Apple

The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room. He was kind to her. Always. And fair. Maybe not always fair. But when he wasn’t, his bias leaned in toward her favor. He was generous, too. And patient, of course. And he gave her this space. All of this space, and only this space. Only the space illumined by the light filtering through that one window.

It was round, the window. And she thought it changed in size. When it grew darker outside, it seemed to her, the aperture grew. When the sun shone brightly, to her, the window shrunk. It never closed. She couldn’t be sure it didn’t close. Light entered the room before she closed her eyes to sleep. And light poured through when she awoke. But never did more light ever enter the room. Never could the sunshine penetrate the darkness in the rear of the room.

He would appear from the dark. Sometimes she would hear him approaching. He had a cough. And at times, he rasped while he breathed. Other times, she wouldn’t notice he was there until he stepped from the darkness into the light. There was a distinct demarcation on the floor where the light stopped. But the darkness hung in the air, too. She couldn’t see him until he had completely stepped into the light.

He never frightened her. In the beginning, he was around all the time. He would hold her up to the window and point things out to her and name them. She would repeat the names of things and he would smile. As she grew, she would run towards the window. He would chase her down, and stop her, and hold her. And he would point to the window and tell her not to touch the pane.

She got bigger. He spent more time in the darkness. She would walk to the window and stand, nose to sill at the base of the round portal. She would say aloud the names of colors. She would recite the names of animals she saw walking. She would sound out words and phrases that described the world on the other side of that round aperture. Afterward, she would reach her hand out, toward the center of the window. And each time, he would step out of the darkness, as if he was watching her, as if he had simply been waiting to see if she would defy his plea. To reach out. To touch the pane with her short, round fingers.

Her fingers lengthened and slimmed. Her body the same. She stood nearly as tall as him. He spent more time in the darkness. But he would return with clothing and trinkets to accouter and attire her. She asked if it was cold beyond the pane. He told her it could be as he stooped in front of her to show her how to tie her shoes. She asked if what he had brought her would serve. He told her it could.

She would stand by the window. Tall enough to look through the center. She’d gasp. She’d point. She’d poke her finger so close to the pane. Then glance, surreptitiously, to left and right. Then twist her neck to peer as far over her shoulder as she could and stare at the darkness. Her finger inching closer to the pane. She’d glance again. To the left. To the right. Then she would stand upright, drop her arms to her sides, and walk away from the window.

He’d been in the darkness for a while. She had slept several times. And wakened as many. She paced the room, but heard nothing. She paced the room, between the window and the darkness. She paced the room. She slept and woke. She dressed in all the clothing he had brought her. She armed herself with all of the accessories he had brought. She stood at the window. And gazed through it inscrutably.

She held her hand to her cheek, then pointed at the window. She eased her hand forward. Her finger touched the pane and she pushed forward. It was elastic. And gooey. It felt slick. And it coated her hand the farther she pushed. But she pushed forward. She brought her other arm around and pushed with her other hand. And her head followed her hands through the aperture. She put a foot on the sill and pushed her body through. And her hands, broken through the pane, flailed, like she was swimming. And she pulled herself through. And the pane tugged at her clothes. And she crawled through the aperture. Like being born. Shorn. Naked. She clung. To a white orb.

* * * * * * * *

A man sat listless on a chair. Unmoving. His hands rested on a cane. His head lolled over the top of the chair. His eyes stared lifelessly up. His mouth was slightly open

If one looked through their telescope, and if one focused on the face of the man. And if one peered closely at one of his eyes. One might have seen something crawl from the iris. One might have seen a figure poke through the lens. Might have seen something crawl out of the center of its pupil. Naked. Shivering. Clinging to the outside of the cornea.

If one had looked closely, they would have seen a figure, like an insect, but missing a pair of legs. They would have seen it climb slowly down the curve of the eyeball. They would have seen it growing in size. They would have seen it climb down the man’s face, clinging to strands of his beard. They would have seen it the size of a man’s palm.

If one were so curious to keep watching. If one held back their revulsion, their fear that something might live in their own eyeball, in their own mind. One might see a human figure in the creature falling from the man’s beard onto his chest. One might see a naked girl hanging onto his shoulder while her legs grew until her feet rested on his legs. One might see a girl turn around and plop onto her butt in the man’s lap.

She placed a foot down on the floor. Her leg was nearly as long as his. And she placed her other foot down. And she stood. She was attired and accoutered as she needed to be. And she looked around. She was in a room with a singular exit. And she left.