A Little Pink Pale Body
By Maya Feliz
Life wasn’t something I looked forward to anymore. When I was 7, my uncle murdered my mom and dad. When I was 13, I was thrown out into the streets. I usually frequented this one alleyway, sat in it alongside heaps of dirty napkins, empty drinks, and more. I sat staring at the wall. I was able to do that. I didn’t have a phone or anything of interest. Usually, my thoughts ran rampant, but quieted, too quiet around the first hour. By the next 3, I wander, I get out of my coil and begin to press my feet lightly into the ground.
Most people who saw me, mainly young women, gasped, but they didn’t really do anything about it, just either giggled about how I looked like some naked rotisserie chicken, or I must’ve been so cold. I was at most times, like the way your skin feels icy, but you don’t shiver, you just grow used to it. At a certain time, I’m fed small strips of chicken, not all the time, just sometimes. I don’t always stop by because I am unsure, and from that, I wake up hungry and alone.
I don’t fear his judgment; I just decide. When the night falls, I scratch my nails into the rocky wall nearby and struggle to slurp up small remnants of a puddle. Whenever snow touched my skin, I’d run, scampering away and curling in some corner because I don’t like the way it feels. I try to avoid that.
Then, when people sleep, I lie awake and blink my slow lids, so slow that it doesn’t feel like I’ve blinked at all. Whoever passes by, I like to stare at, anxious or saddened, because I am alone. I like to be, I choose it. I watch as a couple hiss at a gust of wind blowing by, stuffing hands into huge coat pockets, ginormous fluffy black hood covering their faces. I place my head into my hands again, ignoring the sound, the ache in my chest as I sleep.
The next day, I take a walk, pressing my crinkly hands into the pavement, and stare at two people eating a sandwich. I approach the back of the woman’s chair very slowly, twitching and flicking at the sound. It is the boyfriend who notices me, and at first, he doesn’t know what to say; he just watches, and I stare back. Eventually, the woman turns around, and she makes this weird scrunched-up face, like she was figuring out who I was.
I stand there, not waiting, just watching. A fry is thrown, soft and crunchy. I smell it and pause, lifting my head to gaze. It wasn’t for the food; it was just testing, curious. The guy says, “I don’t know if they can eat that.” The woman shrugs.
I give the fry a lick, a small soft touch, and then I continue quietly walking. Because I am so thin, I am able to squeeze between a crowd of people, I am able to walk beside 2 friends who walk jaggedly, and they kindly move away. I sit at a table sometimes, indirectly waiting as people pass. I see things that don’t interest me, and I scarf up this dumpster meal I found, a half-eaten burger, and more fries. I like these fries, and I take my time chewing the strange, cold texture that got melted down by ketchup. A small nibble out of the burger is taken, and I leave it, walking away.
I touched the pocket watch dangling around my neck, golden, tarnished, and ugly. Maybe that is why people do not take me. A man had given this to me, in a cloak only someone from long ago would wear. He said, “This will make you lovable.” And I said, “Okay.” So I sat there in my pale skin, pink, and round, and watched the world go by.
It became better as time went on, slow and melodic, then forgettable. Sometimes people gave me a pat on the rump or dropped trails of food. Yes, it is true that I have received more food than I would as my shape. But it wasn’t different; I received them as if I had been given a gift of trust and belonging.
A woman gave me a blanket one day. I think I’ve seen her around a few times, but I never acknowledged it until then. It remained in my quiet corner for a long time, until a homeless man had found me snuggling beneath it, and had plucked it from my sleeping body with a mutter of no apology. It was red and velvet, cheap, but something to cover me from the cold nights.
The warmth of the metal pressed into my thin neck, stretched and crinkled, bleeding a tinge of yellow light. I pressed it further into my collarbone and raised my ear to the soft buzzes nearby until I wake. I’d never seen him again.
When I am spoken to, someone might curl their finger behind my naked body and scratch me with their gruff, dirty fingernails. I can’t say that I hadn’t craved that affection, and every now and then, I might receive it. Either way, I live, and I watch the world go by, unsure of my purpose.
A few months later, I saw a woman, cold and quiet, pass by me, quick and certain. I looked up at her, twitching in response until she had passed, and I pressed my head further into the heat of my paws. I saw her soon after, not 5 minutes later, walking the opposite way, like she took a wrong turn and admitted it only to herself. Only then did she look at me, at the way I stared up at her, round and unblinking, quiet and lacking judgment.
It was through the sides of her eyes. Her eyes flickered below for just a moment and then she had passed. I observed the absence, and I remained upright for a moment until my bones ached and I grew tired of the wall around me. I left shortly after, not far, just to watch the sky as the sun set, and a plane flew by, leaving a trail behind it. I stood for a while, observing, thoughtless, watching how the street lights around me drowned out the stars I had once seen as a kid— only as a kid.
My watch clattered against the pavement as my head rested in an old shoebox stuffed with tissue paper. The next day, a small note had been left for me, I would assume me. I cannot say who it is from. I would like to think it was that woman, but it could’ve not been because I assume no one else had seen me yesterday, or the days before. In crumpled up, average handwriting, “I just thought you might need this.” Beside was a can of soup and a piece of chocolate. The curve of my claw cracked open the can, and I sipped it peacefully until night had fallen again.
I sat still and slowly began to close the crinkles of my eyelids until I heard a small plastic bag gently touch the pavement nearby me. A very quiet weight sat against the space next to me. I waited patiently until I heard a metal click and scrape. I didn’t turn my head, but I twitched and saw a man, or woman, with a fluffy coat sit beside me.
They rested a can at the side. I didn’t say anything. They didn’t say anything. It was quiet until I had uncurled myself from the ache in my limbs and sniffed. I had drained the juice from the other, and they watched me sip for a small moment until I sat back down, curling my limbs into my body. A soft, warm blanket touched my back, and only then I had turned my head, just slightly, and had watched them leave.
I blinked lightly and tenderly rested my head against the ground, a small amount of ache exiting as silently as it had come, and slept.
