of his backpack, but they were not for seeing. It was a pair of dark rimmed lenses, folded cross-armed and glossy as a moon-lit lake wrapped up in the dainty tan cloth that the optometrist had gifted him when he made the purchase. He wore it often at school, at home, or even when he was grocery shopping. Everyone thought he was near-sighted. 

The first time he had tried on his friend's glasses was in second grade. A girl named Jill was the earliest of her peers to own a pair, and everyone got a kick out of trying them on. When he had put them on and opened his eyes, he felt a sudden faze as the world twisted and turned like jelly; the change was disorienting and uncomfortable. 

When his girlfriend had broken up with him in ninth grade, he was a heart-broken teenager with steaming frustration unable to evaporate outside his head. He had punched lockers and walls, bit his blue and yellow striped pillows, and sobbed uncontrollably in front of his desk for hours. Within the stampede of fallen tears his head began to throb and spin, then he remembered the nauseating sensation he had felt in his youth.

The optometrist had welcomed a boy customer with squinting eyes and brown wind-blown hair. The boy said he had problems seeing the board in school, and so the optometrist gave him an eye-exam. The boy was practically blind; he could barely read the largest letters on the projector. After several trials, the optometrist gave him a pair of eye glasses mysteriously dense, and he said this should help you in school. 

She had considered it before, yes, it had been a recurring thought in her mind, but never had she been so stirred by the dancing image in her head of a boyish, girlish figure whose tilt of hair tickled her lightly under her nose, perhaps causing her to sneeze into the sunshine, where she will finally, suddenly be awakened by the sudden wrinkle in her orientation.

The disorientation knocked her from writing- in terms of she's and he's at least, for in the future it will only be she and she, and that would be disorienting to the reader as well. But there she sat on the wrinkled flowers of her bed sheets, contemplating this lost figure of the "he" and the addition of the "she" when she simply decided that pronouns were nothing but pronouns, and people were simply people; love was just love, the sun still rises, and the day still ends. 

Fallen nights in sleepless minds, we collapse onto a sofa bed plush with unspoken thoughts. We speak with games and crude laughter as well as  language for unnecessary consumption, and in the soft crease of morning it came to a cease, with a delicate face upon my shoulder and eyes too pretty to be closed. No more fabrication of a sturdy soul, just a sleepy, rhythmic shell, tender bones and subtle movements. 

In the morning we rise with hollow bodies and slight headaches, we clean the house of empty glasses and dump vaporized alcohol. I wore my mustard-yellow coat and before we exited I entered the winding staircase to a loft where she resided, exhausted and asleep. Half her leg was out the cotton sheets and beneath it tucked a dainty pillow; her eyes closed and hair scattered along her forehead and cheeks, where she breathed in and out like tides and ebbs, where I gently nudged her sleek shoulders and whispered a few words. We are going now, I'm leaving I said, and slowly her eyes opened, like a blooming flower in spring, so gradual and sudden and beautiful it takes you by surprise, and she blinks a few and stared at me, so deep and beautiful my heart skipped a few, and she looked as if she came from outer space, looked at me as if I were unknown, then she suddenly recognized me, perhaps the same way I had her, then she muttered a sound, voice light as a grasshopper that I took as an acknowledgement. 

She was sitting in the waiting room with a veil over her head and her dress overflowing her body like vines. Her friends and family had went out to welcome guests now and left her waiting alone, quiet enough for her to condense her thoughts. The six months after her engagement had flown by like a whirlwind, too fast for her to carefully consider anything else ever since she had said "yes"; the amount of preparation was overwhelming, and she had been too caught up trying to decide miscellaneous issues instead of determining whether she really loved this man or not, which was supposed to be a given in the first place. 

She was sure of it at first, or else she would not have agreed. But now as she sat alone, finally a peaceful time ever since the rush of events, the dream she had last night was flashing in her mind like lightening, like thunder, like damage. She was prone to dreaming, but the past half year had wiped out her possible imaginations and flooded her with thoughts of wedding dresses, floral napkins and bouquets instead. Then the night before she was about to fall into the arms of the same man forever, she dreamed she was in love... with somebody else.

It all seems very silly, she kept telling herself that as she sat perfectly still staring at her readied reflection from the mirror. But the more she tried to make a big joke out of this the more it had bothered her. She saw the image of a man in her head, hazy and mystic, as if she was looking through a fogged up window, but she knew he was there. He was as real as anyone was, and their brief encounter was enough to mean the world. Nothing much had happened in the dream, they were merely taking a walk down a breaded path, hand in hand and esoteric as a night-time church; the whole occasion was silent but something was there that filled up the empty air with omens and suggestions. 

