MLCD Chapter 4.3

These days, Lewellyn was in a good mood. Even though his leg was broken, he felt like he could jump up, and even though his arm was injured, he felt like he could wave it around in the air. The man taught him that this feeling was called ‘feeling good.’ Of course, he didn’t forget to give Lewellyn a light jab, saying ‘What’s got you so happy?’

Lewellyn was feeling good because he’s Lewellyn. When the man wasn’t around, Lewellyn would roll the name around in his mouth. Lewellyn. The “Le” sound where the tongue touched the roof of the mouth, the “we” sound that made the vocal cords vibrate, the “llyn” sound that ended with a soft resonance. That name felt like the man’s voice.

Lewellyn, I know, Lewellyn, I guess it’s because I like you, Lewellyn, I’ll come back.

Lewellyn, Lewellyn, Lewellyn.

***

That day, the man had barely given him a name before it was time for the night check and he hurriedly left the room. He didn’t even teach him a single letter of the alphabet. It was truly ironic how he had taken a piece of paper that said ‘Alphabet Learning Time’.

Watching the man’s back as he left Lewellyn’s universe, Lewellyn wondered. Whether the man was a man or a woman, young or old, whether he liked clubs or knives or sticks, Lewellyn didn’t know. But he wished he could bite the “night check” guard without leaving a single piece of flesh left.

“I’ll come back.”

Click, the iron door closed, and the man disappeared.

***

As always, Lewellyn was crouched in front of the typewriter. O:) O:) O:) O:) O:) O:) O:) O:) O:) O:)… He typed that whenever he wanted to see the man’s smiling face, in other words, whenever he was awake. To no one’s surprise, the already worn-out typewriter had inevitably broken down.

When you press the keys, the corresponding letter should rise up and strike the paper, but no matter how many times Lewellyn pressed the ‘O’ key, the letter didn’t rise up and it didn’t strike the paper. Lewellyn got really scared. “I’m sorry,” he apologized cautiously and pressed the O, but the letter still didn’t budge. “Do you want me to bite you?” he threatened angrily and pressed the O, but the letter still didn’t move. The paper was filled with just “:)”. The O that should have been on the head was missing.

Lewellyn looked dejected. “:)” instead of O:) was useless. O:) was the smiling face the man made, but “:)” was a smile anyone could make.

Whether it was unfortunate or fortunate, it wasn’t just Lewellyn who looked dejected. The man who came the next day did too.

“I, I need to get this fixed…”

His face looked so bad that it turned deathly pale. The man struggled to fix the typewriter, but it was in vain. He clutched his head and sank down as if collapsing. Then he said,

“Oh no, I’m so dead.”

Lewellyn stared at the man. The man wasn’t choking, his eyes weren’t rolled back, and blood wasn’t spurting out of him like a fountain. He wasn’t dead. “You’re not dead though.”

“…”

The man let out a groan and pressed his forehead. It was later that he taught Lewellyn that “I’m so dead” wasn’t meant literally, but was an idiom used when something terrible happened.

The “terrible thing” the man was talking about was getting scolded by a prison guard. Since there was no guard who used the typewriter, they might be able to just let it go as if nothing happened, but if not, the man would have to compensate for it. If they asked him to compensate for an old model like this one, it would be fine, but if they made him compensate for a new model, the man’s three months’ worth of salary would disappear in the blink of an eye, according to his explanation.

Lewellyn didn’t understand. The words “compensation,” “old model,” “new model,” and “salary” were all unfamiliar to him. The only thing Lewellyn knew was that the man was going to take away the typewriter.

Lewellyn clung to the man’s legs without any hesitation. He didn’t have in mind to ask what compensation was, what old and new models were, or what salary was. The man, who was about to pick up the typewriter, was startled. Understandable, since the grip that was clinging to him was close to crushing his bones. Fortunately, the man regained his composure quickly. Then he said,

“Okay, okay. I’ll bring you an even more fun toy, so let go and we’ll talk about it.”

Of course, that didn’t work on Lewellyn at all. It was only natural. The reason Lewellyn was so attached to the typewriter was not because it was a fun toy, but because it was an object that could make O:), the man’s smiling face.

Lewellyn clung to the man’s leg and didn’t budge. If he wasn’t wearing a muzzle, he would have bitten straight into it. The man, seeming perplexed, kept rubbing his temples and asked,

“…Do you want to draw a circle?”

Lewellyn, clinging to the man’s leg, didn’t respond at all. The man rephrased his question.

“Do you want to write an O?”

Lewellyn, clinging to the man’s leg, looked up at the man. The man seemed to have caught on.

“Do you want to do a face?”

Lewellyn, clinging to the man’s leg, nodded his head. The man pondered, then pulled a pen and notebook out of his pocket.

“Here.”

He scribbled something in the notebook and handed it over.

“:)”

“:D”

“:(“

The notebook had those written in it. The outline was a little rough compared to what he had typed on the typewriter before, but it was still legible.

“Enough?”

Lewellyn let go of the man. He stared intently at the notebook with “:), :D, and :(“ written in it.

The man said he would give him a pen and notebook instead of the typewriter. He warned Lewellyn not to ruin them, as he was only borrowing them, not giving them away. Lewellyn gripped the pen. Perhaps because he was holding it like a poker, knife, or baton, the pen was trembling in his hand.

“You’re not supposed to hold it like that,” the man pointed out, but Lewellyn wasn’t listening. He was busy putting O’s on top of the :), :D, and :(. Crooked circles that were unclear if they were O’s or D’s were etched onto the face shapes. The man’s expression was ambiguous, impossible to know whether he was feeling happy or sad.

When the man came the next day, the notebook was filled with Lewellyn’s O:)’s. It was the same on the cover, the pages, the front, and the back. Even the spine of the notebook was filled with faces.

The problem was not just the notebook.

“…Good heavens.”

A sigh involuntarily escaped the man’s lips. Lewellyn had written O:)’s all over his own body. His fingers, between his fingers, the backs of his hands, his palms, his wrists, and his entire forearms from the wrists to the elbows were packed with O:)’s. Before doing his arms, he had done his legs, and the exposed soles of his bare feet were also full of O:)’s. Covered in ink, his raw, swollen bare feet looked even more hideous.

It was unclear whether it was because he pressed too hard, or because of the ink, but his skin was inflamed and irritated. In the sensitive areas where his arms bent, the skin was faintly showing blood. “Is this what I lent it to you for?” The man snatched the pen Lewellyn was holding.

When Lewellyn tried to get it back, the man quickly pinned it to the wall and broke the nib. Lewellyn fiddled with the broken pen, realizing that no more O:)’s could be written, and looked dejected. Of course, the man didn’t bat an eye.

“I should wipe it off.”

The man put his hands on his hips and surveyed Lewellyn’s body, stained everywhere by ink, then opened his mouth. It could have been either a sigh or a weak laugh.

“I just cleaned up your mess the other day and now I’ve got to do it again.”

The man brought a towel soaked in warm water and wiped Lewellyn’s body. The ink was stubborn and didn’t come off easily, so he scrubbed hard, and each time, Lewellyn couldn’t help but squirm from the tickling sensation. The man warned him a few times (“Lewellyn, can you stay still?”, “Lewellyn, stay still”, “Lewellyn, please, please stay still.”), but it was useless. The man frowned, but eventually resigned himself to it.

