Colors

PART I

Comically large splotches, with pathetic trails like someone couldn’t be bothered to even pretend to be clean. Rosacea on an infant’s face. The writers for the Atlantic would probably call it a “cathartically macabre exhibit”, but the thought of scrubbing the blood from floors shook H away from any overdramatic and bittersweet depictions. Maybe the dog found a used tampon in the bathroom. Yet it’s been two years since a pad or tampon had been thrown in the trash here. Squatting down to perhaps play detective upon the crime scene, they notice straight black… human hairs, akin to their own, but much too long to be theirs. The hairs are scattered in wet clumps on the wooden floorboards, in an almost decorative manner, like if a lazy sous chef thought that maybe sprinkling some thyme would make his dish better. Time cannot not fix everything, sometimes it just shoves things between lines. Resolution, is necessary.

And as if the blood and hair on the floor wasn’t concerning enough, H looked up and saw blood splatters on the walls too, stretched across the ceiling to the ground. Poor walls. It had the opportunity to be such an interesting color. When H first bought the apartment, “Pink!” said mum. “Whatever,” said Baba. “Purple!” said Alex, thinking that he was in the right, but H ended up choosing the ugly beige the apartment came with because change can be scary and they bet having a new tenant would be hypothetically scary for the hypothetically cognisant apartment. Now, the walls are ruined with thick streaks of blood. The entrance of H’s apartment looked almost comical, with a dash of morbid with the blood… blood, everywhere! The blood wouldn’t stop bleeding from the walls and onto the floors, constant waterfall bleeding, a cat kept mewing and H could hear a dog’s breath but not the body. Is there a hole somewhere in the walls and pipes? A mysterious tropical storm? H screams but some blood from the walls sputtered into their mouth, slapping H’s mouth with a metallic and thick tang, muting the young adult. The blood levels are rising! At the rate of the bleeding walls, from the entrance hallway all the way to the living room (and not the bedroom, the doors are hopefully locked) will be flooded with blood and then the blood will overtake H and then the very blood that runs through H’s veins will consume their body instead. Fortunately, the rapids of red stop. Is blood meant to be so thick and heavy? Soft and tender? Am I meant to be this buoyant yet feel as if I’m sinking? And down the entrance hall H floats, on top of the blood and as a part of it.

PART 2: REMINDERS

It’s Thanksgiving today and the dream from last night seems like a bad omen, but if any more thought is given to an omen, it’ll probably turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy. For good luck, around two hours before Thanksgiving dinner, H vacuumed the entire apartment and then pops open a can of beer to celebrate cleaning and to prepare for the family reunion meal antics. There were signs of a baby beer gut being developed on them, which felt funny to look at in the mirror. Soft and fleshy, a little round, is this what they’d look like if...? But “if” isn’t a reality for H, as they do not believe in the fate of the body they were born in. That, is why H is H and not a man nor a woman.

From a skinny brick grey building, comes a figure in a pair of straight wide-leg black pants from their closet and a t-shirt from an ashy corner of their bedroom. The shirt has a pink flower on it. Mama might like it. Birds chirp but the people on the streets yell louder, and H wonders if Baba can yell even louder than the car honks in the city. Thanksgiving dinner never goes well, they think to themselves, getting on the subway heading towards Tribeca. Thanksgiving probably never went well because nobody felt “thankful” and everyone felt inclined to attend and pretend, adhering to this American custom (nobody really is “American” here). If no one came, Mama would lock herself in shame of her disastrous anti-nuclear family, hiding within her bedroom and will refuse anyone who tries to pretend to care. And so, after that one-year H didn’t come and Alex forgot the kids, the siblings made sure to always show up for Thanksgiving. It hurt too much to see such a bright woman turn off and hide away. It is better to look and act like a picture-perfect family than be who they all really are. There’d be fights at every family dinner if people acted the way they wanted to. I wonder if there’ll be cranberry sauce tonight, wonders H. No one was white enough to like cranberry sauce so it always remains untouched on the table, but it still finds a way to be present at every Thanksgiving, made to be thrown away.

Off the train and now walking a familiar route in the plum dark, H sees a light inside a home with a neat decorative cornucopia outside the heavy looking door and their surname on the welcome mat. Before they could knock the door (purposefully knock the heavy wood, without using the obnoxious silver ring inside a decorative lion’s mouth,) the door opened itself and reveals Alex, H’s older brother. And even before he could do his routine, the iconic uncomfortably wide smile with lines cramped together on his face, an outspoken yet mature feminine voice beckons from deeper inside, luring H further into the house, completely disregarding their brother.