The past three years she had been with her fiance were fun and jaded. They worked, traveled, and rested when they were worn. She was extremely comfortable with him and laughed often. She thought that was happiness and she thought that was love. But not once had she looked at him the same way she saw the man last night. After walking down the path they had halted and he had turned around to face her; she knew it as an instinct and felt it as a desire, she felt it in his gaze and saw it in his eyes although she could not see them, and she knew it was love, as descriptive and factual as it had ever been. 

This was not the first time she's had a dream like this. She had fell in love with many men before the same obscure way. Some of them she had known and some of them were strangers. Some she had lived a lifetime with, and some she had only shared brief moments with.  It didn't matter what the extent was, for each time she had awoken to a forlorn feeling of losing someone; it was more painful than losing someone in real life, for most of the times when she's lost someone, someone had lost her too. It was a communal experience rather than the lopsided dump she was stuck with dealing alone, and moreover, no one knows it exists except for her. 

She dreams of friends and dreams of family. She dreams of her loves and dreams of her hates. She knows they exist for she dreams of them, and she knows they are of somewhat importance for they surface her subconscious routinely. Not once had her fiance entered her dreams in any shape of form, as a friend or as a lover, and probably will not as family either. She exhaled slowly and loudly as she came to thought of this, until the very last breath of air had ran out and faded like a hushed engine. She looked quite pretty in the mirror as all brides should, but a look of vulnerability clouded her frowns, then cleared up again as she picked up her cellphone and dialed.

He rushed in with drops of sweat gliding down the side of his face like an intermittent slide. He looked quite handsome that day too, she admitted to herself, and almost unlike the man she had known and was going to marry in the near future. He had a puzzled look and when he saw her, laced up and sitting calmly on the wooden chair, he questioned the urgency.

"Why'd you tell me to come all this way... the ceremony's starting in half an hour.."

It started with a subtle uncoil with the stitches that bound the shoulder strap and the purse together, except most of the times she had only paid attention to the shiny logo that pinpointed the existence of the purse. It was a purse she had received on her twenty-third birthday, a purse of refined quality and statement of her taste with a soft-coffee colored fawn skin and exceptional design. It had became much of a part of her and existed on every part of her house, from the kitchen counter to the stool, from the stool to the beige carpet. Until one day while waiting for a friend to arrive, she began to carefully examine the entirety of the purse again five months after she received it, cleaned out its guts, then discovered a loose brown thread whose one end was now visible. It was an unrepairable damage, for the fine craftsmanship was incompatible with any tailor shop that could possibly account for these amendments now. 

At this point more care was given to the purse, and heavier objects were avoided of being put inside its body; she had taken out the unnecessary toiletries, old receipts, and various brochures that were handed to her on shopping days and also wiped the leather with a moisturized cloth which had restored much of its lost shine. On several occasions she had even personally held the purse with both her hands, as if she was offering some sort of sacrifice to gods in order to avoid further wearing of the strap. The purse proved to be quite enduring also, as the untangling had seemed to halt, and the strap seemed to have a hold with the remaining four lines. So the days wore on and slowly she had grown an immense faith on the persistence of the purse and began to restored all its past belongings. She threw the purse around, swung it clumsily around her shoulders and ceased all her past precautions. 

One friday morning she had an appointment with a friend to stroll in the park with reddened leaves, and she had awoken twenty minutes late. After finishing all the essential means before leaving her house, she grabbed the purse that was hanging on the doorknob of her bedroom door, swung it on her right shoulder so violently that the body of the purse had struck her lower bag, and then it collapsed. The strap had finally been stemmed from its weakening roots and lay dangling on but one side of the purse like a limp neck, causing the organs to spill like a regurgitation; all the loose papers, loose change, pens and pencils and mirrors and palettes and even a two-day old sandwich scattered on the floor with irrevocable order and declaration that the reign of the purse had finally ended, with its incapability to maintain its citizens tightly, the breakage of the castle and a heart-broken queen. 

--

It was until the man had accidentally kicked her foot that she noticed his shoes. 

They sat across from each other on a train, and usually she does not pay particular attention to the people around her. It just so happens that he extended his foot a bit too far and bumped into hers, and thought that this whole thing would drop by saying Sorry about that.

It was just a pair of dirty white sneakers, probably ones that all men own for jogging or running errands on weekends. The ends of the shoelaces were ragged and torn, and the front was stained with mud from the afternoon rain. Except there was a drawing of a fish on the tongue of the shoe- a hand-drawn, emerald-colored fish with large eyes, staring right back at her.

She didn't recognize exactly what the drawing was, other than the fact that it felt quite familiar. This curiosity brought her vision from the man's foot upwards to his face, where a middle-aged man's face came into her view. He had slightly curled brown hair and an unshaven face. He held a slight frown and was looking outside the window while muttering some words to himself. She could not comprehend what he was saying.

