v.1

v.1

之间
In Between
Cath Cai (BFA FD 2021)


我在逃亡。我并没有做什么坏事,我也没有被追杀。如果我被抓住的话,我的精神和身体都不会受到任何惩罚或是创伤。但是我为什么要逃呢?我坐在歌剧院的角落,听着穿着味千拉面吉祥物公仔套装的歌者唱茶花女,这样想着。

我坐在角落。很明显,我被小看了。歌者滑稽的变装明摆着是敌方向我展示自己的势力。这个歌剧院非常奇怪,我从未体验如此被紧缚的感觉。我每呼吸一次,我扩张的肺就使我的左臂挤压墙壁。墙壁是粗糙的,它磨蹭着我的皮肤,时不时痒,时不时疼。我的肺又一次扩张。在黑暗中,我瞥见黑色的墙从我的左臂作为起点,画了一条比黑更黑,因为湿润而闪闪发光的线条——我的皮被蹭破了,但是它不疼。只剩痒了。我的肺继续扩张。我想着唱着茶花女的歌者如果坐在这个位置的话,以她的肺活量而言,可能身上已经千疮百孔了吧。

是时候了。我需要继续逃亡。我趁着鼓掌的间隙站起来,拎着是我人两倍长的裙子奔下自动扶梯。我的裙子随着我的步伐一节一节绞进梯阶。当我停下时,我的裙子被裁至脚踝处,扶梯也不工作了。这岂不是正好,我想,我的活动既变得更加轻便,停止工作的电梯也会给我争取更多逃脱的时间。我想活动活动自己的脑袋,使劲地想“两败俱伤”的反义词是什么来着,但是就是想不起来。

至少我的肉身足够紧张。这扶梯底下可能住着老鼠。我的裙角湿湿黄黄的。呈直线的尿骚味与我留在歌剧院墙壁上直线的血道一样,是精密的计算。难道这是埋伏吗?是偷袭?是追踪?是监视?

也对。我不能小看了我的对手。他们说不准是好心。我想起来了。我在逃亡。因为我爱他们。我爱上了他们其中的每一个。我深深地打开肺去呼吸这每一寸鼠尿,我的鼻腔刺痛,我反射地流下眼泪。我一屁股坐下,我的长裙像小帐篷一样包裹着我。当我被他们抓到时,我也会被变形成老鼠吧?我这样想,却感到了性欲。


I am fleeing. I have not done any misdeed, nor am I being hunted to death. If I were to be caught, I would not be punished or abused, mentally nor carnally. But why am I at fleet? I think, as I sit in the corner of the opera house, listening to the cántente performing La Dame aux Camelias in a Chuck E. Cheese mascot suit.

I sit in the corner. It is quite apparent that I am being looked down on: the cántente’s ludicrous disguise proves to be my enemy, parading their power to me. The opera house is a strange one. I have never experienced constriction to this extent. With every breath I take, my expanding lungs push my left arm into the wall. The wall is coarse; it rubs against my skin, itches me some, and it hurts me some. My lungs expand again. In the darkness, I catch a glimpse of the black wall. It, with my left arm as the origin, draws a line that’s blacker than black, glistening in wetness—my skin is rubbed open, but it does not hurt, it only itches. My lungs keep expanding. I think if the cántente of La Dame aux Camelias was sitting in this seat, her pulmonary capacity would’ve pierced her a hundred scars.

It is time. I have to keep fleeing. I stand up mid-applause. Holding my skirt (it is twice as long as my body), I run down the escalator. With every step I take, my skirt grinds into the crevices between the stairs. When I stop, I find the skirt has been amended into a mid-ankle length. The escalator has stopped working as well. This is quite ideal, I think— my movements can be more agile, and the escalator’s malfunction buys me more time to escape. I try to activate my brain by tearing it apart, trying to think of the antonym of the phrase “fighting like Kilkenny cats” (meaning a lose-lose situation), but no bells were rang.

At least my carnal self is tense enough. Underneath these stairs there might live rats. The hem of my skirt is yellow and moist. The vertical odor of urine, as was the line of blood I left on the wall in the opera house, was a meticulous calculation. Could this be an ambush? A sneak attack? A probe? Spy?

Maybe so. I cannot make light of my opponents. They might carry friendly intentions. I remember. I am fleeing. For the case that I am in love with them. I am in love with every individually wrapped one of them. I open my lungs deeply to breath in every particle of this rat urine. My nostrils sting, I tear up reflexively. I sit down on my bottom. My long skirt encases me like a small tent. When I am caught by them, I will be transformed into a rat as well, won’t I? I think, but I am aroused.


Cath Cai is puzzled.