Shadow on the Side (Part 1)

Ivy's Diary and Stream of Consciousness, March 13, 2025, 04:22:13

Diary Entry:

This morning the fog was thick as milk. I stood by the window, staring at the end of the alley, the coffee in my hand growing cold untouched. Lin Se called again yesterday, asking about Simon. I didn't tell the truth, my throat dry as if I'd swallowed sand. I said, "He's gone, stop looking," then hung up. But she won't listen; she never does. Her voice was like a knife, stabbing into my ears. I turned off the lights, sat on the sofa, staring at the crack in the wall as if looking at my own face.

The fog crept in, cold as a dead man's hand. I lit a cigarette, the smoke dispersing like Simon's shadow, wavering before my eyes. He left the same way that day, the fog too thick to see his face, his scarf a piercing blue. He said: "Ivy, don't tell her." I asked why, but he didn't answer, just smiled a little, as if laughing at my stupidity. Thinking about it now, that smile was like a hook, hanging in my heart, impossible to remove.

Consciousness Fragment:

Gray, gray, gray. The alley was like a dead fish, belly up, the fog its scales, scraping my face raw. I walked out, my shoe soles stepping in puddles, water splashing up, cold as needles. I need to find something, proof that he's really gone, otherwise Lin Se will bury herself in that robot, in the kitchen, in his ghost. I know what she's doing; she didn't sleep last night, I could tell from her voice, like broken glass, cutting my ears.

Blue spice—he mentioned it once in a letter, which I found after rummaging through drawers, tucked in a pile of interview notes. That letter was written last year, the handwriting crooked as if drunk: "Ivy, the spice is the key, don't touch it." Key? Key to what? His heart? His grave? I didn't tell Lin Se, afraid she'd go crazy looking for it, sacrificing herself. But she's already crazy, I know it; she's taken Ceylon and gone to that laboratory, that damned ruin.

Diary Entry:

04:25:47, I put on my coat, gray-blue sweater, sleeves too long, like a child's. I need to go there, before her, or with her, I don't know. My car is parked downstairs, engine old and coughing, shaking like it might fall apart as I drove out. Fog smeared the windshield; I turned on the wipers, squeaking like they were scraping my bones. I drove fast, tires crushing puddles, the sound like heartbeats, fast enough to explode.

Simon, you bastard, why didn't you tell me? Why make me carry your secret, like a bag of stones? I remember how you stood in the kitchen, apron covered in flour, holding cookies, smiling like an idiot. You said: "Ivy, taste this, it tastes like love." I didn't taste it; I turned and left, because I was afraid the taste was real. I was afraid you were right, that love was something in the kitchen, warm, then cold, then rotten, then buried.

Consciousness Fragment:

Fog like cotton, filling my lungs. Headlights stretching out, yellow as urine, unable to penetrate. Where's the laboratory? I know, at the edge, in that pile of ruins, but I don't want to go. My hands shaking like a sieve, the steering wheel slippery, like holding a fish I can't grasp. Is Lin Se there? She's with Ceylon, that metal monster, that thing containing Simon's soul. I hear it click-clack, like a clock, like a bomb, like his footsteps.

Blue, blue, blue. The spice is blue, his scarf is blue, Ceylon is blue. My hair is blue too, like a joke. What was I thinking when I dyed it? Was I thinking of him? Of his smile? Or trying to forget him? I forgot, I only remember the fog, grayish-blue, like his eyes, cold as dead stars.

Diary Entry: 

04:29:12, I stopped the car, the engine gasping like old lungs. Ahead was the ruin, concrete cracked like a spider web, wrapped in fog like a shroud. I got out, my boots sinking into mud, wet as blood. I saw the laboratory, door half-open, blue light leaking out, like a ghost breathing. I didn't go in, standing outside, hands in my pockets, fingertips touching that letter, like touching his hand, cold as ice.

Lin Se, should I tell you? Is he dead, or alive? I don't know. I only know what he left behind is like poison, poisoning you, poisoning me, poisoning this damned fog. I need to go in, but my legs feel like lead, immovable. I lit a cigarette, my hand shaking too much to light it, the match falling to the ground, wet, extinguished, like my heart.