She stood by the entrance of the bridge looking aloof. It was almost noon on a weekday, and many people were crossing the worn wooden bridge. Businessmen in black anxiously checking their watches to make sure they were on schedule, children skipping across to picnic at the park, or scandalously dressed women attending lunch at fancy restaurants on the small island. The petite island was but a bridge away from the mainland and full of activities. None seemed to hesitate before crossing the overpass except for her. She knew it was perfectly safe even considering its age, but something in her mind stirred and caused her to ponder. 

The city was hitting autumn and welcoming winds. The warm air flipped her hair with a gentle shove and finally brought her back to her senses. She had been standing there for ten minutes in a trance until the tails of her hair hit her face. She could not assemble nor recall the strange feeling that landed in her mind as she approached the bridge. It was like a weightless feather brushing against her heart, almost unnoticeable but tingling it ever so subtly. She shook her head slightly and prodded on. 

She joined the crowd on the decaying planks of the bridge. Maple leaves were reddening at this time of the year and making their way to the earth. One detached itself from a tree and collided into her shoulder. She turned around to the feeble tap and saw that the leaf had now made its way onto the water below. She looked over at the serene surface of the river and saw her reflection, bouncing and ebbing to the movement of water.

"I want my mommy", the little girl spoke stubbornly with both her arms strapped obediently against the chair. "Let me go."

全身不能動彈。

她很確定她是醒著，知道自己躺在一張靠牆的單人床上，白色的床單搭配著一條深橘色的毯子。薄弱的毯子塌在她身上，絲毫沒有一般羽毛被來的鬆軟及附有安全感，她瞧著自己癱瘓的身軀，全身上下只剩下眼睛還能移動，無助的東張西望著。

喊也沒有用，掙扎也沒有用，但她還是忍不住嘗試著解脫，只是空氣似乎把她的力氣都給吸收了，只許她曝露於房間的角落，連伸手遮掩都無法，就這樣僵著，只有她電腦播放的輕音樂還在盡責的填滿空間，優美的旋律一拍一拍的走，聽不見任何恐懼。

吉他最後的合玄輕巧的刷靜，化成圓滿的死寂，這微小但突然的變化終於喚醒了她，頭抽了一下隨著眼睛也睜了開，側睡的她臉正面對著洗手抬，那兒披了一條粉紅色的毛巾，因隨意的一掛而產生了不規則的皺摺及層次，此時正形成了一張長而醜陋的臉，嘴從臉頰裂開來笑著，卻沒有任何表情。她呆了半晌，便立刻把頭撇開轉正，正前方是一扇穿著鮮紅色簾子的大窗，早晨的陽光透過窗簾照耀進來使得那紅色若隱若現，更加立體生動，像極了一顆隨時都要滴出水的蘋果，只是此時看來那怎麼樣都是血，一顆滴著血的紅蘋果。

遲到了。 她沒有一次準時過，他跺著腳，雖然早已習慣了這種等待，但他還是有些緊張。

有時候她是跑來的，穿著拖鞋，啪啪啪啪的跑來，腳的兩側都摩紅了。

有時候她是走來的，邊走邊整理頭髮，她從不帶鏡子，整理頭髮的方式僅於亂抓幾下。

他從來不怪她遲到，看她上氣不接下氣的樣子也不太忍心，她不是不願意提早準備出門，只是她害怕等待，更害怕他遲到。

是一個容易緊張的人，她第一次參加舞會的時候，因為擔心男伴來接她時會還沒打扮好，一大早就開始洗阿穿阿弄的，到最後她穿著裙子化了裝，整整的等待了三個小時，一個人坐在客廳看電視，每五分鐘就會跑到廁所去檢查全身，裙子穿好了麼，裝花了麼？

又有一次她提早了半個小時到了電影院，人來人往的街道讓她不知所措，她不知道等會他來後她該有什麼表情，該用甚麼語氣來打招呼，更不知道眼睛該往哪兒看，是看他麼，還是假裝不在意麼？

我從未被忽略過。就像我是她的一部份，她也是我的一部份。她生命很多的璀璨少了我一切都變的沒有意義。我發出的聲音總是令她的客人深深著迷著難以忘懷，客人們也似乎容易難以忘懷我上揚的角度。在每個不同的夜晚我成就了她金錢的慾望，但她總冷漠得視這一切為理所當然；她常讓我的皮膚龜裂，抑或用粗糙的紙巾擦拭著我的身體。我的鄰居也就是她的眼睛，也同時感到那種不被重視的冷漠，我倆常無助看著這冰冷的世界。

