The Executioner | Daisuke Shen

I was under no illusions that he loved me. On Sunday, I woke to the sun floating around his room, like pieces of dust or torched paper. Throughout the night I’d had no dreams, which was surprising given that my thoughts now exposed themselves mainly through my nightmares. In waking hours, it felt as if there was no type of thinking that occurred, a kind of sluggish consideration of facts that I had no desire to investigate.

I pulled back the covers quietly, so as not to wake his sleeping form tragically beside me, one arm splayed out like a bird’s broken wing. It had not reached for me in the night, and I had known not to look for it. A small collection of stones sat on his windowsill, one plump disc stacked upon another. It was of upmost importance that they not be knocked over, which made opening the window difficult. Gently, I cracked it open and let the cool air in.

At this point, my companion stirred from bed. He rose, fingers rubbing first against eyelids, then the black waves of his hair.

“Were you too warm?” He asked me. Sleep pooled inside of his eyes, thick and warm—the gauze of romance still heavy on both our faces, though it often ebbed and callously so.

“I just wanted to see,” I said.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.”

“So no nightmares?”

“None at all.”

He smiled. “That’s good.”

I had told him how they’d increased in size and shape—most often, I was in a place that was reminiscent of my hometown, but I kept encountering people I knew who didn’t know me. Darker still were the ones where I found myself undergoing some horrific violence—my mother stapling my mouth shut or being inside a room while people slowly stacked chairs in front of the entrance. If I called him, he would answer, and we’d stay there like that for a while before I’d fall asleep again.

“Oh, look,” he said. I peered over his shoulder, holding him from behind—this kind of touch was allowed, but others were not.

Below us were a collection of tourists, lined up perfectly with their striped shirts and backpacks, cameras winding around their necks. The guide spoke loudly, in French and English, shifting between the two. Through the gossamer of the weeping willows, I noticed a woman with a red scarf knotted at the neck holding a pair of binoculars. Every so often, she’d hand them to the child with her—a fat boy wearing overalls, his face contorted in demand.

“I’ve always thought that it’s the same kind of thing,” I said. His skin warmed under my touch as I nestled my chin into his clavicle. “They can see the same stuff back home.”

“That’s the French for you,” he said.

“Have you been?”

“No,” he said. “But maybe one day we could go together.”

The tour was now exiting the grounds; the woman and the boy the last to exit. She closed the black gate behind her quietly but seemed to hesitate at the last moment. My man went to go make coffee for us and I motioned to close the window. As I did so, the woman with the red scarf turned suddenly, binoculars pointed at my face. I couldn’t see what she saw. I saw only the violent glint of the sun reflecting the light back at me.

I was in a place that was reminiscent of my hometown, but I kept encountering people I knew who didn’t know me.

I blinked, trying to remove the spots cast about my vision. A rough outline moved passed me, streaking its way outside. I looked back toward the kitchen and saw a bag of coffee beans, spilled haphazardly across the counter.

In my throat a scream was building up, clogged with bile. I hurried to the window and watched him circle a patch of dirt outside, his feet feeling out a pattern from the earth with intent.

I lodged my fists against the glass, beating at it with such fervor I was sure at any moment it would shatter. My voice remained impaled within my body. It was darker now, and the shadows of the trees and topiaries were drawing out, stretched lines and fluted cones cast across the ground. On the street, people seemed to take notice—peering into the grounds before quickly walking away. Don’t look away, please look away. I couldn’t tell which one.

He brought one hind leg up to scratch behind his ear, sighing with contentment. He dug his nose into his armpit. At this, I cried out for him—my voice sharp, cutting through the air. He didn’t stir as I slowly raised my shirt up, letting my breasts drop from the light fabric. I pressed them against the cold glass, my nipples growing cold and scaly from the outside frost.

The man I love suddenly raised his nose in the air. Sniffed. He whipped his head around to look at me. His eyes seemed to have turned into mere tools for sight—no recognition feigned its way across their surfaces. Just the raw hunger of an animal. I winced as the growling turned into a sharp yelp, cutting through the air, until each mangled the other.

A familiar feeling passed through me; the dislocation of the self. The ridding of the obstacle that was my body. If a robber were to come through the house, tearing through his things and pressing a knife against my throat, I would only realize it at the last moment. At this, a deep serenity overtook me.

