FanFiction.Net - unleash your imagination|
Author of 26 Stories |
Otherness
By hye-kyo
Author’s Notes: So this is my third fic. This is not as light as Two Weeks and a Lifetime. But anyway, I had this based on a very wonderful Korean film, April Snow, which starred Yong-sama. The essence of the plot of April Snow and this fic might coincide but I’d include certain things I so wanted all of you to know. This would be the same as my other fics because it would be dealing about love. But not the love that we usually think about. Love, as defined here in this story would be a social construct, a tool devised for women oppression. In effect this kind of love has sadomasochist tendencies. Anyway, I wouldn’t dwell much on that I just wanted you all to know about it. Now, please do tell me what you think about it so I might do some changes if it be necessary. On with the story!
Read and Review!
Chapter One
The world is not a dream carved in stone, it is made of dubious stuff subject to rot….
-Simone de Beauvoir (The Second Sex)
---
Just like the other days, today was bland. She had been looking up at the sky for some unknown reason. She had been wondering why today’s sky was as gray as yesterday’s and why yesterday’s was as gray as the other days. She hadn’t seen anything unusual, and the hope that something might change left her mind quickly, as if she never really thought about it.
She went to the door, having the mental image of the gray sky with white spots in her mind. She would go out, buy some food supplies and wait for her husband to come home. She sighed as she reached the door. She slipped on her flats.
She wondered if today, among the so many days when she was left alone, would be different. Would he come home? Would he come back today? She turned the knob and slowly stepped out.
She would lock the door. She wouldn’t want to leave it open. But the thought of him arriving at a time when she was out scares her. She sighed again, her wallet in hand. He has a key and if he has none she was certain he knows about the extra key she leaves hidden underneath the mat. She hoped he remembers about it.
She locked the door slowly. And for a sudden reason she was afraid of closing it. She bit her lower lip and shook her head. She has no reason to be afraid.
She held on the knob. She suddenly thought of the things bothering her mind earlier, earlier when she was thinking of the gray sky, of the white spots and of the change. She wondered if change would come to her. She wondered why, of all days, she chose to think of change today.
She remembered a discussion she had when she first entered college. The first semester of her college life. The only semester she experienced in college. It was a class in sociology, and she barely remembers what sociology is about. Years of being a plain housewife makes one forget the things one learns in school. But it was about sociology and aside from that fact the only thing she remembered was the discussion on female roles in family set-ups.
She had been a housewife for four years. And four years was more than enough to make her forget the things she acquired through formal education. When she entered college, when she entered that first semester in college, when she entered that sociology class on her first and last semester in college, she felt empowered. She felt the woman she was never allowed to be. She thought, after hearing that piece of lecture which had been imprinted on her memory forever that she would be different, that she would be unlike any other wife in this world.
She couldn’t even remember the face of her professor in sociology. She couldn’t even remember the voice or the book from where he quoted those lines which stayed in her mind. The clearest thing she could remember about it was, not the exact words but the significance and meaning of such words.
Women, as she could remember, when they enter into marriage, have but one function. It is not different from other women. A daughter would be doing the same thing as her mother did. They would be forever on that line, having no way out. (A/n: that idea comes from Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex, for the full quotation see last a/n.)
She kept the knob in her palms. So maybe those words were right. When she first heard the exact words she thought she could find a way out, that because she knew about it she would be exempted from the fate of married women. She thought she would be different and she thought she would be unlike her mother who died fat and worn out because of grief.
But she thought wrong.
And here she was, in such a marriage. Now she was like her mother. Now she was the daughter who swore to be different from her mother. But when she got married she had no excuse from not turning into someone like her mother, or into someone like Mrs. Yamato who lives next door with her baby and with her husband who rarely comes home, or Mrs. Niwa on the ground floor who lives alone after her husband left her.
She wasn’t different. She released the knob from her hold and shook her head and tried to clear her mind of the things that had been bothering her. She had never thought of that sociology class for so many years and she began to wonder why she started thinking about it now.
