Aysal
That night was pitch black; once again, I hadn't made it to where I needed to be.
My doctor had asked, "Is that the only thing you remember about that night?" Throughout countless moments of feeling my thin hair stand on end and shrinking into the hospital chair, I had been forced to contemplate the answer to that question. Now, it was as if someone was leaning in toward that small child, whispering, "You tell me. What do you know?"
The child covered his ears with his hands, crying, "I don't know." Poor child! He was just one of the many. He was no different from a decorative plant breathing in the voids where those in pain fell.
"I don't know," he murmured one last time.
Now, there was such an expression in the eyes of the man standing before me that I couldn't make sense of what was happening. Was he playing the victim, or was he truly a man living with a piece of a wound still in his conscience?
Because I knew those who carried wounds. As the poison flowed, all that remained was a dim light. Whether it was with that remaining light or not, I don't know, but he continued to watch me intently. "Why are you telling me all this?" I asked, clenching my fingers into my palms. "Why is everything..." (Why, when everything is already like shit, do you want to make it a little worse?)
As the four hundred words bled like an artery, I tried to cling to the one thing I remembered about the past. "Özlem"—the name hadn't just slipped from my lips by chance. My eyebrows rose, and the tension in my forehead stretched all the way to my temples. This name remained on the tip of my tongue like a sore now. Was this woman the woman I knew? Was she the woman from that dream? Did she sound fake to the ears because she had sprung from a dream of her own? No! I didn't know what to say. My stomach was cramping. Even the sight of those eating heartily before me didn't force a hint of hunger into my withered stomach. The only thing I held onto was that face appearing before my eyes.
A woman in her fifties, with small black eyes, carelessly trimmed eyebrows, and knotted arms, constantly draped in green dresses—she stood before my eyes like a labored painting. That woman... A scene flashed through my mind like a bolt of lightning. The moment she caught a pigeon and slit its throat, it began to burn like a roaring fire. The smoke that rose, the scent mingling with the trees, was more than just a breeze created by a grain of dust in my lungs. I remembered how I stared at the pigeon with pity. A family, in the middle of the night, had grilled and eaten it over a charcoal brazier. When I turned away with a large, heavy tear of pity flowing from my eyes, I couldn't find my mother. Nor my father. The reason for this... wasn't that I couldn't lean on my family. It was that my family was that family. The family that ate the pigeon.
The woman I mentioned wasn't my mother. But she had shared in our family's unique meal that night. She was a guest. A bloody guest. After all, with my child's mind, I knew that she had fed on the life subtracted from the pigeon's life. In fact, as far as I remembered, my mother and father had eaten a pigeon as an excuse for her visit.
It was Özlem.
That woman was Özlem. She had glided in like a pigeon peeking its head through a crack in the door, emerging from between fragmented memories.
I still hadn't given Sis a single answer.
The name of this woman from years and years ago was Özlem. Fine... but why would that be a problem? There were thousands of people named Özlem. Why should that woman from my childhood, whose status of being alive or dead was uncertain, provide a reason for suspicion? But in that moment, I stopped. My eyes drifted to the red string on my wrist. In that instant, everything knotted together like a thick rope. I saw Sis's Adam's apple slide down like a pulse, rippling in his throat. My breath stabbed into my lungs like a knife. The red string.
A red string had been tied to the woman's left wrist that night.
When Sis looked intently where I was looking, he saw the string on my wrist. Could the same things passing through my mind be passing through his?
I grew angry at the absurdity of my own question. If we hadn't lived through the same things, how could we be thinking the same things?
I didn't give up; the breath lifting my ribcage was like an ashtray filled with pitch-black ashes. I wanted to remember more. I witnessed Sis's effort to remember things along with me. His fingers touching the paper were still trembling. He was looking at his own picture like a stranger. Yet, he couldn't deny that the person in that picture was himself. "Your mother," I murmured in a weary voice. A tin can was thrown to the ground, emptied. I watched it drag across the floor with a clink sound.
I understood that the word "Mother" did not leave a good effect on Sis. His eyebrows rose slowly, fixing in place as if he were performing a complicated task. He had pulled his eyes away from the string on my wrist. His face resembled the lid of a mysterious chest. It was a chest as mysterious and cruel as himself.