By the time the man was wiping his feet, the tickling sensation had subsided. Except for unconsciously wiggling his toes whenever the towel touched him, Lewellyn was lying still like a corpse. When the man had told him to stay still before, he couldn’t, but now he thought that if he stayed still, he might get in less trouble.

Whether the man didn’t know or was pretending not to know what Lewellyn was thinking, he was focused solely on wiping off the O:)’s on his skin.

“Lift your feet.”

Lewellyn obediently lifted both feet. “Thank god. There’s no scribbling on the soles.” the man said. Lewellyn was a little annoyed. It’s not scribbling, it’s the man. It’s the living image of the man, from his smile to his hat…

“Bend your left foot.”

Lewellyn obediently bent his left foot. The side of his left foot was wiped clean.

“Bend your right foot.”

Lewellyn obediently bent his right foot. The side of his right foot was wiped clean.

The feet were quickly cleaned. The man put down the towel. Lewellyn was a little sad to see the pleasantly warm, damp, and heavy towel that had been wrapped around his feet go away. The man briefly looked at Lewellyn’s feet, then turned his gaze away. His voice had a casual tone.

“You’ve got beautiful feet.”

He added, almost as if talking to himself. “The only flaw is that the toenails have all fallen off, but they’ll grow back.”

Beautiful. He had heard that word somewhere before. Racking his brain, Lewellyn recalled the words the man had said when they first met. “The dog is so beautiful.”

“What does ‘beautiful’ mean?”

He asked quickly. The man let out a short laugh as he finished folding the towel, now blackened with ink, into a square shape.

“Who knows? I don’t know either.”

Even though it was obvious he knew, he answered that. But Lewellyn decided not to ask further. He would have plenty of opportunities to ask, even if not today. He thought, I’ll ask what ‘beautiful’ means tomorrow night, and if he doesn’t answer then, I’ll ask the night after that, and if he still doesn’t answer, I’ll ask the night after that.

That night, Lewellyn had a dream. It was the first time he realized that dreams could exist that were not about him being beaten up by pokers, knives, or batons, or meeting Pharrell alone.

It was a dream where the man kept coming to visit, even after tens, hundreds, and thousands of nights had passed. In the tiny solitary confinement cell, only eight steps wide and long, the man was always there. There were onions and books. There was an unbreakable typewriter. There were plenty of towels. The man didn’t wear a wristwatch, and there was no “night check” guard, so he never left Lewellyn’s side.

Even after waking up from the dream, Lewellyn kept his eyes closed. He was afraid the traces of the dream etched behind his eyelids would disappear or become blurred memories.

The man, who peeled onions, read books, typed on a typewriter, and gave him towels, who didn’t wear a wristwatch and ignored the “night check” guard, who was always, always there with Lewellyn and never left…

The dream shimmered like a mirage. It was dazzling.

***

The man taught Lewellyn the letters. Lewellyn learned diligently, although there were occasional struggles. Lewellyn only wanted to learn the letters that made up the man’s name (‘Shavonne’) and the letters that made up Lewellyn’s own name, not the entire ‘ABC’ that the man was teaching endlessly. This request hadn’t been that strange since Lewellyn wanted to learn the letters not to expand his knowledge, but simply to know the man’s name (‘Shavonne’) and the name the man had given him (‘Lewellyn’).

It was up to the man to convince Lewellyn otherwise.

“What’s the use of just learning to read and write those? If you’re going to learn, you should learn all the letters from A to Z without skipping any.”

As he spoke, the man handed Lewellyn a workbook he had made himself. There were four lines on the workbook, but they were not printed, just drawn by hand with a pen, so the lines were crooked.

Lewellyn just silently looked down at the pen and workbook without any reaction. After a while, he raised his head and stared intently at the man’s face. He looked puzzled.

“Why?”

He repeated the question with a tilt of his head.

“Why do I have to do that?”

Lewellyn couldn’t understand. Why can’t I just learn to read and write those letters? The ones that make the man’s name (‘Shavonne’) and the name the man has given me (‘Lewellyn’) are the only ones that have any meaning to me.

Seeming to find it difficult to explain, the man just rubbed his temple in silence for a long time. Then he spoke.

“I’ll give you a letter.”

A letter? Lewellyn tilted his head again.

“To read it, you have to know all the letters from A to Z without skipping any. And you have to know words too… for example, how ‘wall’ or ‘floor’ are written.”

‘Letter’ must be something like a book. Or something similar to a book. To read a ‘letter’, I only need to know how ‘wall’ and ‘floor’ are written? Lewellyn was curious. The next moment, as if sensing Lewellyn’s curiosity, the man elaborated.

“Everything you think, everything you want… you need to be able to read and write all of it. Can you do it?”

How strange. It was just a matter of reading and writing what he thinks and wants, but the man’s question, “Can you do it?”, seemed to imply that it would be difficult.

What Lewellyn thinks about is the man. The man who peels onions, reads books, types on a typewriter, and gives him towels. What Lewellyn wants is also the man. The man who doesn’t wear a wristwatch and ignores the night patrol officer, the man who never leaves Lewellyn’s universe.

Is the word ‘man’ so hard to read and write that he’s asking me if I can do it? But even so, can’t I just learn to read and write the man’s name (‘Shavonne’)? Lewellyn felt puzzled.

But puzzled as he may be, he still needed to answer. Lewellyn nodded his head. An unhesitating answer came out from Lewellyn’s lips.

“I can do it.”

I can do it. No matter what he was asked to do, even if the man had asked “Can you get healthy right now?”, Lewellyn would have answered the same way. Everytime he saus he can’t do something, everyone hates him.

Pharrell despises me, the Vice Warden loathes me. The other guards are violent, whether it’s for work or just beating me up. The man will too. Not by despising or loathing or being violent, but in his own way, he will express his hatred for me.

By not bringing onions, books, or towels, or wearing a watch on his wrist, or befriending the night patrol officer… or, or maybe, by not coming here anymore.

Just imagining it made Lewellyn shiver. His body got colder, as if he was about to break out in a cold sweat.

“Yeah, you’ll do great.”

The man gave a faint smile. Lewellyn thought about how the man didn’t know how that barely visible smile made Lewellyn’s heart flutter. If he knew, he wouldn’t have smiled like that. He wouldn’t have crushed Lewellyn’s heart like that. Lewellyn liked the weight of that smile. He wanted to be crushed by it forever. He wanted to die trapped in that smile.

Lewellyn gripped the pen on the workbook. Holding it like a poker, a knife, or a baton, the pen trembled in his hand. The man let out a little chuckle after watching him. “You’re not holding it right.” Then he took out his own pen and demonstrated how to hold the pen. “It’s like this.”

Lewellyn looked at his own posture, then at the man’s posture, then back at his own. While Lewellyn had the pen resting in his palm, gripping it with all five fingers, the man had the pen balanced between his index finger and thumb, with his middle finger supporting it. Lewellyn’s hands fidgeted. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t achieve the same stable posture as the man. Lewellyn’s face reddened. Struggling in front of the man made him feel embarrassed.

“Look.”

In the blink of an eye, the man got closer. He covered Lewellyn’s hand holding the pen, and while guiding his fingers, said, “Relax your grip here,” pointing to the base of the fingers, “Grip firmly here,” indicating the index and thumb tips, “And don’t let this one go down,” pointing to the middle finger. But despite the man’s meticulous guidance, nothing was getting through to Lewellyn.