She turned, facing the hallway. She heard the clicking of door as Yumi, the Jung’s daughter, closed the door from across her unit. She looked down. She doesn’t know them, she only heard about the Jung’s. She continued walking towards the stairs. The elevator had been dysfunctional for a week now and mechanics had started coming yesterday.
She thought of what to buy. She knew she has enough money to buy supplies for a week more. Akira called and told her he’d be home anytime this week. She crossed her fingers and she tried to think of how her husband looks like now. She couldn’t even remember clearly how he looks like.
She continued walking and from afar she could hear footsteps until she could see a pair of black leather shoes coming towards her. She looked up.
“Good morning.”
She bowed. It was a neighbor two doors away from her unit. She doesn’t know his surname and he’d only seen him twice, today was the third time. She doesn’t know her neighbors particularly.
“Going to the market?” the man asked.
“Hai,” she nodded then bowed again. From the corner of her eye, as the man bowed down and started to walk away, she could see the peculiarity in his features.
She bowed to his retreating form and slowly turned around towards the staircase.
---
Glancing at his watch, he realized he must be quite early. He shook his head and thought that he wanted to surprise his wife. He looked down on his shoes and hoped that she’d notice that, today, he was using the same pair of shoes she gave him as a birthday present two years ago.
He reached the stairs just as an elderly woman went past him. He jogged up, eager and feeling quite exhilarated. He hadn’t seen her for two months. Especially since he’d been to Honolulu when, as an airplane mechanic, he was required to be on the trip. He had brought pineapples for his wife and he hoped she’d like them.
He met her during college. She was a fun-loving, free-spirited dominating kind of woman. But he liked her for that. She was not the domestic kind. She was outgoing, outspoken and determined. He never thought they’d click but they somehow did. She was in the photography club. He was an airplane enthusiast. At a fair hosted by his organization, she took photos of the model planes that he made. She said she found them fascinating. And he found her fascinating.
He slipped his hands inside his pocket and searched for a key. He’d surprise her. He grinned to himself.
He reached the last flight of stairs and quickly made his way up. He was kind of feeling exhausted from the flight but the idea of surprising his wife was too much for him to remember fatigue from work. He wanted to see her now.
He was almost running along the hallway when he saw a woman approaching his direction. He had seen her before but he can’t really remember her name. He knows she lives in the same floor with her husband.
He slowed his pace and as she looked up he said, “Good morning.”
She bowed.
“Going to the market?” he asked, still smiling.
“Hai,” she curtly said. She bowed again as he quickened his pace.
He made his way towards the end of the hall. He got the key from his pocket and thought how he’d get to fit the key if he was this tense. He took in a deep breath and smoothened his clothes as he stopped in font of the door.
He pressed his ears slowly to the door, after looking around first to see if anyone’s around. He smiled at his own foolishness and after straining his ear to hear anything from inside the unit he decided to put in the key.
It clicked and he turned the doorknob slowly.
“I’m home,” he said aloud as he swung the door open. In his mind he made an image of his wife suddenly turning, holding a half-peeled potato and a knife. In his mind she’d squeal as she’d rush to him and give him a tight hug. She’d tell him how much she misses him and how much she dreams of him coming home. She’d playfully punch him as she pouts and tells him why the heck didn’t he call first so she could’ve at least prepared something to eat. He’d tell her it was okay and that what he really intended to do was to surprise her. She’d finally smile and kiss him.
But it was all, only, in his mind.
He swallowed hard as he found no one. The place smelled of fresh paint—the distinct smell of the place when they first moved in. It still smelled of fresh paint and the paints on the walls are still all fresh, like they were never touched or used. The truth is, they never were.
He closed the door behind him as he surveyed the room. He had asked her to buy more furniture, to which she quickly refused because as she said it would be harder for her to clean the place and it would take more time. He agreed. Besides he doesn’t stay long in the house on different periods of time. But still he wanted a place to call home.
He actually could afford to buy a contemporary house in the city or some more affluent prefecture. He had wanted at least a two-story or even a bungalow style with at least two bedrooms and a wide kitchen. He had saved enough to at least start paying and could easily save a year’s earning. But she said, and he complied, that she wouldn’t want to leave the unit. He doesn’t know why she liked this place. He doesn’t hate the place but he doesn’t like it either.
