In-Extremis
to be at the point of death
"Who said you had to stop breathing to die?"
He hates the tea shop, because the dullness and monotony is a constant reminder that this is what the rest of your life looks like.
Every day is a parody of the last, the names and faces only variations in a never-ending series of rehearsals. Even those aren't so different; when they see his face - half his face - the reaction is inevitably the same. Shock, pity, disgust. He's disgusting. His hands shake every time and a feeling like nausea settles in his hips, and he wonders sometimes if he'll ever grow numb to it, because he still hasn't and it's been three years, and he wants to snarl and scream and slap - but never burn, he'll never burn anyone if can, he won't do it - it off their faces because they have no right and they don't even know who he is or how he got it or that he's dying.
It makes him angry, when most of the rage that used to bubble inside him has fermented and turned to a quiet, listless bitterness, and in a way he's glad because when he's angry he feels the most real. When he's angry, he lashes out - he touches the world. When it fades, he's just the shadow in the corner; almost gone, but not quite. Sometimes he thinks he is the darkness, because without darkness there's no such thing as light and it's hard for him to look at the brightness so he keeps his eyes on the ground and reminds everyone silently that he is what all of them are striving not to become someday.
He's disgusting. And defective. Though only his father has ever called him that, the feeling of wrongness deep in his bones tells him it's true.
Father calls me a disgrace.
But what he meant, every time he said it, is that his very existence is a shame on Fire Lord Ozai's legacy - how could the firstborn son of the most powerful man in the world be defective? - because he'd been made wrong and anything he's ever done is just icing on the cake because no matter what he says or does he will always be what he is, a screwed-up mash of cells and DNA that will never function properly, and nothing can change that.
His very existence is embarrassing.
Uncle doesn't understand that. He thinks it's all a self-esteem issue and that Zuko just needs to recognize . . . something . . . and then everything will magically be better. He spouts endless proverbs and sayings that Zuko can't make heads or tails of as though they will fix all his problems and make him see.
But Father is right. Maybe cruel, but he's right. Because there definitely is something wrong with him and in the end when they remember his name it will be just like the way they remember all the orphans of Shu Jing who died working in the factories.
Cause of death: failure to thrive.
But Uncle is here and alive and wants him to be too, so Zuko thinks he can hold on a few more months. It's the least he can do, given everything Zuko has put him through. Everything he will put him through, when his body finally quits.
So he waits. He sits by the window and watches the inhabitants of the Lower Ring - don't they know how beautiful they are? - and tries to understand what it's like to be a person, because he may be human but he certainly doesn't belong in these places filled with living souls that he can't fathom but can't help loving, just a tiny little bit.
Maybe there's enough room in his dead, frozen heart for that.
They wander by his street, in vibrant greens and rich browns and dusty grays, some laughing, some chattering, some with an air of sadness only he can fully appreciate. Some guarded, wearing caution like a poorly made disguise and watching the corners and alleyways with uneasy suspicion. Not that he blames them; he knows what scum are lurking there.
Some of them pass by briskly, hardly sparing a glance, some stroll by casually, with a relaxed countenance or a lover on their arm. Some find doors and some pass by. Some slip into the shadows and some walk in the light.
Every one of them is unique. And in their uniqueness, they are all exactly the same.
He watches from the window of his room in their shabby apartment, imagining what they are saying and doing. He tried sitting out on the street once, but it seems the sight of him brings out the darkness in others. Smiles fade and postures turn cold. Some give him pitiful glances - make him want to spit - and some sneer, spitting out insults and jeers that they have no right to call him. Somehow, the words fascinate him, entrancing and repelling at the same time. There's a grace to them that he finds a little spellbinding.
Disgusting.
Defective.
Disgrace.
Scum.
They cut him and leave him hollow and dry, but they're his in a way nothing else is.
"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will make me think I deserved it."
11/26/15