Suddenly, it was as if Lewellyn’s senses had gone blind. He couldn’t see how the man was moving, and couldn’t hear what he was saying. All his senses were dead. They weren’t functioning at all, as if they had never existed in the first place. The only sense that was alive was touch. All his nerves were focused on his hand. His hand. Only where the man’s hand was touching him.

It feels hot.

The man’s hand feels abnormally hot. No, that’s not right. The man is normal. It’s Lewellyn who is abnormal. It’s because Lewellyn is abnormal, because Lewellyn is messed up, because Lewellyn is too cold that the man’s hand feels hot.

The man’s hand was as hot as a searing poker, but strangely, it didn’t hurt. There were no blisters, no smell of burning flesh. The fact that there was a heat that didn’t cause pain was unbelievable.

Lewellyn let go of the pen. He might have dropped it. The fallen pen rolled on the workbook with a clatter and came to a stop with a click. The man had a confused expression.

“Why did you drop the—”

The man couldn’t finish his sentence. Lewellyn had suddenly grabbed the man’s hand. The man tried to pull his hand away, but it was impossible. When Lewellyn also grabbed his other hand with his free hand, the man looked flustered. His voice was strained.

“Lewellyn, you should be holding the pen, not my hand. This is too…” the man said after a while. “improper.”

“Let go?”

A small voice asked.

“Should I let go?”

Even as he asked if he should let go, Lewellyn continued to grip the man’s hands without letting go. If the man tells me to let go, I will. But if the man doesn’t, and just stays silent as if it didn’t matter… Even if his skin was peeled off, his flesh fell away, his bones burned, it would be fine as long as he could keep holding on forever.

It was scorching heat. But a heat that didn’t hurt.

Lewellyn had never held anything like that before.

“…Alright.”

A voice was heard. Lewellyn wondered if he had heard wrong. The expression of panic had disappeared from the man’s face. All that was there was the ‘something’, and that ‘something’ was the same as the gaze he had given him on the first day they met.

Lewellyn didn’t know what that ‘something’ was and didn’t particularly want to know, but if a person (unrelated to the poker, knife, baton, pus, ventilation pipe and iron door, the room that was less than eight steps wide and long) had seen it, they would have called it compassion. Or something very close to compassion.

“Feel free to be as improper as you want.”

If Llewellyn had been human, he might have not grabbed the man’s hand with joy at those words. He might not have even brought it to his cheek and rubbed against it. When the man said he had to leave because of the roll call, he might not have asked, “Can’t you cut off your hand and give it to me?” and might not have heard the not-quite-joking response, “Do you know how horrifying that sounds?” After the man left, he might not have remained alone, endlessly staring at the iron door. He might not have spent sleepless nights waiting for the iron door to open and the man to enter. He might not have dreamed. He might not have wanted. He might not have loved.

If he had been human, that’s how it would have been.

***

Llewellyn was a quick learner.

He picked up reading quickly. Even considering the fact that he studied all day (literally all day – when the man was there, he learned letters, simple words, and basic grammar from him, and when the man wasn’t there, he memorized textbooks by himself), his progress was remarkable.

Of course, there were some problems. He particularly confused certain letters. He mixed up b and d, i and l, and a and e. He frequently wrote ‘dlack’ instead of ‘black’, ‘doii’ instead of ‘doll’, and ‘drass’ instead of ‘dress’.

While his ability to distinguish between b and d, i and l improved day by day, a and e remained a problem. Rather than improving, it got worse as he began replacing all a’s with e’s and all e’s with a’s. Every word Llewellyn wrote suffered this fate of a’s and e’s being switched – except for one word: ‘Shavonne’.

Llewellyn carried a paper with ‘Shavonne’ written on it every day. He wouldn’t try to pronounce the man’s name when he was present. He was worried about making mistakes. He didn’t want to mispronounce the man’s name in front of him. Just as the man called him Lewellyn, not Lellyn or Llewllin, he wanted to pronounce it perfectly.

He practiced the pronunciation whenever the man wasn’t around, and it was getting better day by day. At first, he pronounced it as “Suhahvoane,” but later it became “Shavoneh.”

And today…

“Sha…”

Perhaps from nervousness, his mouth went dry after just one syllable. Lewellyn clutched the paper and stared at the ‘Shavonne’ written on it. Because he did this every day, the corners of the paper were wrinkled.

“Shavo…”

His throat burned. It felt full of a hot but painless ball of fire. Just one more syllable. If I could just say one more syllable to finish it… Lewellyn squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them. He forced out his voice.

“…vonne.”

He blinked rapidly. And the world kept spinning. Nothing had happened except that the tension burning his throat had disappeared.

He tried saying it again.

“Shavonne.”

This time it wasn’t difficult.

Shavonne. Lewellyn’s world consisted of such name.

He wanted to greet Shavonne with a “Shavonne!” as soon as he arrived, but it wasn’t easy. The moment he tried to call him, his lips just parted without a voice coming out. What if he mistakenly said ‘Suhahvoane’ or ‘Shavoneh’?

It’s natural for a person to make familiar sounds when nervous. Since Lewellyn had called him ‘Suhahvoane’ or ‘Shavoneh’ far longer than ‘Shavonne’, his concerns were not entirely unfounded.

“What, not going to greet me today?”

That was Shavonne speaking. Though it was a reprimand, Shavonne seemed like he didn’t particularly care, casually setting down his bundle and beginning to unpack it. Because of this, he didn’t notice Lewellyn who had frozen at his casual remark.

Greet him. Lewellyn too wanted so, so, so badly to greet him. In his imagination, Lewellyn had long since said ‘Hello, Shavonne’ with flawlessly smooth pronunciation. Seeing such a Lewellyn, Shavonne would exclaim ‘Wow, Lewellyn. Did you just call my name?’ and approach to grasp Lewellyn’s empty hands with his own two hands that were as hot as a heated poker, and then….

But all of that was just imagination. Right now, Lewellyn couldn’t utter a single word, let alone greeting him. His tongue, already stiff, felt like a block of wood. “Lewellyn?” As if finally noticing something was wrong, Shavonne turned to look at him. “You don’t look well.” The more Shavonne spoke, the more tense Lewellyn became. His face grew pale. He felt like he might hiccup.

If only I had known this would happen, I would have practiced pronouncing ‘Shavonne’ more… A late regret welled up. It wasn’t that Lewellyn hadn’t practiced hard, though. Ever since mastering the pronunciation of ‘Shavonne’, he had practiced constantly until now. He hadn’t slept at all. Even when his mouth dried out and his tongue became numb to the point of being half-paralyzed, he hadn’t rested.

But Lewellyn had to blame himself, or more precisely, his non-existent laziness. He couldn’t blame Shavonne. He couldn’t shift responsibility by saying things like: I practiced hard but Shavonne made me too nervous, I was doing well but Shavonne criticized me, I could have greeted you but Shavonne was too… likeable. Shavonne had done nothing wrong. All mistakes were Lewellyn’s.

He kept his mouth tightly shut. If his lips parted even a hair’s width, he felt his voice might slip out. He might say Shavonne’s name with incorrect pronunciations like ‘Suhahvoane’ or ‘Shavoneh’. Then Shavonne would make a displeased face like the Vice Warden, or become expressionless and cold like Pharrell. He might even look disappointed. Just imagining it made him bite his lower lip automatically. He bit so hard it left a mark.

