Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

He'd complete the circle around the wall and sit down on the pile of rubble dusted with snow, feeling warmer each minute, against all the laws of nature that dictated he should be freezing.

“I'm sorry,” he'd say. “You seemed to me a monster that devoured all of my friends. I was sure that you'd never let me go. That you needed me for something known only to you. That I would never be free until I left you, even though I lied to Smoker about the freedom being inside of a person wherever he happens to be. I was afraid that you changed me, made me into your toy. I needed to prove to myself that I could live without you. I blamed you for Elk, and for Wolf. Elk was killed by accident and Wolf was killed by Alexander, but it was easier to think that it was your fault than to admit that the fault was with Wolf. That he was neither kind nor wise, the way I imagined him to be. That he wasn't perfect. That Elk wasn't perfect. Easier to blame you than admit that. Easier to say that you killed thirty-odd people than to see that they were cowardly fools or little children who had lost their way. Easier to think that it was you demanding Pompey's death than to imagine that it gave Blind pleasure to kill him. Easier to be sure that you forced me to remake Noble than to know that I liked doing it... Easier to hope that Blind lied about Mermaid than to concede that she really does not exist in this world, neither she nor her strange parents, nor their addresses that they gave to me so eagerly. So much easier just to believe in all of that than to realize that she was your gift, given to me in the hopes of holding on to me when the time came, only with that, not by force or deceit.”

Sphinx would be talking until he was exhausted, until the words dissolved in the frigid air with the little white clouds of his breath. Then he'd get up and climb down from the pile of icy debris, slipping awkwardly. When he'd turn the corner of the wall with the addresses he would see that they were no longer there, and neither were the phone numbers. It would be dirty white, with multicolored spirals, triangles, suns, and moons... And the wondrous ugly beasts roaming underneath. Crude, sharp toothed, their legs of different length, their tails sticking straight up rigidly.

Sphinx would approach them carefully. He'd know better than anyone else where that wall had been, but now it would be right here. With all the creatures that inhabited it, great and small. The wolf with the sawlike teeth crowding his jaws, the yellow giraffe resembling a tower crane, the zebra looking more like a stripy camel, the spotted goblin, the green dinosaur, the faded outline of a seagull. As he looks closer, he'd see that in among the familiar drawings there would be others, also familiar but that never were next to them—the white bull swaying uncertainly on spindly legs, the dragon with the blue stone for an eye... and moreover, those that were familiar but actually had never been drawn—one more dragon, fiery scarlet, and a fish with a small bell tied to its tail. The bell would be real.

Sphinx would pluck it off the fish's tail and hide it in the pocket of his coat. Then press his forehead against the wall. He'd stand like that for a while, listening to the silence surrounding him, until the silence became absolute, because it would start snowing. Coming down in an avalanche of enormous flakes, and Sphinx, blinded by them, would stumble around the ruins in search of the crack in the fence that would lead him out.

On his way back to the dorm, jostled by the bus ride, striding along the snowy street, he would think about the bell secreted in his pocket, fighting the urge to take it out and confirm that it really exists. Then he'd feel a prickly sensation in the other pocket, stop and pull out a white feather, so long that it would be impossible to put back without breaking it. He'd have to stick it in his hat, hoping against hope that it didn't look too outrageous.

He'd meet his neighbor on the stairs, a morose bespectacled girl. She would say that someone was waiting for him.

“This tiny slip of a girl, with gorgeous hair,” the neighbor would add, eyeing the feather suspiciously. And of course, she would be immensely surprised when the untamed loner, the standoffish recluse in prosthetics, jumps at her and kisses her right there on the stairs, like a drunken reveler.

“And a feather in his hat!” she'd stress every time she tells the story. “Red nose, crazy eyes, and this huge feather!”

She would never admit that her neighbor seemed to her at that moment the most beautiful man in the world.

I still get asked about those events from time to time. Less frequently now compared to twenty or even fifteen years ago. But many do remember. It's amazing how many. They remember that I had something to do with that story and imagine that it somehow influenced my soul and my paintings.

I have met with quite a few of the former occupants of the House since graduation. Some have done pretty well for themselves and others barely scrape by. There are probably also those who are in pretty dire straits, but since they are not in the habit of attending my personal shows, I can't vouch for their existence. Of those who remained in the town, I know six. They meet regularly to wallow in memories, but I've never felt the need to join their company. There are none among them whom I'd really like to see. I actually see very few people, apart from Black.

I collected news clippings about the Sleepers for a while, but then abandoned the whole thing. It was too painful, thinking about them, imagining them. Easier to deal with the living or with the truly dead.

No, we none of us went to visit them. What's the point? Not even Red. First it was because we were lying low, and then there was too much to do. But I never wanted to anyway. We knew about them, I mean, who was where and stuff, but going there—no, that didn't happen.

Honestly? I don't care about the Sleepers. I'm not even going to pretend that I'm grieving for them. It was their own choice, their decision, and the last thing I would do is drag myself over there clutching a bunch of carnations, drowning in snot around the corpses. Because let's face it, corpses is what they are. Living corpses who don't give a damn about any emotions coming from me. What would I be busting my tail for, then?

I do visit them from time to time. No flowers, of course. Why shouldn't I? I even got myself a special permit. I didn't do it before because I didn't want to blow the cover on our guys, because naturally the “dormice” were under constant surveillance. Now that no one cares, I can do it. And I don't consider it to be perverted or anything. There's nothing scary about them. They don't wither, they don't waste away, they don't look like corpses at all. Besides, it's always fun to visit with old friends. I don't tell the guys about this. They might think themselves obliged to accompany me and start hating themselves for not wanting to. Nobody needs that.

Lary and Needle moved to the suburbs. He is now a part owner of the repair shop where he started back then as a grease monkey. She's keeping the house. They have two kids, the eldest daughter got married recently. I was at the wedding, gave the newlyweds a picture. Not one of mine, though. Mine are not everyone's cup of tea. It was amusing to follow the expression on the bride's little face as the present was being unwrapped, and to note the look of relief when they could finally see it.

Lary and I never talk about the Sleepers or the vanished. We keep a knowing, competent, friendly silence about the subject if we happen to meet. But we do discuss other Outsides-mates, and he always has some exciting new piece of information for me because he tries to keep up with what's happening as much as he can. Horse and he are still very close, even though Horse is still living with the commune (the sect, let's be honest here) founded by the passengers of the bus and the Devout. It's a royal pain to drive all the way there, but Lary performs the pilgrimage at least every month. “In honor of past friendships,” he says.