Chapter Text
The ballerinas danced gracefully on the television screen, twisting and turning their figures in incredible ways. It reminded you of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake that you awoke to one morning a couple of years ago—you knew what it meant; your mother had explained it to you before. Then before you knew it, the wall in Berlin came down, torn and hammered apart by the Germans as they ran to embrace their family on both sides. You were at home watching through a screen as it all unfolded—when Vera was still alive. Forget it.
There are six people in your house.
The sun continues to be unbearably hot. The scorching heat can render you blind just by taking a peek out the blinds. The little warmth that escapes the curtains burns horribly. A few beams can light up the entire room.
In the living room, there was a man as tall as a giant and a fellow wrapped from head to toe despite the sun—you call them the Bar Guy and the Coat Guy.
You talked with the Bar Guy and inspected both of them; the latter criticised the ‘method’ used to identify visitors as complete bullshit as usual. Hearing his words, you know he’s right, and you’re upset there's nothing else you can do to stay safe. The fellow in the coats went on and on about being cold no matter what—you don’t trust him, yet the tall man seemed to get along quite well with him.
You headed to the kitchen. There are two girls, one who you call the Runaway Teenager and your neighbour’s daughter. The teen initially did not want to stay because of the latter but slowly began accepting her presence. You checked their teeth and hand carefully, cautious not to cross any boundaries with the teenager as she scowled and yelled threats at you. From your conversations, she seemed to have endured a lot; you don’t want to make her feel like she did with her parents in your house—strange that ‘feeling at home’ can be a scary thing to some people.
In the closet, there’s a woman with a slanted shoulder slumped against the wall you call the Cashier. She talks about her unconscious roommate and a man pushing her up against the kitchen table. It made you feel quite awful to inspect her. Red eyes; clean teeth.
“What! I’m a visitor? It can’t be…it can’t be…”
You put down the gun. You couldn’t. She doesn’t seem to know she’s a visitor? You wonder if that will be fine. You wonder if it’s fine taking this risk.
The neighbour's daughter was no longer crying.
“When is my dad coming to pick me up? He’s going to come, right?”
“He’s going to.” You lied. You know he’s six feet under, but you couldn’t bear to tell her the truth.
The teen seemed to see right through you and your white lie.
“You should go look at that woman in the bathroom. Ugh, she’s not letting any of us even shower. Whatever, we’re all gonna die anyway.”
A rotten smell struck the moment the bathroom door was opened. A dead man in the tub and a weeping woman lying beside him—she’s who you call the Widowed Woman. She looked haggard, with dark circles under her eyes. You leaned in close, watching her pupils move; her eyes were frightfully red. You took out the shotgun.
“Just because my eyes are red, I’m a visitor. In this new world, are you still allowed to cry? Even smiling is prohibited…”
You looked at her teeth, pulling her mouth open with your fingers; white, sure, but uneven.
“Can I rest for a while now?” She asked tiredly. You closed the bathroom door and left her alone.
You were near to collapsing, your eyes hardly able to stay open. Retreating to your bedroom, lying on the mattress, you secretly prayed to…whoever to keep everyone safe. You weren’t religious; your father was. Perhaps he has to do with that?
You close your eyes, counting down from a hundred, slowly drifting off to sleep.
***
You roused. You still haven’t really adjusted to waking up in the dead of the night, but the knocking at your door had already begun.
Looking through the peephole, you see a thin, half-naked man. He’s pale as paper and had a smile that immediately made you uneasy.
“Hello!”
“What do you want?”
“Pretty spacious house you’ve got here…I like it.”
“I have a gun.”
“Delightful! Desperation can give the coward courage, right? But I say…you alone?” The pale man cracked into a grin, flashing his unnaturally perfect teeth at you.
“I’ve said I’m not alone!”
“Lucky for you today. I can hear whispering in your house. But how will it be in a few days? Who knows?”
“I see you hanging around here again, I’ll blow your brains out.”
“Fiery, eh? I have a taste for that. Hope you'll be able to keep this flame.” He said sarcastically. “You get what I mean?”
With that, he left. His tall stature retreated into the darkness of the light until you could not see him anymore. This interaction gave you quite a fright. You’re sure he’s the man. The man outside, who you’re certain killed the teenagers playing in the field. The one whose stare pierced through your soul. The pale murderer on the television. It’s him. You’ll have to be more careful from now on.
He seemed to look different from when you saw him through the window yesterday. Maybe he was wearing someone else’s coat? Did he converse with you in his true form or in one of his victim’s skins? The thought made bile rise to your throat.
You looked at the windows; there were soldiers and FEMA workers. It makes you feel relieved that there are some people dealing with all the bodies; you wouldn’t want rotten corpses to pile outside your house.
For now, all you have to worry about is surviving.
You hope everything will turn out alright.
Yet you can only hope.
The Intruder doesn't really remember when he became this way, nor does he want to. He has an insatiable appetite. All visitors do. All of them serve a higher being, something more powerful than himself, more powerful than IT.
He’s never met this ‘higher being’ before; he has no right to. Submitting to a hierarchy is quite unlike who he was before; one of the most vivid things he remembered back then was that he was a passionate anarchist. How ironic! He only finds these political ideologies amusing now; what are all these ‘theories’ of these puny humans in the face of creatures like his kind?
He’s seen it all. People who shoved others to death. People who pick up a gun to call themselves justice or even fight their fellow comrades. People who are no longer concerned about the coming and going of death anymore. Cowardice, desperation, righteousness, selfishness, indifference. He’s seen it all.
In spite of that, the Intruder sees an inkling of ‘humanity’—whatever humans call it—brewing in that small town, in the house of that hermit. He hated people, despised them. Yet again and again, he allowed people to take refuge in his home. He can hear shivers and mumbles in every room. How come?
As far as he observed, this society is run by greed.
Does he want to survive? If so, why waste his resources on others? Does he truly care about these strangers?
He intrigues the Intruder, more than all his other goals in the past. He constantly teases him, just to see what kind of response he’s going to receive. He even daresay he’s entertaining company. He wanted to see the extent to which his helping hand would go.
For now, he waits for their next meeting.
He hopes he doesn’t disappoint him.
And he goes on hoping all night.