“Are you alright?”

Shavonne’s voice was clearly filled with concern. Lewellyn just nodded repeatedly. He kept biting the soft flesh inside his mouth to keep from opening it. The taste of blood seeped through.

“…” Although Shavonne didn’t seem convinced, he didn’t insist further. As always, he took out an onion from his bundle and handed it over. Lewellyn only received it but didn’t put it into his muzzle to eat. Seeing this, Shavonne personally placed a piece of the onion inside Lewellyn’s muzzle. This was unusual, as he hadn’t done so since getting his finger bitten.

Nevertheless, Lewellyn still refused the onion. More precisely, he refused to open his mouth to eat the onion. His closed lips showed no signs of opening. Even when Shavonne gave him a heap of onion pieces saying “Eat them later,” when he opened the textbook and taught him how to write ‘hello,’ ‘father,’ and ‘mother,’ and until he left the room for roll call, Lewellyn’s mouth remained firmly shut.

Only after being left alone could Lewellyn open his mouth. The breath he’d been holding came out. From constantly biting the flesh, the inside of his mouth was completely bloody.

When Shavonne came the next day, he carefully brought a plate. Various things were on the plate. It was a clumsily dressed salad with thinly sliced onion rings, a handful of radish sprouts, and cheap shrimps the size of a baby’s fingernail. Among these, onion was the only thing Lewellyn could recognize.

“Here.”

Shavonne placed the plate in front of Lewellyn. He also set out cutlery, but there was only one fork, no spoon or knife. It was so worn that its tip was blunt. Lewellyn remained still. He had no concept of spoons, knives, forks, or even cutlery in general. This was because Lewellyn only categorized objects according to three criteria:

Things that hurt, things that don’t hurt. Tools for work, tools not for work. Things belonging to Shavonne, things not belonging to Shavonne.

He wanted to ask what he was supposed to do with ‘this,’ but he couldn’t. He couldn’t part his closed lips for fear that sounds like ‘Suhahvoane’ or ‘Shavoneh’ might slip out.

Shavonne quietly studied Lewellyn’s eyes. “I thought you were upset because I only gave you raw onions, but that’s not it?”

Though he wanted to say of course not, Lewellyn still couldn’t open his mouth. All he could do was look at Shavonne. When Lewellyn wouldn’t even glance at the plate and fork, Shavonne said,

“…Would you mind looking at the food too, not just me?”

Only then did Lewellyn lower his gaze to the plate and fork. Shavonne’s slightly sulky voice reached his ears.

“It’s a special meal I made for you. I stayed up all night making it without anyone seeing me. It might look terrible, but once you try it… it shouldn’t be too bad.”

Shavonne took Lewellyn’s hand and made him hold the fork. Lewellyn remained still. Shavonne speared a piece of onion from the salad with the fork on Lewellyn’s behalf and inserted it through the muzzle. Dressing sauce got on the muzzle.

The problem was that with his view blocked by the muzzle, Shavonne couldn’t properly judge the fork’s distance. The fork hit Lewellyn’s lips. Thankfully the tip was blunt, or it would have hurt like being stabbed. Reflexively, Lewellyn’s shoulders tensed. Shavonne saw this too. A look of bewilderment spread across his face.

“Did, did I poke you?”

If he said yes, Shavonne would surely look apologetic. Lewellyn shook his head violently. Shavonne had done absolutely nothing wrong. All mistakes were Lewellyn’s.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I clearly poked you.”

…He had seen through the lie so easily.

If he denied it, it would mean Shavonne was lying. Lewellyn quickly changed tactics and nodded his head vigorously. It was Lewellyn who had lied, not Shavonne. Shavonne had done absolutely nothing wrong. All mistakes were Lewellyn’s.

“…”

Shavonne looked at Lewellyn with an unreadable expression and exhaled through his nose. Then he got up from his seat. Lewellyn’s eyes widened. Is he leaving already? He has just come. He hasn’t fed me the onions or opened the textbook or read a book yet. Is it the night check again? Or something like that?

Lewellyn was about to throw himself at Shavonne’s leg, clinging to him. The next moment, if Shavonne had not gestured with his mouth, he would have actually done so.

“I’ll have to take that off for you if you want to eat.”

Lewellyn looked up at Shavonne blankly. Take it off? How can you take it off? But Shavonne didn’t explain any further. “I’ll be back as soon as possible.” He adjusted his hat and smiled, wrinkling his nose slightly. “Just pray no one sees me while I’m getting the key.”

Then he left. The plate, fork, and food were still left in the room. There were also some things that hadn’t been taken out of the bundle.

Lewellyn curled up and waited with bated breath for the closed iron door to open.

Shavonne said he would be back as soon as possible. He said ‘will be back’. With the ‘will be’, Lewellyn calmed the restless anxiety that tried to rise within him. Of course, he also did not forget to pray that Shavonne would not be caught by anyone. He didn’t know how, what, or why he had to pray, but since Shavonne told him to, he did.

Shavonne never broke his promises. He came back. But what Shavonne had promised was ‘as soon as possible’, not ‘quickly’. Lewellyn was exhausted from waiting for Shavonne, his whole body twisted and weakened.

Shavonne sat down close to Lewellyn and removed his muzzle. When he inserted the key and turned it, there was a click and it fell off. It’s really heavy. Holding the iron muzzle, Shavonne murmured softly.

Now that his head was free, Lewellyn touched his face. His slender fingertips touched his own nose, lips, and chin, and then fell away. The more he confirmed the absence of the muzzle, the more his hands trembled. So strange. It actually was a normal thing for him to not have the muzzle, but after biting the Vice Warden’s leg, he had become so accustomed to wearing the muzzle that its absence felt weird.

It was then that Shavonne, raising his head, met Lewellyn’s eyes. Lewellyn’s hands, which had been touching his face, suddenly stiffened. Shavonne looked at Lewellyn with a strange expression. At that unwavering gaze, Lewellyn wondered if he had done something wrong, and his nape flushed red. Lewellyn had a habit of blushing whenever he got nervous.

The next moment, Shavonne, without taking his eyes off Lewellyn’s face, slowly opened his mouth. The words that flowed out from between his lips were far beyond Lewellyn’s expectations.

“…You’re really pretty.”

He was stunned. At the same time, a voice burst from Lewellyn’s parted lips, which he himself didn’t notice.

“Sha… bon.”

Shavonne stopped. He looked at Lewellyn with startled eyes.

Lewellyn tried to close his mouth, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t control it at all. The voice, no, the name of the only world Lewellyn knew, burst forth like a torrent.

“Shavoneh. Sha, Shavo… Shavo… neh, Suhahvoane. Suha, Suhavo…”

How long have I been doing that? Lewellyn couldn’t bring himself to call him ‘Shavonne’. The more he tried to call him, the worse he pronounced it due to his nervousness, rather than improving. When he was alone, he always succeeded, but when he was with Shavonne, he only failed.

His mouth closed. Lewellyn dropped his head low. The Shavonne who would exclaim, ‘Wow, Lewellyn. Did you just call my name?’ and the Shavonne who would approach to grasp Lewellyn’s empty hands with his own two hands that were as hot as a heated poker were all only allowed in his imagination.