He placed the pineapples on the table in the small circular kitchen that they have. He’d cut them and put them in the fridge later. He went to the sole bedroom, straight to his cabinet. He sighed. He picked up a white shirt from among the folded clothes at the center of the cabinet, removed his jacket and used shirt and slid the fresh shirt on.
He surveyed the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, traced his fingers on the designs of the bedcover and sighed again. Where is she? He foraged for his cell phone inside his pocket and flipped it open.
He stood up, dialed her number and listened as the operator, in her machine-recorded voice, said that his wife couldn’t be reached. He tried to keep track of the times when he could talk to her on the phone. There weren’t too many occasions. She was always out of reach, out of coverage area. It was either her phone was off or she really was out somewhere far.
He went back to the kitchen, looked for a knife in the kitchen drawers and didn’t find any. He doesn’t even know the anatomy of the place.
Maybe too it was his fault. For he was always not home, he was always somewhere far. But he always tries to make it a point to contact her, tell her the things he’d been doing. But she simply couldn’t be reached. He stuffed the pineapple inside the fridge, got his jacket, the keys and with one deep intake of air that smelled of fresh paint, he got out of the unit.
---
“That would be 1500 yen.”
She felt for her cell phone in her pocket. Why wasn’t he answering? She wanted to know if he’d be arriving today. She wanted to know if she has to cook something special for today. The last time he arrived without any notice she hadn’t prepared anything. That irritated him. He didn’t talk to her until his next tip to Sapporo.
It’s so easy to annoy him. He usually gets mad at anything she does. She doesn’t want him to get vexed again this time.
“Ma’am? That would be 1500 yen.”
The tap on her shoulder brought her back to reality. She looked up and saw the cashier smiling worriedly at her. “Gomen,” she bowed her head slightly, “1500 yen it is?”
“Hai,” the cashier smiled.
She handed her the exact amount. She bowed as she gathered her parcels from the counter. She bowed again as she went to the door.
She looked up at the gray sky. It was grayer now than when she entered the grocery store. The dabs of white were less now and she wondered if it was going to rain. She started walking.
She’d been trying to call him yet he couldn’t be reached. He was always out of reach. That worried her. She hurried her steps as she made her way back to the building. She’d cook something special. Perhaps he’s just trying her. Maybe he’d arrive today and maybe he’d surprise her. She’d show him how a good wife she could be. She’d prepare something special, something he’d never tasted before.
She had readied the recipe on squid ika fry. She had seen it from a food magazine two days ago when she went to the bookstore. She had bought the magazine, tried making the recipe thrice before finally being able to make an edible version. She has to admit, she doesn’t excel in cooking that much.
She crossed her fingers. She’d do the squid, take a bath again and call him. She hoped he’d arrive today.
---
He settled on the driver’s seat of his car, listening to the radio. He doesn’t want to think of anything now for his mind, he felt, was already bleeding. He tapped his fingers on the wheel and sunk deeper onto the driver’s seat. He was gazing ahead and watching a woman carrying parcels of groceries in one hand and a small child on the other hand scurry away. He had thought of how good it would be to see his wife like that. He doesn’t know but thinking about it made him feel better. Where is she anyway?
A woman carrying the same-looking parcel walked by. She caught his attention, for unlike the others she wasn’t with a child. He looked at her more closely and realized that she was the woman living at the same floor as he was. He noticed that one of her hand was occupied with a cell phone raised to her ear and her face was blank. Her face contorted into a grim expression and she quickly flipped her phone close and after staring at the ground for a few seconds, she quickly dropped her parcel on the unpaved ground, turned around and ran towards the other side.
He felt like leaving his car to get to her but his phone suddenly rang. He picked it up from the shotgun seat and saw that the number was not registered in his phonebook. He slowly flipped it open. “Hello,” he warily said, he was still looking at the brown paper bag with some greens spilling out.
“Yes,” he said with an arch of his brow. He felt nervous. “I am Himura Kenshin. She is my wife. Did something happen?”
---
:
:
:
:
