Chapter 0. Once Upon a Time.
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New neighbours moved in next door today. The last ones, two elderly ladies, complained about my quote-unquote “raunchy” lifestyle all the time and, rather than telling me to get out, the landlady told them to pack their bags and leave. It helps to be charming, it helps to be drool worthy gorgeous: it helps to fuck your way to the top. My last girlfriend is right. I am completely amoral.
That irony is that means nothing to me, because I am amoral. It’s like telling a blind person that they’re blind.
I smirk at the thought of her fist hitting my chest, because no matter how hard she hits. I find it funny. I find it hilarious that she thinks I care when she’s the one who knows I don’t feel. On day uno, I told her, “You can stick with me if you want. You can call me your boyfriend, and I’ll call you my girlfriend. If you want. But don’t expect me to stay faithful.” And even though her friends call me up to scream about how I’m twisting that knife into her, I don’t feel guilty. Do you feel guilty when you watch someone build their own guillotine and then use their own head to test it out? No. There’s a certain degree where actions cross the border from conveying pity into stupidity.
You know I’m right. But back to the new neighbours.
I look through my cheap plastic curtains, peeking at the moving van and the two figures standing in front of it. It’s a boy and a girl, both tall and lanky like they are built out of the same mould. I don’t have to be blind to notice the way the boy stands behind her. He’s taller than her, with carbon black hair and creamy white skin. His eyes are hidden underneath the shadow of his bangs. The shadows on his face are hardly black, but he’s dangerously thin, like an emaciated supermodel for a fashion runway. Looking at him makes me want to shove a hamburger down his throat and break that fine nose of his.
Something bangs and I hear the sound of metal shaking. There’s a shout “Watch out!” and I watch a glass coffee table tumble out of the raised truck towards the pale couple. My eyes raise in amusement because the boy is already moving. His arm reaches out as he steps to the side, and the girl, wearing a white chiffon dress, is dragged along with him. It’s very dramatic. The pale skin couple spin and now the boy’s back is facing the shattering glass. His arms cave around the girl and she is completely enveloped. His height against her body, I notice that she’s actually tiny. If his back was towards me, she would completely disappear.
He’s holding her exactly in the way every girl wants me to hold them. Close to his body so that her face is pressed against his neck, his chin is on top of her head, and his arms cradle her tightly as if they were undergoing the apocalypse and he was her only shelter. In other words, lovingly.
When the sounds of shattered glass stop, I see them part. The girl looks at him angrily, accusingly, but she doesn’t say a word. Her eyes are dark. Even though they’re visible, they feel as hidden as the boy’s eyes. Gone, swept away gone, by the bangs that just fall short beneath her eyebrows. She glares, her lips tight, at the lover boy, who stands still. They ignore the shouting movers who repeatedly apologize until the boy raises his hand and waves them away. I stare at them, an outsider, and watch them lock their gaze on each other as if nothing else in the world existed. If only they knew their world was slowly being penetrated.
I watch the boy make a move for the girl’s arm but she flinches and steps back. Her sandals crunch against the broken glass as she steps backwards. She’s not watching where she’s going, but I am. I hold my breath as I see her walk into the table, silently waiting for her to bleed and stain that perfect white dress. So sue me. I wanted to see her in pain, clutching hard for something as if she was slowly experiencing some orgasm. Her right leg swipes against the jagged edges of the table, and I hear three things cry out simultaneously.
“Kyon, watch out!” the ripping sound of her dress, and the soft cry “ouch” from her slender throat.
She turns quickly, and I swear I’m seeing things. Her boyfriend moves quickly to cover her wound and when his hand is lifted, what I saw seems to have disappeared. The rip is still there, the bits of her dress hanging by strong threads. She says nothing to her boyfriend and walks away. Then I see it.
A small blue stain, the colour of forget-me-nots along the seams of her dress. Evidence that I’m not blind.
This girl, Kyon, has blue blood.
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