That’s when a voice came from above his head.

“Shavonne.”

A hand gently ruffled Lewellyn’s hair, messing it up like a bird’s nest. Lewellyn slowly raised his head. Shavonne was smiling. With his nose bridge lightly wrinkled like a child.

“It’s Shavonne, to be precise.”

That was it. After that, Lewellyn was able to call him ‘Shavonne’, not ‘Shabon’, ‘Suhahvoane’ or ‘Shavoneh’.

“Shavonne.”

“What?”

“Shavonne.”

“I’m listening.”

“Shavonne.”

“…”

“Shavonne.”

“Are you calling me?”

“Shavonne, Shavonne, Shavonne.”

He called him endlessly. Shavonne at first responded each time, thinking Lewellyn was calling him, but later he realized that Lewellyn just liked the name Shavonne and often pretended he wasn’t hearing him.

One time, when he was being dictated the fairy tale 《Alice in Wonderland》 Lewellyn wrote ‘Shavonne’ for all the words he didn’t know. Instead of writing “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do,” he wrote “Shavonne was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her Shavonne on the Shavonne, and of having nothing to do.”

“If you studied with the same passion as calling ‘Shavonne, Shavonne,’ you’d be able to read it all by yourself…”

Shavonne let out a small sigh. Lewellyn became curious. If Lewellyn could read 《Alice in Wonderland》 on his own, what would Shavonne do?

“What if I can read it on my own?”

Lewellyn scanned him with his eyes.

“If I can read it on my own, what about you?” he asked. “Will you still be here?”

Will you stay in this room that’s no more than eight steps wide and long?

Shavonne stared at Lewellyn for a moment before speaking.

“Well, I’m not sure if I’ll be here, but…”

A brief smile brushed across Shavonne’s lips.

“I’ll be by your side, at least.”

The difference between being in this room and being by Lewellyn’s side. Lewellyn didn’t understand what the difference was.

***

Shavonne came back injured. This time, it was not something he had done himself. He had been beaten by someone else.

His eyelids were bruised and his cheek was swollen. There was even a split on his lips. Lewellyn couldn’t even blink as he stared intently at Shavonne, or rather, Shavonne’s injuries. He couldn’t tear his gaze away even if he tried. The bruised eyelids, the swollen cheek, and the split on his lips monopolized Lewellyn’s whole attention.

Shavonne’s hurt.

Shavonne’s hurt.

Shavonne‘s hurt.

His mind went blank. If it had been an injury that Shavonne inflicted on himself like last time, it wouldn’t have been as suffocating as now, but unfortunately, Lewellyn knew all too well from the years he had spent being ‘worked’ on that this was not a self-inflicted injury. If it were, it wouldn’t have bruised, swollen, or split like this.

Work.

It was a familiar word.

I don’t understand. They worked with someone like me, so why is Shavonne…?

“…”

Shavonne quietly averted his gaze. Touching his face as if to hide the bruised eyelids, the swollen cheek, and the split lips was just an added bonus.

“Should I read a book?”

Shavonne started off cheerfully, as if nothing had happened. But there had been a ‘something’, as that the bruised eyelids, the swollen cheek, and the split lip testified.

“What do you want to read? 《The Little Mermaid》? Or《The Steadfast Tin Soldier》? The words in ‘The Steadfast Tin Soldier’ are a bit easier…”

A word was spat out.

“Hurt.”

Shavonne’s hand that had been fiddling with his own face stopped. Shavonne looked up and stared at Lewellyn. ‘What did you just say?’ The puffy, bruised eyelids on the sunken eyes seemed to be asking that.

He said it again, his voice hoarse and cracked, like the growling groan that had risen from Lewellyn’s throat after work.

“Hurt.”

It hurts. It feels like there’s an imaginary smell of blood pricking my nose. It stings around my eyes, as if I’ve been hit with a baton. The more I try to open my eyes, the more my eye sockets sting like dust has gotten in. My cheek throbs and my lips feel like they’ve been torn off, flesh and all.

Shavonne’s brow furrowed. In a hesitant voice, he asked if what Lewellyn had said was that it hurt.

“…Are you saying that you’re hurt?”

No, I didn’t say that I’m the one hurt. I said that it must hurt. Lewellyn corrected but remained silent. Shavonne, understanding this, had a strange expression on his face. A weak laugh escaped through his lips.

“Hah, why would you be hurt? I’m the one who got hit.”

Laughing made the split in Shavonne’s lips widen even more. For the first time, Lewellyn wished Shavonne wouldn’t laugh. It felt like a transparent knife was carving through every crease of his lips, tearing them to shreds. Lewellyn forced out his voice even more, and his already hoarse and cracked voice became even drier.

“Hurt.”

“…”

Only then did the smile disappear from Shavonne’s lips.

“Hurt.”

He got up, limping unsteadily on his injured leg. One step, two steps. The distance of seven steps that had been between Shavonne and Lewellyn became three steps, then one step.

There was once a safety distance that Shavonne had claimed. At first, he had to keep a distance of three steps based on his body, but later it was only a distance of three steps based on his face. ‘Why?‘ When Lewellyn couldn’t understand, Shavonne vaguely brushed it off as a matter of etiquette. But now, Lewellyn completely disregarded the ‘etiquette.’

At arm’s length, close enough to see how delicate Shavonne’s downcast eyes were and how long his eyelashes were, he faced Shavonne’s face. Shavonne’s face had become flushed. The bruised eyelids, the swollen cheek, and the split lip had all turned bright red, like a hot poker.

Shavonne tried to clear his throat and turn his head away. Lewellyn held Shavonne’s cheeks to keep him from turning away. Hot. The cheeks were scorching hot, incomparable to Lewellyn’s hands.

The bruise on the eyelid was visible. From a distance, it had just looked bluish-purple, but up close, a blackish tint was mixed in. How hard had he been hit? The left cheek was still swollen, the puffiness not yet subsided. The split lip looked raw.

It hurts. Although Lewellyn himself was not hit, his eyelids, cheek, and lips hurt. It hurts like being hit, cut, and burned.

“Hurt.”

Lewellyn brought his hand to Shavonne’s lips. He began to trace the curve of the lips with his fingertips. From the corner of the mouth, over the round bow, and back to the corner. The soft, velvety texture of the lips soon met the rough sensation at his fingertips. Busted. Wounded.

Hurt.

He whispered again, tracing the split on the lips. It was then that Shavonne covered Lewellyn’s lips with his own. In the blink of an eye, the lips that Lewellyn had just been caressing engulfed Lewellyn’s lips, as if Shavonne were trying to devour them.

The soft sensation, followed by the rough one. Lewellyn realized that the soft part was Shavonne’s lips, and the rough part was the split wound. Lewellyn did not avoid either. The lips were Shavonne, and the split wound was also Shavonne.

That was what Shavonne was like. Mostly soft, occasionally rough. But whether soft or rough, Lewellyn couldn’t help but long for him.

Their lips overlapped, then slowly parted. Shavonne’s face moved away. Lewellyn realized he had been holding his breath and belatedly began to inhale and exhale. It hurts. Every time he breathes in and out, it feels like a piece of metal is caught in his throat.

The hand that had been resting on Lewellyn’s shoulder loosened. It was like sand slipping away. Soon, a heavy, muffled voice escaped Shavonne’s lips.

