FICK SHORE-HEAD
“Politicians argue the place of nonpeperits in ou—”
His slender thumb presses the button of the control. Robin changes the channel.
“Nonpeperit rights are not human rights! The—”
He squints his dark brown eyes. Thin eyebrows furrow.
Robin changes the channel again.
In the screen, a man hitting the head of a kneeling woman with a crowbar as she visibly sobs. The blood, crimson like anyone else’s, flows from where the crowbar hit upon her scalp. He screams, “No palace on the clouds for you freaks!” More strikes. More wounds. More blood — like rain.
It all happens too quickly, that all Robin could do is purse his lips, long nose breathing out warm air. He sighs. The humans — they say that beauty comes from sorrow. Robin is born of sorrow, or so did Max use to say, two days after Robin had him buy me. Robin trembles, as he always does, when his right hand reaches for my left.
“I miss Max,” he says. “Where is Max?” I ask. The final time I have seen him, he was in that box.
“The palace on the clouds,” replies Robin. “He was my only family after mine shunned me. If I can only bring him back.” Robin looks at me, brown eyes surveying my skin. “You’re all I have left now.”
He shakes slightly again, as he let his face closer to mine. He closes his brown eyes, and he stops. He returns to his distance, mouthing, “What am I thinking.�
Tears like rain. Robin is beautiful.
“Are you hurt, Robin?� He punches the steering wheel. He pounds his fists. The horn blares, then silence, except for the rain outside.
I take a piece of cloth. Max called it a kerchief. I wipe the scratch on his lip, but I cannot figure out what to do with the purple spot on his cheek. Max said some wounds I cannot heal.
He raises his voice. “Can you just stop asking about the palace on the clouds outside our home?�
I remember. The alley. The young men calling me freak. The bat on Robin’s face. All because I asked about the palace on the clouds. I answer, “I cannot help it. This is what I—”
“Can you just stop being you? Even for just a few hours?” he asks. I fall silent. The rain continues thumping on the windshield. I do not know what to say. I hear Robin mumble, “I’m sorry.”
I say, “You are in pain, Robin.”
The rain continues. Robin is beautiful.
In the screen, the audience claps. The old woman, clad in white, speaks behind the podium, “I once wanted to be on that palace on the sky too.” He snickers. “Good thing I was cured.”
The clapping erupts once again, like rain on the gutter. This time with the audience laughing at my directive — at who I am?
“Robin, can you be cured of this longing for the palace on the sky?” I ask. Robin turns off the TV. He looks at me. Brown eyes squinting, eyebrows furrowed. He bites his lips, as he does when he is thinking. He asks, “Why do you say that?”
I, as humans would say, come clean. “I do not want who I am. I bring pain. The woman in white says that there is a cure.�
“She’s lying,” replies Robin. He looks away. “Is this about the alley?” “Yes,” I reply. I gaze at the bowl of spare screws on the table. “I do not want what I am,” I repeat. Robin tells me, “Max would be—” I raise my voice as I interrupt Robin, “Max is gone! You lied about him in the palace!” I take the bowl and throw it on the floor. The screws sound like rain on the gutter. “I want to be cured!”
“There is nothing wrong with you! There is nothing to cure!” “Then why do you want me to deny that I am a nonpeperit?”
Robin quickly wraps his arms from behind me. “Please. I’m not like them. Please, no. I’m sorry for what I said,” he says. Robin sighs, his warmth on my skin. He lets go of me. He stands up, kneels on the floor and picks up a handful of screws. I watch him put them in the bowl. Robin is sobbing.
The clink of the screws falling on the bowl is like rain on the gutter. Robin is beautiful.
Yesterday, Robin said he would take me to the palace on the clouds.
Light rain taps on the sedan from outside. We drive to the outskirts of the city. I see cattle grazing on green. Clumps of blue cornflowers dance lightly with the breeze. Terriers chase each other as they wag their tails.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asks Robin. “The city is sometimes too depressing.” “No man with a crow bar. No young man with a bat. No woman in white. You humans — you say that beauty comes from sorrow,” I reply. “No sorrow. I see no sorrow.” “Don’t be silly. More beauty comes from joy.”
Robin’s lips part to a laugh as I look at him. His thin eyebrows are relaxed. His brown eyes glisten as the rain turns softer. I feel the warmth of his breath on my skin. “Max would be happy for us,” says Robin. “Are we going to see him?” I ask. “From the palace on the clouds?” “No, you were right that I lied,” Robin answers. “But wherever he is, he’d be happy for me. For us. He’d want this for us. We’re here.”
Robin parks the car at the roadside. As I close the door of the sedan, he holds my hand. He is not trembling. “Don’t mind the drizzle,” he says as he leads the way. For now, it is just he and I, and none of the humans in the city or in the screen of the TV. If what Robin said was true, Max must feel joy.
We arrive at a cliff overlooking the bay not long after. Robin points out to the horizon, saying, “There’s your palace on the clouds.” My eyes follow Robin’s finger to the horizon. For a fleeting moment, sunshine meets the slowly ceasing rain. I see the palace. I feel Robin tightening his grip on my hand.
Robin, like the palace on the clouds, is beautiful.
Creative Direction by Anton Lin
Photos from Unsplash.com