The man crept toward the window. Drool dripped from his snarling mouth as he suddenly leapt, his body hitting against the glass with a thud. Through my own partitioned eyes and ears, I could see him pawing at the window, his nails panicked against the glass. I brought my arms down and hurried to the doorknob.

I jiggled it once. It would not open. Through the blurred glass I could barely make out his face, turned to a wash of static and intent. A large and granular scream rose, violently and humanly, from his throat. Finally the door unlocked, and I could smell his green scent beneath the animal as he bolted inside.

He circled my legs, sniffing me. I felt his wet nose against my ankles and tried to not shrink away. As a way of establishing trust, I lowered my hand. The dying kitchen lights made the sight somehow harsher—one white bulb that observed the both of us as the others ebbed away, the white tile streaked with mud as he continued his crawl. Gently, I placed a hand in his hair.

Too late, I realized my mistake. As his teeth sank into the back of my hand, I screamed, kicking at him so that he fell to the floor.

A whimpering had started up. From the corner of my vision I watched as he dragged himself into the far corner of the room. Breathe, I commanded myself, and when I looked up, I saw his face bowed in shame, staring at me with wet eyes.

And yet through the shadows I could see that the brightness was returning—knowing replacing the dulled observation of an animal. We regarded each other—him in his waterlogged clothing and me with only my desire for him. Slowly, he got up from the floor. Without another word, he rushed into his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

The man I loved had a name. A friend of his was to visit from Galicia in a couple of days, and he’d asked me to join them. It had been a long time since I’d met anyone new at all, and I worried that I would no longer know what to say. I wanted to ask everyone: How do you live? And why? I’d long lost track of my own reasons. But perhaps I would embarrass him, the man with a name. I had to start thinking of pleasant things to say, ways to make conversation that would put the other at ease, and the more I thought about this task, the more anxious I grew.

“And how do the two of you know each other again?” I asked him. We were sitting in the living room. I was pretending to be occupied in my studies. It was to be the final month of my postdoctoral fellowship, and I was having trouble connecting with one of my mentees. He was researching the Byzantine Empire and needed my help in applying for a fellowship to go see the Codex Climaci Rescriptus manuscript in person. The only Orientalist in the history department had recently left, and I had taken his place—I felt terribly; most of the things he wanted my advice on, I knew very little about. Our meetings tended to be awkward and sharpened.

“We were friends years ago,” the man I loved said. He reclined on a loveseat across from where I sat at the table, one arm draped over the back, the other across his eyes. “From childhood, but then we lost touch.”

“That’s nice that he got in contact with you,” I said.

The man raised his arm to squint my way.

“Yes,” he murmured.

It was the angle that made him look cagey or guarded, it was a matter of my own personal anxieties. His eyes were cool and grey. A red ring of teeth had appeared on skin from where he’d bitten it yesterday afternoon. Blood pulsed through my head as I stared at the mark, not moving as he got up and walked to his bedroom.

“Want to make some dinner later?” he called out. His voice was cheerful, as if nothing had occurred. “I’m going to shower. Then we can figure out what we want to eat.”

“Yes,” I said. No response. “Yes,” I said again, louder as the water turned on. I rose, my feet slapping against the cold marble tile as I stepped into the bathroom.

I squinted, trying to make him out through the steam. Through the glass, I watched the water trickle down his chest, leaving trails of dew as it traveled down his legs. His figure looked strong and permanent—muscular arms and a long, regal neck; sharp jaw, delicately curved lips. I recognized these features; it was the man I loved. He raised his eyebrows at me through the glass, gesturing for me to join. I undressed and stepped inside.

The water was so hot I felt it could scald me. Yet I didn’t mind. He turned toward me and smiled as I lathered up shampoo, bringing my fingers to his scalp.

His hair felt full, healthy. He sighed in pleasure as I continued kneading, grasping each tender curl. The dirt he’d brought in from outside had crusted around the tub, forming a brown ring around the drain.

At some point, he opened his eyes, looking at my right hand, where the bite mark remained. I liked his face in that moment. He looked morose, and full of ardor, then.