“I’m sorry.”

With his head lowered, Lewellyn couldn’t see the expression on Shavonne’s face. The shadow cast over him was thick. Shavonne was trying to back away. But the next moment, before Shavonne could take even a single step, Lewellyn grabbed his wrist and pulled him back towards himself.

They faced each other again, close enough to see the delicacy of each other’s eyes and the length of their eyelashes.

“Eat me.”

Lewellyn said. Eat you? A question arose on Shavonne’s face. Lewellyn took Shavonne’s hands with both of his own and brought them to his own lips. The warmth of Shavonne’s lips still lingered there.

“Finish eating me.”

Shavonne silently looked at Lewellyn. The desperate expression on Lewellyn’s face was reflected darkly in Shavonne’s eyes. Eventually, Shavonne shook his head, slowly.

“I can’t.”

He tried to pry Lewellyn’s hands off him. But Lewellyn had ‘eaten’ Shavonne’s lips first. He followed what Shavonne had done. He overlapped their lips, exchanging the soft sensation and the rough one, then gently sucked and bit the lower lip.

The next thing to do would have been to pull their overlapped lips apart, but Lewellyn didn’t follow that. If Shavonne pointed that out, Lewellyn would claim he had forgotten. He would make an excuse that his memory was too poor to remember the entire sequence of ‘eating’ the lips.

But Lewellyn was not given the opportunity to make excuses. Shavonne didn’t point anything out. Shavonne just sat there, not pushing Lewellyn away, not tearing him off, not rejecting him. It was only when the time for the night check came that he gently detached Lewellyn from himself.

“I have to go now.”

His voice sounded somber.

Lewellyn stared endlessly at Shavonne’s bruised eyelids, swollen cheek, and split lip, and then handed him the onions he had been saving. It was the portion of onions that Shavonne had once told Lewellyn to eat later.

― So I asked, how do the warders here get painkillers when they need them? Do they just grit their teeth like people in the Middle Ages? Or do they smuggle in banned drugs? Hah, and you know what those fucking stupids gave me as a substitute for painkillers?

― This.

― An onion.

Lewellyn hoped Shavonne wouldn’t be in pain. He hoped the pain would at least be relieved.

Shavonne’s expression became indecipherable as he accepted the onions. That was all. Lewellyn watched Shavonne leave through the iron door. He failed to notice that Shavonne’s parting words were “I have to go” instead of “I’ll be back.”

***

Shavonne did not come back.

Shavonne, who never failed to come visit at night, did not come. Lewellyn concluded that he had miscounted the nights. Of course, it must have been Lewellyn’s mistake. Shavonne was never wrong.

Lewellyn’s criteria for counting the nights was either falling asleep or experiencing severe drowsiness, but even after three full nights had passed, Shavonne did not come.

Shavonne did not come back.

Lewellyn looked at the iron door. That was all he did. Lewellyn never took his eyes off it, lest he miss the moment the door opened. He was not even allowed to blink, and his eyes were completely bloodshot from it.

He stared at the door throughout his waking hours. Even when he was asleep, he dreamed of the door, which never opened.

Seeing the unyielding iron door in reality and in dreams… Considering that, it wasn’t strange that Lewellyn had lost the ability to distinguish reality from dreams. Lewellyn didn’t care. Or more precisely, he had no reason to care. Whether in reality or in dreams, the door never opened. The fact that Shavonne did not come was the same.

Lewellyn wished the door would open. He hoped Shavonne would come in, holding a bundle of onions in his left hand and a bundle of books in his right, and greet him casually, “How’ve you been?”

Lewellyn should say he hasn’t been well. He hasn’t been well because Shavonne hasn’t come for three nights (or maybe even longer). Grumbling like that, Shavonne would feel sorry. He would make a pinky promise to never leave Lewellyn alone again.

Of course, Lewellyn knew that no one cared whether a dog grumbles or not. But he couldn’t give up the hope. Because the one who matters is Shavonne. Shavonne, who gives him onions and reads books to him. Shavonne, the only one in this world who doesn’t work on him.

He practiced it softly.

‘How’ve you been?’ the imaginary Shavonne asks. He answers.

“I haven’t been well.”

But in front of him, there is no Shavonne feeling sorry, no Shavonne making a pinky promise to never leave Lewellyn alone again. The only thing the imaginary Shavonne can say is ‘How’ve you been?’

“I haven’t been well.”

He answered again, but still, no reply follows. In the universe that is not even eight steps wide and long, only Lewellyn’s voice echoes.

Yet, Shavonne did not come back.

The night passed. Lewellyn thought he was being punished. If Shavonne greeted him with ‘How’ve you been?’, he should have naturally responded that he was well. But he dared to grumble that he wasn’t well, so he was being punished. Lewellyn was wrong. He didn’t know his place. He thought it was just practice, but he hadn’t actually said that to the real Shavonne… He desperately cut off his thoughts, afraid of being punished again. If he gets punished again, the world might never let Shavonne return. Lewellyn was trembling.

Yet, Shavonne did not come back.

The night passed. Lewellyn, who had always hoped for Shavonne to come, hesitated. Could it be that Shavonne isn’t coming back because all I think is ‘I hope he comes, I hope he comes’? Looking back, it seemed like an insincere wish, as if he were saying ‘I hope he comes, but if not, then whatever’.

Lewellyn pondered and replaced the thought ‘I hope Shavonne comes’ with ‘Shavonne must come’. Shavonne must come. Shavonne must come. Muttering the thought aloud so that the world could hear it clearly.

Yet, Shavonne did not come back.

The night passed. Lewellyn changed the thought ‘Shavonne must come’ to ‘I must pray’. He didn’t know what he was praying for – onions? books? typewriter? O:)? towel? or perhaps Shavonne? Anyway, Lewellyn prayed. He couldn’t get by without praying.

Yet, Shavonne did not come back.

The night passed. Lewellyn realized that his prayers would be futile. Prayers are made by people, not by dogs. Lewellyn’s prayers would not be answered. Lewellyn was sad because he was a dog.

Shavonne did not with back. Why wouldn’t he come? Lewellyn knew the answer. He had wanted to ignore it, but now he could no longer do so. Shavonne had grown to hate Lewellyn. Just like the other guards. Just like the iron door, the ventilation pipe, the poker, the knife, and the baton hate Lewellyn.

Lewellyn couldn’t tell how much Shavonne might hate him. It would be good if Shavonne hated him just as much as the other guards. Then Shavonne would come to work on Lewellyn, just like the other guards. Come here, with the poker, the knife, and the baton to work. If it was Shavonne doing the work, Lewellyn could remain still, not biting or making a sound, behaving obediently.

If only Shavonne was by Lewellyn’s side, he could do that.

Shavonne did not come back. Why had Shavonne grown to hate Lewellyn? Lewellyn was curious. Of course, he knew it was because he had done something wrong. But he didn’t know exactly what mistake he had made.

What could it have been?

Lewellyn recalled his memory. He reflected on what he had done on the last day he saw Shavonne.

He had looked at the injured Shavonne. Was what I did wrong? He didn’t know. But perhaps Shavonne didn’t want Lewellyn to look at him that day. The piercing gaze on the wound might have felt unpleasant. Was it because of that?