“He He?” says H’s mother, from the dining room. It was always seen as a funny self-contradiction to H that Mama is quite blunt and to the point in the safety of her own home and family, compared to her soft feminine and passive personality that the public sees, or rather what the public expects from a dainty Chinese woman. Mama is like a pumpkin. Cut to precision when the right holiday is around, growing and rotting all other times of the year.

H follows the warm voice and there she is: Mama, who had just finished setting the dining table that could fit a dozen people, but realistically fed four. She immediately runs to H, who is (willingly) standing out of place, both as an expression and literally.

“Ni pang le! Yi kan jiu zhi dao le! You are eat too much! Calm down!” said Mama. Ever so expressive with words, is the five-foot five woman, who only wears heels when she’s out despite her age, and dyes her hair chestnut every time a root dared to show. H could see that she was hiding small meadows of grey between layers of hair by her temples. Ever so expressive isn’t she, thinks H, what a lady... Mama’s cold manicured hands squeeze the apples of H’s cheeks, although they felt hot on their skin. Yanking their cheeks away from the maternal hands, H looks down but smiles in case Mama is looking too hard at their expression.

“Nu Er! Lai zuo!” she demands, without wasting an ounce of energy she pulls out a heavy wooden chair for her youngest child. H winces from the term “nu er”, but it goes ignored and unnoticed.

“Hao Ma Ma, hao.” And ever so compliant, is the youngest child. The dumplings and Citarella bought turkey sits on the table, waiting for attention, but they only attract H’s gaze, as they are the only person at the table right now. The others are here, but not there. No matter how good the food looks and smells, H knows that it’ll still taste a bit like Mama’s hand lotion. Mama is the type of woman who refuses to have dry hands but also refuses to hire aids to help her take care of the house and it’s ridiculous chores. It had something to do with her economically poor upbringing, or at least that’s what H theorizes is the reason why. A housewife should be a wife, maid, and mother, or else what pride or responsibilities could a woman have?

After approximately fifteen minutes, Alex joins the table on the left of H, wearing khaki pants, a brown belt and a dark grey sweater. A dress shirt collar peeps through the neckline. In another two minutes after Alex’s appearance to the table, Baba joins, in his pajamas (a designer t-shirt, cashmere loungewear pants) and he is still better dressed than H. Finally, Mama joins the table after another ten minutes—although Baba had already begun eating by then and is in fact, almost done eating. It’s customary for the family that Baba will always eat first, no matter when he arrives at the table. The rest of the rules depend on the mood of the authority figures Alex and H call “Mama and Baba.”  

“I’m sorry the kids couldn’t come to New York! They caught a stomach bug and Sarah’s taking care of them at home” Nice Alex, share about your cool nuclear family and your cool wife, it’s not like you talk to yourself in the family group chat with all the photos you send... H nods and smiles.

“Ah, it’s okay! Alex! Try the niu rou! Mama hua le hao duo shi jian lai zuo.” H waits to see if Mama will give them the same offer to them as well. “Oh He He! Ma Ma would give you some but you need to watch yourself! No one likes a piggie” The mother beams, proud of her good insight and thoughtful words, alongside her usage of English, H’s preferred language. The youngest feels hot air blowing out of their ears but knows that no one notices. H chooses not to notice their own humility either.

Food continues to disappear from the plates they arrived in and reappear between chopsticks. Slowly, the meal for a dozen is diminishing into what could probably still feed five people, and then eventually dessert comes around despite no plate being fully empty. It was like a restaurant, except the patrons were also staff. Bowls of sweet dessert land on the table from Mama and H’s hands, as it’s dessert time. Mama then decides that now is the time for her yearly Thanksgiving interrogation.

“He He, Mama is worried.” She sighs, looking straight into what she thinks are He He’s eyes from across her seat. “You haven’t learned to cook from me, have no style… Ahhhhh, and when will you… ?”

“Mama, don’t worry… And” a pause. Unsure if it was the right timing to speak, H continues: “you can all just call me H—” both eyebrows begin to slowly, but surely, rise from the other parent. Terrifyingly so, as Baba’s frowns often start with his infamous raised brows. Everyone notices. H’s voice had long died out, and it was completely silent outside the sound of Alex gingerly trying to eat.

“Aye-che?” bellows Baba’s voice from the acoustics of the dining room ceiling. There’s no way to describe the voice of the traditional Chinese business tycoon other than condescending, as his job requires him to be. The untamed eyebrows run into position as there is almost a V now present in place of where Baba’s previously raised brows were.

Silence.

Perhaps it was involuntary, or just a choice of dramatics for Baba to pause then, letting his words float in the room. Or his English is god-awful.