某天早晨一如往常的寒冷。我肌膚每一吋都因為乾冷而刺痛著，就當我失去體溫與水分漸漸無法分辨我的身體和她臉的邊界，她終於被鬧鐘給喚醒，我在恐懼中祈禱她不要打哈欠，但她仍下意識的用力撐開了我，當然我的皮膚也被撕裂了。我的傷口碰到冷空氣因而抽續著刺痛是她所無法理解的，留下的鮮血是我無聲的抗議也是我的淚水，她也很熟練的擦去我剛流下的淚水，我並沒有因此停止哭泣，我不斷湧出淚水直到她終於坐了起來。

"真該死。" 她說完便用她的舌頭舔了舔我的淚水，這真是一種被侵犯的感覺。

她開始刷牙。那冷水沖著我的身體讓我從歇斯底里的哭泣中多了幾分清醒。隨後，她洗了臉帶了隱形眼鏡便開始畫起了妝。打粉底，再上睫毛膏，腮紅，最後再拿了一支油油的口紅抹遍了我的全身，我不喜歡我這虛偽的紅潤與光澤，但同時她也對著鏡子做出可愛的模樣嘟了嘟嘴，我知道我是她全身上下最滿意的部位，雖然我對那噁心的化學味十分敏感，不過我內心又有種說不上來的驕傲。接下來她開始換衣服了，那是一件帶著蕾絲的無袖黑上衣和一條短到可以露出她半個臀部的黑色皮裙，她裡頭穿著黑色內衣而外頭又加了件毛邊的大衣，最後，她終於踩上了一雙頭尖到可以殺人的高根鞋出了門。

她開到了她工作的一間飯店並跟她的經濟人通了電話查行程。距離兩點還有十分鐘，她便耐心的坐在大廳的沙發上等著，仍不時補上那我討厭的口紅。終於一位身穿西裝的中年男子推開了旅館的大門，她並打手勢招呼著那位男子去櫃台拿房間鑰遲。她從來不會認錯客人的，因為他們總帶著一種不尋常的感覺，無論他們的年長與否，或外型是否出眾，他們的臉上總是流露出那種貪婪獸性的慾望，輕薄的眼神總讓我做噁。她跟著那位男子進了電梯安靜著一路坐到12樓，終於那電梯門開了，那男子展現虛偽紳士風範，讓她先行通過。腳步踩再走道厚實的紅地毯上發出低沉的聲響，他們走進了1220號房.

There was not one day that I was neglected. Just as I was a part of her, she was a part of me. Oh, how unworthy she would have been without such a flexible tongue and such precious, soft lips. How my voice enchanted her customers, and how they loved to see her smile. How I helped her so and yet she didn’t appreciate me; she left my arms dry and chapped in the mornings and wiped me with coarse paper towels after she ate. I often empathize with my neighbors, her eyes; we were both helpless and blinking coldly at this world. 

As always, that morning was cruel with coldness and I felt frost-bitten. I couldn’t identify where my body borders with her face anymore, and every inch of me was aching and bitter. She finally woke up to her alarm and I prayed that she wouldn’t yawn, but she did and just as I had expected, my skin finally ripped. How the wound throbbed with the cold air! I felt blood trickle down my side and was quickly wiped off by her hand. But that didn’t stop me from crying. I cried and cried until she sat up from her bed. 

“Dammit,” she said and started brushing her tongue up against my tears.
I felt violated.

She started brushing her teeth and water healed my sorrow for a while as it washed away my tears. Then, after she washed her face and put her contacts on, she started her daily routine of make-up. First foundation, then mascara, blush, and finally she smudged an oily stick on my body making it look unnaturally shiny. She then puckered at her reflection in the mirror and I knew she was once again showing off the best trait on her whole face – me. Although I was sickened by the foul smelling chemicals on my body, I was a bit proud of her favoring of me. She then started changing into her clothes, a sleeveless silk top with black laces on its trim and a black leather skirt short enough to reveal half her butt. She was wearing black lingerie on the inside and a fur trimmed petty coat on the outside. Finally, she put on high-heels pointy enough to kill someone and left the house. 

She stumbled across a raccoon footprint upon his upper back on one of those nights they tossed and turned in bed with her hand beneath his shirt and face in his chest. She wandered her fingertips back and forth on the little dent to let them consume its freshness that it finally caught his attention. 

“What are you doing?” 
“What is that? Did your mom drop you when you were baby?”
“Yeah.”

Their conversation dwelled as long as the time she spent questioning the print’s origin, and ended abruptly following his absent-minded agreement. She took her hand off the mysterious dimple and resumed stroking without remark, breathing in the calming rhythms from his nose, and her mind deviated off the subject as exhaust overcame her curiosity.