‘Should I read a book? What do you want to read? 《The Little Mermaid》? Or《The Steadfast Tin Soldier》? The words in ‘The Steadfast Tin Soldier’ are a bit easier…’

‘Hurt.’

He had cut off Shavonne’s cheerful words. Was what I did wrong? It must have been. But was it a big enough mistake for Shavonne not to want to see Lewellyn? He didn’t know. But perhaps Shavonne didn’t want his words to be cut off. He might have really wanted to read 《The Little Mermaid》or《The Steadfast Tin Soldier》 to him.

‘Hurt.’

He had approached Shavonne by raising his injured leg. Was what I did wrong? It must have been. Was it a big enough mistake for Shavonne not to want to see Lewellyn? Of course it was. It was so blatantly clear that he had not realized it until now. Lewellyn had not confessed that his leg had healed enough to walk.

Shavonne had wanted to be with the “hurt Lewellyn” who had been worked on. The Lewellyn with the metal muzzle, unable to bite anything, unable to use his arms and legs. But now Lewellyn had taken off the metal muzzle and could bite anything, use his arms and legs. Shavonne no longer felt the need to be with the unhurt Lewellyn.

I should never have gotten up.

I should have stayed hurt forever.

Suddenly, something poured out from the corners of his eyes. Drip, drip. It was hot and gushing like blood, but it wasn’t red. It was transparent. It flowed down his cheeks, soaking them.

His vision was blurred. It was like when he had inhaled the hazy smoke, his vision was flickering. It kept coming out. He tried to wipe it away with both hands, but there was no sign of it stopping. It flowed from his face to his chin and neck, from his chin and neck to his collarbone, and from his collarbone to his body. It was as fast as pain. His chin and neck were soon soaked.

Lewellyn was trembling. Bleeding. Lewellyn thought it was bleeding. The bleeding Lewellyn usually knew was red, but what he was experiencing now was transparent bleeding. He was afraid he might die from this bleeding. That he might die without seeing Shavonne.

It was the first time death had scared him. Lewellyn had no Shavonne to teach him that this was not bleeding, but crying.

After a while, the transparent bleeding stopped. Lewellyn realized that the transparent bleeding was more painful than the red bleeding.

***

When a guard opened the door, Lewellyn rushed at him. But surprisingly, unlike the guard who flinched thinking Lewellyn would bite him, Lewellyn only threw his whole body at the metal thing the guard brought, clinging to it. As the guard was perplexed, Lewellyn spoke with his tear-stained face.

“Work on me.”

The perplexed look on the guard’s face deepened. The guard didn’t even know Lewellyn could speak. He had no idea Lewellyn would ask to be worked on.

The guard tried to retreat and escape the awkward situation, but Lewellyn wouldn’t stay still. He grabbed the guard’s pant leg and clung to it like a leech. Even as the guard tried to shake him off, the strength of his grip on the pant leg only grew stronger, never weakening. He was determined not to let go.

When the exhausted guard stopped moving, gasping for breath, Lewellyn spoke again. His voice was cracked and broken, saying a shattered plea.

“Work on me.”

Lewellyn thought that if he was worked on, Shavonne would come.

But the guard did not work on Lewellyn. It seemed Lewellyn’s assumption that the guard would attack him for the “money” he would receive for successfully working on him was just his own delusion.

“S-Someone, get this damn dog off me!”

The guard screamed. Of course, Lewellyn didn’t let go. Not only did he not let go, he drove his ragged nails into the leg he was grasping. He clung on tenaciously like a hungry leech.

But this tenacity was futile in the face of the hazy smoke filling the room.

His vision became blurred, like being obscured by the hazy smoke. His consciousness became clouded. Even as he tried not to let go of the guard, the strength drained from the hands grabbing him. I can’t lose consciousness… If I do, I won’t be able to see how much the guard has worked. To meet Shavonne, I need to be hurt beyond help. A mere pricking of my fingers, palms, or nails would not even allow me to glimpse Shavonne’s shadow.

Lewellyn desperately tried to hold onto his consciousness. He recalled the towel, the onion, the typewriter, the O:) made by the typewriter. He thought of the person resembling O:).

But despite his desperate efforts, when the hazy smoke had covered the entire universe, Lewellyn finally lost consciousness. The hands grasping the guard fell limply to the floor. His fingers twitched as if trying to clutch something, then stilled. Silence.

At the edge of consciousness, Lewellyn heard footsteps. It was a familiar sound.

But it wasn’t Shavonne’s footsteps.

Tap.

Where is that sound coming from? Lewellyn thought. It’s a familiar sound, but… However, he couldn’t follow the thought. A strong drowsiness washed over him. The thoughts were being swept away, vanishing as if they had never existed.

Tap, tap.

The sound comes again. Only then does Lewellyn realize he is struggling on the boundary between unconsciousness and consciousness, reality and dreams. His eyelids are heavy. No matter how hard he tried, his eyes wouldn’t open. But do I really need to open my eyes? If I just keep them closed until Shavonne comes…

Lewellyn would pretend to be asleep. Even if Shavonne greets him saying ‘I’m here,’ or asked ‘Are you sleeping?’, or asked again ‘Are you really sleeping?’, he would continue to pretend. If Shavonne came over and pulled his cheek or touched his ear to wake him up, then he would get up…

…get up?

The thought stopped.

Even if I get up, Shavonne won’t be there.

A chill ran through his body. Even if I get up, Shavonne won’t be there. Because Shavonne won’t come back. Shavonne liked the hurt Lewellyn, but has no interest in the now uninjured Lewellyn. His hazy mind became clear. Nothing was as effective at snapping him out of it as this cruel reality.

Tap, tap.

Lewellyn opened his eyes. Someone was typing on a typewriter. Before he could even realize who that someone was, the person stopped typing and looked back at Lewellyn.

“You’re awake?”

They asked, then added,

“You begged the guard to work on you, didn’t you?”

Lewellyn’s nape stiffened. If it had been Shavonne, it would have been nice, but it wasn’t. It was Pharrell.

Lewellyn first met Shavonne when he was tall enough to reach and grab the ceiling light bulb.

Lewellyn first met the Superintendent when he was three inches too short to reach and grab the ceiling light bulb.

Lewellyn first met the Vice Warden (who was just a regular guard back then) when he was smaller than a baton.

Lewellyn first met Pharrell when he was…

He couldn’t remember. Pharrell had been there before Lewellyn’s earliest memories or, more precisely, Pharrell’s needle marks were on Lewellyn’s body.

His earliest memory was after a severe “work” session. Although it could be described as severe, compared to now with the pokers, knives, and batons, work was laughably mild for the Lewellyn of that time.

He doesn’t remember what kind of “work” it was. (Probably just beatings, with only punches and kicks.) He doesn’t remember who did it. (There was no need to remember, as any guard, whether using a poker, knife, or baton, male or female, was all the same as long as they weren’t Shavonne.)

The only things he remembers are that he had moaned in agony for seven nights after the work, and that the pain disappeared as if washed away on the eighth night. This kind of thing happened countless times, and each time he would check his body to find more needle marks left by the syringes. Some days it would increase from two to six, other days from four to twelve.

Of course, it was always “increased” rather than “appeared.” Lewellyn always had the needle marks. He believed he was born with needle marks, just like how people are born with birthmarks.

The needle marks healed Lewellyn’s body.

Pharrell healed Lewellyn’s body.