Alex’s dried lips become even more noticeable, as he had tightly pursed his lips, and Mama’s right eye is starting to twitch in a way where she could blame it on an eyelash, but everyone knew better. They all sort of knew what H meant by “H.”

A fist hits the table, and everyone quietly thanks Mama for having bought a ridiculously expensive table for the dining room. An Ikea table wouldn’t survive the balled fist of Baba. Both children of his, could barely survive his fists.

“Baba, it’s just a phase! Kids always do this for attention. He He just hung out too much with ta de tong xin lian peng you.” Said Alex. Ah yes, “The Homosexual Friends.” While just a label, H can easily picture the people Alex thinks are gay. In pursuit of consolation towards Baba, whether it was out of habit or genuine, Alex followed his therapeutic humor with laughter that sounded forced to an extent. It lasted 5 seconds and was the kind where you couldn’t tell whether he was breathing or not with his surprisingly large mouth. The oldest child went to Brown University but likes to make jokes about brown people (even though they technically fall under his race,) and H wonders if that can also be called just a phase. There is no response from Baba and H looks down to avoids eye contact. Baba looks frozen in thought, which often indicative of the most unpredictable behaviours.

There are two routes that could occur. A) Mama could scream if H says anything more and Alex will probably drag them into an empty room to either slap or further yell (literally, although not always consistently) at H… perhaps in hopes to imitate Baba which’ll lead to prosperity or something. There’s also B), but it’s not worth thinking about right now.

A finger points at H and brings them out of their internal thoughts and criticisms of their brother.

“Ni shuo ni ming zi shi shen me?” You said your name is what? The accuser, to the common person, looks like an angry clown in his pajamas, but the Li family knows him as the angry dictator, and he has every right to be so. No one is paying rent outside of him, despite their various ages of 27, 34, and 59. What Baba says, goes.

At this point, Mama had already silently escaped the scene in hopes to save herself, although H isn’t sure if it’s to be safe from Baba, or to keep H safe from Mama’s own judgements.

“Uh… Ah… Aye-” Helen does not start with an “Ah” and nor does Li He Na. Baba’s brows stay in the shape of a V.

…

“Zhen me? Was the name I give you not good for you?” bellows Baba, and now Alex has found his own spot standing beside Baba at the table rather than next to H. He used to always be on her side... but now, he is on the left side of Baba’s shoulder, who is sat still and firmly at the table, despite there being no food. Just empty(ish) plates. Alex stands on Baba’s left side, he looks like the Right-Hand man in the movies (had he stood on the right.) The father’s accent is thick in his English and is especially noticeable in the way he says “goo-duh” rather than “gu-d.” It’s a bit funny in retrospective, thought H, how Baba struggles to order food at restaurants. He would force H to order and argue with waiters for him, yet he seemed perfectly comfortable barking at her now. The taste of unripe and rotten cranberries riddle H’s tongue, despite the fact they’ve never eaten cranberries before, nevertheless even touched the sauce.

“w-wo de ming zi shi…” A pause. Actually, there were several pauses and stutters in H’s speech, making them sound more like a chair being dragged painfully slow on wooden floorboards, than a person attempting to speak their truths. And finally, “…Li He Na. Helen” The chair has now reached its destination, and crumbles down. “Helen Lee.” H should have never said anything about themselves today. Be quiet, survive dinner, never let yourself exist in their reality, thinks H. Because, well why H? They thought to themselves after what felt like an internal mic drop. It’s because Helen is all Baba will ever know; why H? Because Mama wants Li He Na to get married and have children; why H? Because Alex seems like Asian son perfection to most, and Helen could’ve been a celloist and worked in marketing. Why want H, who doesn’t even know who they really are, cannot leave nor abandon their family, yet isn’t even recognized by their own family? H does not have space in this house. However, Helen, Li He Na, and He He do.

“Na ni gan ma de se gei zi ji qi ge sha bi ming zi.” Responds Baba, brows still raised but at a U shape now instead of V, as he scoffs.

A cowardly escape pursues, as H leaves their dessert and the home of Helen Li in a flustered hurry, with the excuse of something about the doorman saying something about a break in or a fire or a small meteorite hitting their apartment downtown. No one bats an eye and simply sits in Baba’s presence, although Mama did wordlessly re-enter the dining room a few moments ago to follow H to the door and watch their slim(ish) figure skitter away from the living room window. Mother was wrapped tightly in the safety of her shawl made of pure Merino wool and disappointment, as Helen brought in a stranger today rather than herself. Everyone loves Helen, it’s a shame she didn’t appear today.