I could have described the woman in my head and asked, "Is this your mother?" But why would he admit it? Why would this man, who had fallen into the bloody game of the Mechanism to kill me, help me? Wouldn't he, at most, look for something to peel away the scabs of a wound touching his own past?
The icy stare between us dissolved within seconds. I saw Hülya coming this way. She was carrying a tin can in her hand. She might want to ask what we were talking about. After all, it was strange for two living souls to speak while wandering among silent, dead beings.
Was there... another note? Could another letter solve the questions in a mysterious way? I took the tin can Hülya held out. The woman's blonde hair looked so thin and neglected on her shoulders that I was overcome with a sense of pity. As if I weren't in a pitiable state myself. "This is yours," she said; "In fact, you can have another one. You found these, remember?"
I realized I had long since forgotten my hunger. I didn't want the canned food. What I had learned sat in my stomach like I had eaten stones, but I accepted it politely anyway. Hülya completely ignored Sis and made eye contact with me.
"Do you want to walk a little?"
I squeezed the cold metal part of the tin can between my fingers. "Okay."
Sis watched me slowly stand up, supporting myself from the ground. It made me uneasy that he looked at me as if a conversation had been left unfinished. I walked behind Hülya. Her steps were slow, perhaps so that I could keep up.
"You shouldn't trust him," she murmured. "The envelope you gave..."
That's right, I had left it with Sis. Because as soon as he took it in his hand, it was as if he had become the owner of that letter.
"I was going to tell you about that envelope too..." I said, and Hülya's features twitched slightly in surprise.
"Where did you find it?"
"In a hollow of the city walls," I murmured; her gaze focused even more on me. She nodded slightly as if she understood, but she was surprised.
"Are there any of those letters left?"
Hülya took a deep breath. "We used to find many of them before."
It was my turn to be surprised. I looked at her with a curious expression. "What do you mean, were there many of those letters?" Was this something ordinary?
She let me think by remaining silent, my curiosity being fueled. "But," I said in a thin voice. "Who writes these letters?"
She slowed her steps. "You couldn't endure your curiosity and went to Sis for an answer, right? Because you want to know. But believe me, Aysal..." It was the first time she had called me by my name. In the worst place in the world, a hope soft as the light of a crescent moon filled me. My name... it belonged to me. Maybe it was a strange name, but it was mine. Just like certain emotions.
She softened her voice even more; we had even left Sis's shadow behind. As we passed them, a few people stepped aside as if showing respect. There was a very warm air in the way they looked at me. Did they feel that I was helping them?
Hülya continued slowly. "The things written in those letters only remain from a body rotted between the walls. They... consist of lines full of pain and grief. Everyone who comes here loses their mind sooner or later. There is no other way."
"Well..." I said, pressing my sweaty hands together. "Where did they find paper and a pen?"
This simple question seemed like the most logical question that could be asked. Just as I was about to open my mouth, the wall on my left was painted with a giant, blue color. This was a box twice as large as the normal width of the digital holo-screen. A rustling sound came. It reminded me of the breathing sounds of a monster. My breath was a guilt buried within that sound, left to me. A "Ding!" sound was heard several times in a row. Names, jumbled and unclear who they belonged to, appeared one after another on the screen. The blades of the Mechanism were pointed at me.
We had completely forgotten the topic Hülya and I were going to discuss. I focused entirely on the screen.
[Dear Patients! Remain stationary in your places. The announcement we are about to make is of great importance. Oh, we know your time is precious...] I almost tripped over the tin can and fell.
Hülya signaled with her eyes for me to stay where I was.
[The Mechanism is working for you! Are you excited? I know, excitement is beautiful. First, before we start the hunting game we will play with you... Leave that letter in the marked square!]
With the mention of the word 'letter,' everyone froze and looked at each other. I felt the shiver spreading down my spine. I could see Hülya clenching her fingers.
I just... wanted to turn around and look at Sis. He wasn't visible where I had last left him. Then I looked around but couldn't notice him. Hah! It wasn't like the ground would open up and swallow him. Though, the ground was opening up here, but in that moment of profound silence, I continued to scan my surroundings. Fearful glances and the burden of silence hung in the air like a heavy bag.
I looked at the marked blue square. I felt someone pass by my right side. Until I closed and opened my eyes... I heard the sound of paper tearing. I held my breath.
On the square, randomly torn pieces of paper winked at everyone.