Cursed Bunny(4)
The woman spent more and more time alone in the house. Her husband had been promoted to the executive level and lived under a mountain of work and her child was also busy with her own life, so the family rarely saw each other during the day. From time to time, her husband came home a little earlier than usual and the two of them spent a quiet evening together, but they had never had a fiery romance to begin with or had much in terms of memories to fall back on. They had spent too much of their marriage in a state of emotional detachment to really start making an effort to be affectionate now. They usually ate dinner in silence, watched some television in silence, and her husband would go to bed first in silence.
The woman would then watch TV on her own. On days her child or husband came home late, or even after her whole family had long fallen asleep, she would watch TV until the national anthem came on. Partly because she had nothing else to do, but more so because she thought if she concentrated hard enough on the screen, she might decrease an odd-feeling little space that had appeared in her heart. The space felt empty sometimes, full at others, and bitter or aching at still other times. This strange little space, if she ever let her guard down, could suddenly blow up in size and consume her. So she kept watching TV, trying to empty her heart and mind as she gazed upon the meaningless progression of scenes on the screen. But the well of thought taps a deep spring, and no matter how much she tried to bail them out, her thoughts kept overflowing the brim …
Then one night, she went to the bathroom.
She had been watching TV, like always, and was alone in the house, like always. She did her business, closed the lid, and flushed. While washing her hands, she glanced at herself in the mirror. Sagging eyelids, wrinkles, rough and dry skin. White hair peeking out from the roots of her dye job. She was fiddling with her hair, thinking she’d need another hair appointment soon, when she saw, through the mirror, the lid of the toilet seat move.
Clack.
A wet hand rose from inside the toilet and pushed the lid open. Another wet hand emerged. The two hands gripped the edge of the toilet.
She watched as the back of a person’s head, thick with hair and slick with water, rose from the toilet bowl.
The delicate hands spread their long, thin fingers and pushed down against the rim, bringing up a narrow pair of fine-boned shoulders and slender arms. The rich black hair reached all the way down the smooth back, followed by the sensuous line of a svelte waist and white, voluptuous buttocks and firm thighs. A knee rose up and a foot perched on the edge of the toilet bowl. The leg was white and long and slim. The calves were precisely the right size, the muscles tensing a little as the foot was brought up, the ankle dainty. The other foot emerged, and its exquisite toes lightly touched down on the bathroom floor. The drenched, naked body shone in the yellow, dim light of the bathroom.
The woman kept staring into the mirror. The person who had emerged from the toilet slowly turned around. The woman saw the face of her youth reflected next to her own sagging face. Her young self, smiling at her old self.
The old self slowly turned around to face the young self.
The head that was no longer a head stood still. The old self stared back at the face of her youth, a face that continued to smile at her.
“Mother?” The tone of voice was a little high-pitched but there was no more of the old gurgling sound, no more of that irritating voice of a person drowning. “Do you recognize me?”
“Well …” Her own voice creaked like a rusty hinge.
“How have you been, Mother?”
The woman said nothing.
“I have finished my body. And just as I promised, I shall leave and live by my own means. I’m here to say goodbye and ask a final request.”
One word pricked her attention: “Request.”
“Don’t worry.” The head smiled as if to reassure her. “I can’t very well go out in the world naked now, can I? It was hard enough finishing my body with just what you were giving me, so I had no means to create garments to cover myself. This is my first and last request. If you could just give me a change of clothing, I shall hide my shameful parts and be on my way.”
The woman thought of the clothes hanging in her wardrobe and turned to leave the bathroom. The head stopped her.
“Don’t go out of your way. Just the clothes you’re wearing now will do fine.”
The woman replied, “What are you talking about? You want me to take off my clothes for you this minute? On the freezing floor tiles? You should just take what I give you— why are you being so demanding?”
“Mother, please calm down.” The head gazed at her with an expression of longing on her young face. “I’ve never received anything from you besides what you’ve thrown away. This is my first and last request. If you give me the clothes you’re wearing now, I shall keep the heat and scent of you forever with me until the day I die, with gratitude.”
The woman stared at her younger self. At her younger body. At this individual created not through a womb and placenta but through the colon and defecation. She stared at what had hidden in the dark hole in the white porcelain all that time, torturing her, and was now declaring independence. If this really was goodbye, and if they really were never to see each other again, what was a change of clothing to her?
As her young self toweled off, the old self stripped down. Her garments weren’t anything fancy: a cardigan, a simple dress, a bra, panties, and socks. That was it. Naked, she watched her young self pick up each item and put them on. Panties. Bra. Dress. Cardigan. Her young self seemed to relish each item. Lastly, the socks were put on, the buttons on the cardigan done up. Her old self felt a chill against her naked body.