I’d thought to prepare for the executioner a meal of pulpo a la gallega, from his native Galicia. I went out in the morning to purchase it from the fish market, with the mist still clinging to the streets. Almost no one was there at the time, save for some of the workers and a gray cat that guarded the tanks like a golem. There were dozens of lobsters climbing atop one another and six or so turtles clambered together. Three eels threaded through murky water, their eyes unseeing or at least unseen to me.

The octopus was the sole inhabitant of its tank. Its head was the size of a fetus, and its eyes were large with black slits that sliced through the middle. I’d always heard that they were an intelligent species, and I began to fear that I’d made a mistake.

“If you want that one, I will give it to you for a good deal.” The owner was regarding me from the cash register. I hadn’t noticed.

I nodded, and he procured the octopus for me, placing it within a square container for me to take home. In my basket, as I walked home, I could feel it jostling around. I wanted to impart some soothing words, some lies to make the end feel less painful. But I somehow couldn’t find the words.

I returned home. The man I love had gone to get wine from a store nearby. I’d looked up the recipe, the traditional way of preparing the octopus with proper and premeditated violence. It was still so cold in the kitchen. I’d taken the container out from my basket and watched the octopus churn around in the water, flinging its body this way and that. Shivering, I found myself opening the windows to let the wind in. Perhaps it will be reminded of the sea, I thought, as I lifted its body from the saltwater. Its eyes were slits, then ovals, and I didn’t let myself think further. I lowered my hands into the water, feeling its succulent skin move about—and then, with a knife, I gouged out its eyes, slashing its mouth. Quickly, I thrashed it toward the wall, brutalizing it against the stone.

As I performed the movement, again and again, I felt the familiar dislocation of my body. Steam emanated from the stove, where I’d set a pot of water to boil, and I regarded myself as through a haze of steam. I could see my hands, those that were ostensibly mine, dunking its head once, twice, thrice into the water. It’s a baptism, I thought, a clear voice within the vacuum of silence, a baby being born into the world, acknowledging its darkness before fading out of existence, as I finally lowered its body into the water once and for all.

The paprika had been my man’s, bought from a trip overseas. It was delicate and soft and luxurious in-between my fingers. It felt wrong, almost, decadent—as if I should not be allowed to touch it—but still I measured it on the scale, grabbing the olive oil and salt from the cupboard and placing them on the counter. The timer had not gone off yet, I kept thinking. Perhaps it might never happen. And then, there was a ringing.

The pot was not empty as I’d hoped. Instead, I saw that its tentacles had curled—a fact of fright, a mark of its delicacy. It took every effort not to vomit as I slowly stirred in the potatoes, one after another, until finally it was finished.

My man came home as I was plating the meal. His face had turned sharp and ruddy in the cold. Brutality fit him well, his angular cheekbones and jaw made more elegant.

“Looks delicious,” he said, smiling at me as he pulled the bottles from a paper bag. They were aged reds—one with notes of dark cherry and graphite, the other written in a script I couldn’t make out.

“Have your eyes gotten worse?” he laughed.

“Maybe so.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” he murmured.

“What?” I asked, but he’d already stepped into the bathroom, turning on the water. Steam crawled out beneath the closed door as he began to whistle. I sat down in a chair and waited.

The executioner arrived at 3:00 p.m., one hour past the expected time.

“He’s been like this since school days,” said my man. We’d sighted the executioner from above, through the window of the kitchen. He wore a simple gray blouse, loose and sleeveless despite the weather. I could see the top of his head, a neat part jutting down the middle of his black curls.

Hair caught inside my man’s mouth as he hurried for the door, and I quickly brushed it away before thinking.

“Don’t touch me,” my man said.

There was a knock. In an instant my man’s demeanor had changed, friendly and full of kindness as the executioner’s chiseled face climbed into view, framed by the weeping willow branches outside.

They were like twins. I blinked, wondering if my eyes were deceptive as they have been in the past. But no—as I looked back and forth, I saw the same full brown eyes, the pink lips edged with red ochre; sharp chin poised upon a thin, elegant neck.

“Pardon my lateness,” the executioner said. My man’s voice echoed, a thick low haze of words that skimmed my face, entering my soul as he said it.

“It’s so good to see you,” my man said. I stood and looked on in horror as the two kissed one another on the cheek, two ellipses joining to form a single blurred circle.

The executioner turned toward me. “And you must be . . .”