But that doesn’t mean Pharrell doesn’t do any “work.” While other guards “work” on Lewellyn’s body by using pokers, knives, and batons to destroy it, Pharrell “works” by administering injections to restore Lewellyn’s body. Healing him, making him sick again, healing again…

As horrible as it is to be sick, it’s twice as horrible to be healed. It was frightening. Even though his body had healed, his arms and legs moved freely and he could breathe, the more he was aware of the needle marks etched on his body, the more it hurt.

Pharrell said that he was called Warden. Though he corrected anyone who called him “Warden” to call him Pharrell instead, the Warden is still the Warden. According to the guards, rank of warden means being an “upper guard who can order lower guards around as they please.” After all, a warden is still a guard.

After learning this fact, Lewellyn sometimes thought, it seems the guards must necessarily hurt me.

Like all the guards who hurt Lewellyn, Lewellyn hates Pharrell. No, the expression “fears” might be more accurate. While ordinary guards would carelessly touch him, Pharrell didn’t even dare try. Not only did he not touch him, he didn’t even harm a single hair on him.

Pharrell’s “work” was mostly done when Lewellyn was unconscious. It was rare for them to be face-to-face, but when that ‘rare’ occasion arose, Lewellyn was overwhelmed by an intense urge to run away. He desperately wanted to faint. If he couldn’t physically run away, he wanted to at least escape mentally.

But he couldn’t faint, and Lewellyn sat curled up, shrinking smaller and smaller, like someone who wants to disappear from the world forever, waiting only for this terror to end, to pass. The only thing Lewellyn could do against Pharrell was just that.

…at least until today.

“You’re awake?”

Pharrell’s piercing voice was heard.

Whenever Lewellyn heard Pharrell’s voice, he would always curl up his body and tightly close his eyes as darkness covered his whole vision. He wanted that darkness to take him to a place without Pharrell.

But today was different. Lewellyn didn’t curl up. He didn’t close his eyes either. He endured the instinctive fear that drained the color from his face, the trembling of his body, and looked up at the source of his fear.

“Didn’t you beg the guard to work on you?”

He crawled on his knees and grabbed Pharrell’s two feet, not letting him leave. Unlike the previous guard, Pharrell didn’t avoid him. Instead, he smiled amusedly.

“What, are you begging me too?”

Pharrell.

The Pharrell who can order the guards around as they please.

If someone was able to do it, it was Pharrell.

“…Give me.”

A faint voice seeped out between his lips. Apparently not understanding, Pharrell asked what he said. Lewellyn strained his voice again and said in a cracked voice.

“Give me Shavonne.”

Summon Shavonne here.

Silence fell, but it was only for a moment. Pharrell smiled wryly. He eyesmiled with amusement.

“It’s not like I can’t do that.”

That meant he could meet Shavonne again. Lewellyn’s heart raced at the mere thought of Shavonne, the Shavonne who gave him onions, read books to him, and taught him how to write.

But Pharrell’s words did not end there.

“But there’s a condition.”

A condition? Lewellyn stared blankly at Pharrell. Conditions were made between people, not for making deals with dogs.

Suddenly, a thought flashed through his mind.

Maybe… Pharrell is treating me as a person?

As he was thinking, the voice continued. It was a proposal.

“Will you do it?”

There was no need to think about it. Lewellyn nodded his head vigorously. He wasn’t even curious what the condition was. There was no need to be curious. Lewellyn would not refuse any condition. If he said to cut off his limbs, he would hand them over. If he said to pull out his teeth, he wouldn’t resist. If he told him to be a violent dog, he would become a violent dog. If he told him to be a gentle dog, he would become a gentle dog. If he told him to be a person, he would become a person. As long as Shavonne came back, Lewellyn would do anything.

Literally ‘anything’.

“Okay.”

Pharrell smiled. The smile in the corners of his eyes had deepened.

***

He had told him that Shavonne would come in a week. Lewellyn, not knowing what a week was, looked gloomy, so Pharrell kindly explained that he just needed to wait seven nights.

Seven nights.

In all of Lewellyn’s life, those seven nights were the longest ones.

Over the course of a week, Lewellyn slept a total of forty-eight nights, meaning he slept forty-eight times.

The problem was that Lewellyn had no sense of time. The unit Lewellyn used to measure time was “night”, but it didn’t actually mean day and night, but the number of times he slept and woke up. For example, even if it was actually one day, if he slept three times, it was three nights. And even if it was three days, if he slept only once, it was one night.

Lewellyn knew that a week was seven nights, so to make the week pass faster, he slept seven “nights” in just one day. Lewellyn slept all day long. If he couldn’t fall asleep, he would wander around the room, bang his head against the wall, or hit his limbs to deliberately make his body tired and induce drowsiness.

In this way, a week passed by Lewellyn’s standar, but a day by the world’s. Of course, Shavonne didn’t come. Lewellyn thought a week might be twenty nights, so he spent the second day like the first, sleeping. The next day, when Shavonne still didn’t come, he thought a week might be thirty nights, so he spent the third day like the second, sleeping… In this way, he filled a week by passing forty-eight nights.

Throughout those forty-eight nights, Lewellyn dreamed of Shavonne coming. When the iron door opened and Shavonne came in, Lewellyn would rush over and cling to Shavonne, hugging him tightly enough to crush his bones. Burying his face in Shavonne’s warm but painless embrace, he would ask tearfully, ‘This isn’t a dream, right? It isn’t, right?’

Every time, Shavonne would answer as he gently brushed Lewellyn’s disheveled hair, ‘It isn’t.’ With that reassurance, there would be a smile on Shavonne’s lips, O:), the smile Lewellyn loved.

But it was all a dream. When he opened his eyes, it would vanish like a mirage. Waking from the dream, Lewellyn would stare blankly at his hands. In the dream, his hands had been grasping Shavonne’s clothes, but in reality they were empty. Not a trace of Shavonne’s warmth remained.

‘This isn’t a dream, right? It isn’t, right?’

When he had asked that, Shavonne had told him it wasn’t a dream…

Asking a dream if it’s a dream was as futile as asking a lie if it’s a lie. It felt empty, as if his lungs didn’t have any oxygen.

Lewellyn couldn’t distinguish reality from dream. With his muddled mind, he had been going back and forth between reality and dream forty-eight times in a week, so it was no wonder. In a time he couldn’t tell if it was a dream or reality, the iron door opened and Shavonne came in. But Lewellyn didn’t rush at him. He didn’t cling to Shavonne hard enough to crush his bones. He only asked,

“This a dream, right?”

Lewellyn no longer asked ‘This isn’t a dream, right?’. He was afraid to firmly believe Shavonne’s answer of ‘It isn’t.’ The more firmly he believed it, the more agonizing it was when he woke up. He was afraid of being deceived. Afraid that the dream would deceive Lewellyn.

Shavonne didn’t answer. His face was pale, like a corpse. That was strange. In all forty-eight dreams, Shavonne had never failed to answer, and his complexion had been good…

Anxious, Lewellyn pressed for an answer.

“…Right?”

“I don’t know.”

Is it my imagination, or does Shavonne’s voice sound somehow…

“I wish this was a dream.”

Cold.

Shavonne was expressionless. His eyes hardened. His lips were dry, and there was no trace of the smile Lewellyn loved. This was not a dream. It was reality.