Almond(27)

I was able to open the bookstore only after school, and naturally, sales were slow. I remembered Granny used to say, “If business isn’t good, just shut it down.” I swept the dust and mopped the floor every day, but for some reason, the space Granny and Mom had left behind seemed to wear down by the day. How much longer would I be able to handle this void?

One day while I was tidying up, I dropped a dozen books I was carrying, cutting my fingertip. It was not something that often happened in a damp used-book store. I just got unlucky because the book happened to be an encyclopedia with thick, hard paper. Absently, I watched the drops of blood dripping down on the floor like sealing wax.

“Dude. You’re bleeding.”

It was Gon. I hadn’t even heard him come in, but he was already next to me. “Doesn’t it hurt?” Eyes widened, Gon quickly grabbed a tissue and handed it to me.

“I’m okay.”

“Bullshit. If it bleeds, it hurts. Are you really an idiot?” He sounded angry. The cut must’ve been deeper than I’d thought. The tissue was already soaked red. Gon rolled up another tissue and grabbed my hand. I could feel the pulse from my fingers, beating hard from his tight grip. He put pressure on the cut until the bleeding stopped. “Don’t you know how to take care of yourself?” He raised his voice.

“It hurt, but it was manageable.”

“You were gushing blood, you call that manageable? You really are a robot, aren’t you? That’s why you just stood there, huh? Did nothing when your mom and grandma dropped down in front of you. Because you’re a robot. You idiot, it didn’t even occur to you that they were hurt, that you should’ve stopped him, that you should’ve been angry. Because you don’t feel anything.”

“You’re right. The doctors said I was born this way.”

Psychopath. That was what kids had called me since elementary school. Mom and Granny would go ballistic over it, but to some extent, I thought they had a point. Maybe I really was a psychopath. I wouldn’t feel guilty or confused, even if I hurt or killed somebody. I was born this way.

“Born this way?” Gon said. “That’s the shittiest thing people say.”





44


A few days later, Gon came to the bookstore holding a clear plastic container. Inside was a butterfly he had somehow gotten his hands on. The box was too small for the butterfly, so it kept banging the sides of the container.

“What is this?”

“Empathy training,” Gon said, straight-faced, not even the slightest grin to be seen. So this meant he was serious. He carefully put his hand inside the box and grabbed hold of the butterfly. Its petal-thin wings caught in his hand, struggling helplessly. “How do you think it feels?” Gon asked.

“Like it’ll want to move,” I said.

Gon took out the butterfly and, holding each wing with each hand, started stretching them out little by little. The butterfly’s feelers bent whichever way, its body writhing hard.

“If you’re doing this to make me feel anything, you should stop it,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because the butterfly looks like it’s hurting.”

“How do you know? It doesn’t hurt you.”

“It hurts when someone pulls on your arms. I know it from experience.”

Gon didn’t stop. The butterfly struggled even harder. Gon was grasping its wings, but he looked away.

“The butterfly looks like it’s hurting? That’s not enough.”

“Then?”

“You should feel like you’re also hurting.”

“Why? I’m not the butterfly.”

“Okay. Let’s keep going until you really feel something.”

Gon stretched the wings farther apart, his eyes still looking elsewhere.

“Stop. It’s wrong to mess with living things.”

“Don’t give me some shit you’ve read in a textbook. I said I’ll let go of this if you really feel something.”

Just then, one wing ripped. Gon let out a short, sharp breath. The butterfly fluttered its remaining wing in vain, spinning on the spot.

“You don’t feel sorry for it?” Gon asked, fuming.

“It looks uncomfortable.”

“No, not uncomfortable, I asked if you feel sorry, goddammit.”

“Cut it out.”

“No.” Gon hastily reached for something in his pocket. It was a sewing needle. He held it close to the butterfly, which was still spinning on the floor.

“What are you doing?”

“See for yourself.”

“Stop.”

“Don’t you take your eyes off it. Or I’ll trash this place. You hear me?”

I didn’t want my bookstore to be trashed, and I knew Gon was more than capable of making good on his threats. He stood poised over the butterfly as if he were a high priest before a ritual. In a flash, the needle pierced its body. It struggled in silence, desperately flapping as hard as it could.

Gon glowered at me. Then he gritted his teeth, tearing off the remaining wing. It wasn’t me but Gon whose expression had changed. His eyebrows were visibly twitching, and he was biting down hard on his lip, which moments ago had been curled into a sneer.

“How about now? Feel anything? Still just uncomfortable? Is that all you got?” he said, his voice cracking.