“Yes,” my man responded quickly. “This is the one.”

The executioner’s eyes bore deep into mine. Something turned within me, thrumming as I held his gaze—he lifted my hand into his, pressing his lips against it.

It’s a baptism, I thought, a clear voice within the vacuum of silence, a baby being born into the world, acknowledging its darkness before fading out of existence.

“Follow me,” my man said. I remained silent as I walked behind the two into the dining room. They were the same height, and the only difference I could make out was my man’s black shirt versus the executioner’s gray. But even this became hard to discern in the dim, blinking ceiling light. The bulb swung ambulatory shadows around the room, dizzying me. I grabbed the back of the chair, attempting to steady myself.

“Steady, now,” I heard one of them say. I grabbed onto whoever’s arm it was, exhaling at the scent of greenery emanating from his chest.

Though it had likely grown cold since I’d first prepared it, the pulpo a la gallega now shimmered a beautiful ruby red. One tentacle dangled invitingly around its rim, the only thing still visible in the blur of vertigo.

“Thank you,” I murmured, as the man lowered me into my seat. I flushed. Suddenly, a dew had formed between my legs, and I pressed my knees together to conceal my craven need.

“Will you have some wine?” I heard a man call out to the other—then the clinking of glasses. They began to speak of old days—peonies in the courtyard, cigarettes snuck in between lessons, and I did my best to smile and nod along.

“And what do you do?” I heard the executioner ask. I thought to myself for a moment as a violent hum continued in my vision.

“I’m pursuing a postdoctoral fellowship,” I heard myself say. “I’m almost finished.”

“Congratulations,” both of them said at once. “A toast.”

I felt for my own glass of wine close by. Somewhere, I knew, a song had started in the world. It was growing louder, then softer at times. The melody was beautiful and pure, and the only thing I needed to do was to leave in order to hear it for myself. I wrapped my hand around the glass, raised it to join theirs. The room was silent as we drank.

“So what is your work like?” I asked the room—it was impossible to figure out who was sitting where at this point.

“Before that, food,” one man said. “We wouldn’t want to upset your stomach.”

“That’s true,” the other replied, amused. “Since you’re not feeling well, I’m happy to . . .”

“I got it.” I grabbed the serving spoon and felt a nearby plate. The darkness seemed to stretch more in each moment, and I fumbled for a bit before seeing the wink of porcelain. The dish seemed heavier now in my hand, somehow—I’d simmered it for too long, potentially. Perhaps the sauce had grown thick, I thought to myself, as I placed the portions to my left and right. I got some for myself, too, though I had no appetite. Their forks tinned against the plates; I heard them talking about the different wines.

“Was it you who killed the pigeon on the schoolgrounds that day?” one man asked the other. Finally, I thought, I’d hear the story. But the heat between my legs made it ever harder to concentrate. I stifled a moan with one hand, and felt tears in my eyes—what was happening? My desire had not been this large in so long. Panicked, I thought about excusing myself to the bathroom, where I could handle things alone.

As if in answer a hand suddenly slipped beneath my skirts. Strong fingers, calloused from hard work, gently worked themselves around my lips.

“Open,” I heard, and I parted myself wide.

“Possibly,” one of them said, continuing their conversation. “Though, the head was already missing when I got there.”

“O, touch me there,” I said.

“Obliged,” they said and entered me.

Which one was the executioner? For there must be a sense of justice, a purpose. One who is good, the other bad. One who did not wound me, and one who did. I allowed entry to one who walked through the door, though even the door was not my own. I did not own the house; it was not mine, yet I operated as if we were equal.

You’ve watched us, they said. So now, make your decision. We were in a park or garden, somewhere with lots of foliage. It was spring and sun coursed through the world. Either way, we will kill you for your choice.

I, who was without options, sat down for dessert. It was a delicate cake that I’d forgotten I’d prepared to serve after dinner. Powdered sugars and blossoms decorated its surface.

“What kind of cake again?” they asked. They were so uniform, and good this way. Their faces rose out of a single neck, joined together at the top like a purse clasp.

“A hummingbird cake,” I replied, and laid my head down on the table, for I was quite drowsy. They nodded, in good spirits. The knife glinted in the sun. Soon, they would begin to eat that which I’d unknowingly prepared for the two of them.