PART 3: INTER

The events of dinner play over and over again and again and again and again. Like funny one liners from an early 2000s comedy show, thinks Helen. Although the show is on mute, as H lays lifelessly in the dark with the TV on. They can somehow still faintly hear the dialogue from dinner on their way home… until they were home and in the comfort of where the bed, their dog and cat all live. When was the last time I fed them…? But the cornucopia is burnt into their mind, and the dog and cat are not. H stares at the ceiling. The ceiling looks interesting, even in the dark. The ceiling, the natural world around them, even their pets—everyone and everything is itself. H though, was simply a child who couldn’t pick an ice cream flavor, a Barbie doll with Ken’s head, an between in time that will eventually be either morning or night. Maybe the afternoon, but only maybe.

Tomorrow, is both H and Li He Na’s birthday

PART 4: FEELING

H thought it was another dream at first, but you’re not supposed to hear nor smell in a dream, and so they opened their eyes and sat up in their bed. The pets were gone (probably in the living room,) a pungency is in the air, and a knock can be heard at the front door. With two sharp beats, the knocks stop. It should be a package then, as they are normally brought up to H’s door than picked up from the mail room. The doorman is kind like that.

The first oddity is that H’s feet felt wet. Perhaps opening the lights would be a good idea, but something stopped them from performing the simple action of flipping a switch. The idea of facing light scared them for some reason. This is now the second oddity, they think to themselves but do not say. The fear to see. The final oddity, she thought to herself, was that she had slept through the day and woke up the night of her birthday, although that isn’t as concerning as the first two oddities to H. From the bedroom, through the living room and at the entrance hallway, H walked and reached the front door to drag in the package. The light of the outdoor hallway helped H to see Gou, who is a cat although named Dog in Mandarin for fun, sleeping on the living room couch. The dog must be somewhere else in the apartment, although H didn’t worry too much about it.

They bring the white shopping bag into their bedroom, hugging it tight to their chest, and hastily open the light within the bedroom. There’s a flower that they don’t remember having in the room, although it’s in full bloom, causing H to sneeze. Mama loves flowers. They (or rather She) stops the sneezing fit after ten seconds though, already used to the pollen at a strangely quick pace. Sitting uncharacteristically straight on the bed now, with legs crossed, H can now see that the large shopping bag is from Neiman Marcus. As H opens the bag to see its contents, they recognize a silk jade-colored modernized qipao dress. The dress stares back at H. It’s beautiful.

It’s only now, that H sees that the wetness on their foot is red and left burgundy footprints across the wooden floorboards. Bringing the dress, still within its Bergdorf bag (or was it Neiman?) they retrace their steps and then go to the living room (and opens the light,) to the entrance hall (and opens the light,) to the door where they were earlier to pick up the delivery (and opens the light there.) Mao, who was a dog named cat in Mandarin, but instead, now dead, is laying on the floorboard mangled and in a pool of its own blood. H looks at their feet, then at the small pond of blood that has accumulated beneath the dog. The paws look wet, glistening under the light. They look at their hands, and realize that their hands too, were dripping with wet wine red. They look back to where the dog was and sees now: a dead naked Asian man on the floor with their face. His body mangled and in a pool of its own blood, body arched like a cat. Immediately, H raises their left hand to their face in confusion. Instead, they find an absence of features. There are no lips to start a scream with, no nose to breathe with, just eyes and silence. There is only skin on their face now--- pliable and soft, like the dumpling dough Mama (my Mama right?) used to make. —Has my face fallen off? Stolen? The figure questions, and then frantically interlocks their hands together and brings them up to cover the puffy raw dough skin to keep it in place, but the skin refuses. It begins to melt. Melting, melting and melting into a state of droopy high viscosity, escaping in small amounts from the cracks between the fingers like thick honey. They’re losing face. And so, they run—hyperventilating and thrashing their body in loud silences throughout the entrance hallway, into the living room and finally: the bedroom. In the living room, the cat is eating the drops of face that fell on the floor. The cat, named Gou coughs. The bed is no longer there, replaced with a statue of some sort of exalted being holding condoms, unopened. H winces.

PART 5: “H”

Helen wakes up in bed nude, and in sweat yet felt cold. She is clutching the jade-green dress to her chest. She puts a hand on her face and feels: eyes, nose, lips, skin and long hair. They say you don’t tend to remember the first few hours of a dream. The bed has a few blood splatters, and her abdomen pulsates with the pain of a fertile womb. Her period: she hasn’t had it in the last two years. There should be a tampon or pad stacked away somewhere in the storage closet.

 A letter sits on the bedside table, crisp in white and she can see her Mama’s handwriting on it.

“Lovely Li He Na,

Wear this qipao to CNY!! New Year, new you!

Ai Ni，

妈妈”.