Cyril Nadar - Week 14 - Would You Love Me if I Were Dead?
“Would you love me if I were a worm?” She asked, drinking from her lime straw. It was soda, yes, the red cherry flavored that she loved to drink on those hot days. She had a strange habit of chewing on them. Often, she would go ask the baristas for a new one. And stranger still, she always picked the lime ones, even though they weren’t her favorite color.
“Nope. Worms are slimy and look weird,” I giggled. She looked really strangely glowing that day. Maybe it was because of the extra makeup she applied. Well, I wasn’t complaining. Her black hair went well with the blue, frilly outfit she wore. A purple bonnet—my favorite color—was embedded in her silky hair.
“What if I were a really pretty worm with a little ribbon on it?” She teased, twirling her hair with a finger.
“If you were a really pretty worm? Maybe I can put you on my shoulder and go to places,” I said, leaning on the cafe chair, staring into the sky.
“Worms are really loveable,” she rested her head on her left arm; she was looking at the cafe sign—Parmi’s Cafe.
“Why would you say that?” I asked to take a sip of my soda—purple straw—which was stained with my lipstick.
“Well, they can live deep under the ground and be happy. Also, when they come outside in the rain, they do a little dance when you touch them.”
“You must really like worms, hm? So much you would want to turn into one,” I teased. “Would you like to be a big, slimy one or a cute, little, dainty one?”
“I would want to be a small worm that lives underground,” she muttered quietly.
“What was that? A big, slimy worm?”
“No, no! A small worm. Teeny tiny,” she covered her face, which was turning slightly red from embarrassment. Why was she so embarrassed by this? She doesn’t get embarrassed easily. Why?
I got up and walked to her, “Let’s go to your place. It’s getting late.” She was staring where I sat, transfixed. “Let’s go!” I tugged on her right arm Cold, I think.
“Sorry I was...thinking,” she took my hand—definitely warmer.
“I think you would be really cute as a worm,” I said at the beginning of our walk.
“Mhm.”
The walk to her house takes about 15 minutes from Parme’s Cafe. This time it took nine. We didn’t talk much during those lonely minutes. I wish I did. She was so quiet, keeping her head down, seemingly deep in thought.
She lived in an apartment. 506 Ramble Street. Her father doesn’t come home until late at night—nice man—and her mother goes out with her friends. She usually comes black out drunk with one of her friends slinging her over a shoulder. Her father was furious most of the time, but eventually I think he just gave up. The living room was cramped, with a ceiling fan humming. It cut through the soggy air into thin slices that wafted to the ground. She sat on my sofa—on the left-hand side, which was signaled by the depression in the leather. She always sat on the left. She turned on the T.V, and a nature show on sea animals was streaming. A beautiful jellyfish—a firework jellyfish also known as Halitrephes maasí—swam gently in the water.
“Would you love me if I were a jellyfish?” She asked, looking up at me.
I sat next to her, my head leaning against her shoulder. “What’s up with you becoming an animal today?” I poked her cheek.
“I like jellyfish. They don’t really have to worry about anything.”
“What do you get eaten by another animal? You couldn’t swim away because you’re too slow.”
“I don’t think I would mind…as a jellyfish.”
I stayed at her home for a few more hours before heading home. She said she needed to get up early to get to one of her college classes. I still wonder which class to do. She stayed at the door as I walked into the night. It was cold. I don’t like the cold. Winter’s hands caressed and choked at exposed skin when I opened the door. I waved back, smiling.
The force of tension on a rope can be calculated through Newton’s second law: F=ma, where “m” is the mass of the object and “a” is the acceleration—in this case it is 9.8 m/s^2 as we are on Earth. She weighed about 58 kilograms, which is about 568.4 newtons of force applied on the rope attached to the ceiling. Her parents weren’t even home yet. I wonder when they would have found out that their daughter was dead if I didn’t come early in the morning to check. She still looked beautiful. Her makeup was mostly unchanged, and her eyes were closed as if she were only sleeping. I caressed her face; my fingers shook as they made contact with a bitter cold. No warmth.
I just looked at her. The fan was still humming its vile tune. I hated it so much.
“How could you…?” I scratched her skin. “How could I—.”
“How could I love you if you were dead?”
Hello Cyril, I found your blog incredibly immersive, to be frank I was slightly confused as to where your blog was going but it led me to a nice destination none the less. I found your writing very interesting, if this is your first attempt at fantasy you should be proud. The dialogue was unique and your sentences had great flow, I appreciated your title as well which, as I was scrolling through people's blogs this week deciding whos to read I saw your title and was immediately hooked. The shift from light to almost playful diaglogue is intruiging, I especially noticed how your character's desire to be small, hidden or unconcerned with the world hints at her feeling before it is explicitly mentioned. The narrator's conflicting tone further adds to the complexity of your story. The combination of affection, confusion and guilt make the story shift focus to misunderstood feelings. Overall lovely piece and I look forward to hearing from you next week!
ReplyDeleteBefore I say anything else, I just want to thank you for doing a narrative this week! Usually it's just me, and even though I want to do a story every week, or something story-adjacent, I’m not always able to come up with something.
ReplyDeleteEither way, there’s a lot to love about your story, especially the dialogue! It left me thinking about the “would you still love me if I was a worm?” thing that got so widespread on the internet and seemed to confuse a lot of people (mostly men, apparently); I had read somewhere that though they may not think about it, people (mainly women) ask that question to see if they would still be valued if they could not “provide” value themselves, e.g. through their looks or acts of service. This theme plays a big part in your blog, I see, especially through that ending and the constant details of the narrator focusing on the girl’s appearance—would they still love her if she no longer looked like that? I’d argue probably not, hence her pivoting to wanting to be a ”really pretty worm” or a jellyfish (regarded as naturally graceful creatures, notably lacking brains).
But that’s just my take on the story. Regardless, I have to say how great the physics section before her death is revealed is; the force of tension on a rope…she weighed 58 kilograms…chills! Great job on your blog!