Alem
Before entering, Mr. J. strictly told me to wait at the door. He rarely goes anywhere without me. This doesn't stem from his self-preservation instincts or what you would call cowardice. He is an extremely brave, daring, and warm-blooded man. You might see some people as "just like my brother," "like my mother," or "like my sibling." But for people like me—who grew up burdened like a sack of laundry, washing, organizing, and buying detergent from morning till night, and who will die that way—the situation changes entirely. Mr. J., by adapting to this change, is simply Mr. J. He is nothing other than himself. He makes no sacrifices for anyone, but he doesn't do this to please himself more, either. He truly believes that sacrifices are absurd. Just like some children.
Whenever I remember my small fingers being crushed between my mother's tight hands during my childhood, I realize that I am not just a guard for the Mechanism, but the shadow of a man. Mr. J. doesn't hold himself back or restrain others, but he is so brave that he is never afraid of shadows.
As I paced back and forth in the corridor, I realized I wouldn't find answers to the questions swirling in a corner of my mind. For the last two years, I have spent very little time with myself. This is my choice. The less I see of myself—or the more I escape dallying with those instincts of mine that are so skilled at suffering—the more willpower I will possess. Just like the photograph of a man from the old days standing before me; a man whose name I never knew but whom I had seen many times. I was content to be a shadow. Unlike that statue. My footsteps slapped the floor; my eyes shifted to the door to save me from my own image reflected all along the mirror on the opposite wall.
I began to keep rhythm by tapping my foot on the floor.
There was an irritation mark on my neck.
Recently, I had rubbed it against my skin while pulling the chain I've worn since childhood. A scar left from that. What hurts isn't my neck; it's my childhood that gave up on me long ago. I tucked the end of the necklace under my shirt.
Mr. J. never dragged things out.
After a waiting period of about four minutes, the door opened. First, the doctor's furrowed brows—whom I detested—appeared, with eyes shining beneath bags full of wrinkles. It was as if he were giving me a signal. Mr. J. looked at me with a weary but cold-blooded expression and let go of the door loudly. The sound of metal clashing rang in my ears. This sound reminded me of the door of the hearse that took my mother away.
Until my mother died, I had always thought I belonged somewhere, to a family. Was it because I only ever saw my mother since my father abandoned us when I was a child, or was it because I felt truly loved only by her? I don't know. But the only thing I knew was that I grew up cursing my father. While my mother rotted in the Mechanism due to her psychiatric illness, and I tried to maintain my wretched life as if following in her footsteps, I had always been crushed under the absolute evil of that "father" figure who was never there.
Mr. J. tapped my shoulder. Looking at me softly—normally he never asked about anyone's anxieties—as if wanting to clear me of my thoughts. I could understand that he had done what he had to do. "Do you have any requests, sir?" I asked, straightening my shoulders. He was the one who raised me until I could stand on my own feet. I owed him a lot.
"Where are we going, sir?" He had already started walking ahead of me. His leather shoes, with the spill of the light, were turning into a bright, swaying beam of light. His black suit wasn't an element of authority or a tool to impress with willpower; it was simply a style that defined Mr. J. "You follow me this time," he said, and after clearing his throat, he added: "That woman you knocked out with an electric shock and brought here."
I buttoned my jacket. "Is this her room?"
The surprise in my voice hadn't escaped his notice. Lowering his voice a notch, he replied, "We are keeping her here temporarily." We passed by standing paintings, red boards, the fire extinguisher, and finally, the trash. The corridor smelled of disgusting disinfectant. The smell of cleanliness was as sharp as the day my mother died. I was a child lost in those corridors. While they were washing her, I had stood there as if seeing my own helplessness through the crack of the door. Now, even as a grown man, that helplessness hadn't left me for even a moment.
While following Mr. J., I tried to understand the emotions that had just appeared on his face. He didn't look peaceful. On the contrary, it was clearly the face of a man full of doubts. Perhaps, if examined more deeply, it was a similarity to that day's helplessness I saw in my own eyes every time I looked in the mirror.
He stopped in front of the elevator, suddenly reached into his pocket, pulled out his black phone, and shifted his weight to one foot, waiting for the floor number to appear. I, too, was holding my breath, waiting for what would happen, thinking that something had gone terribly wrong in my own head. I didn't open my mouth to say a single word. Everything was as much as Mr. J. spoke for me. Maybe it was a secret. A secret that Mr. J. wouldn't tell anyone except the chairman.
Until I realized I was wrong, when he turned back to me on his heels.
That was when I established such a confrontation with his stern eyes that nothing could ever be the same again.
"Sir."
Mr. J. pressed the phone to his ear and didn't take his eyes off me for a second.
What was happening?
The elevator arrived; he stepped inside backing up and pressed the button, furrowing his brows. What a fool I was being. I moved immediately to follow him, but he raised his hand in objection. He withdrew his gaze; his intimidating figure disappeared behind the damn door of the elevator. My job? My duty to protect him? What did these mean? Mr. J. had never wanted me to be away from him for even a moment. In all the time I had worked for him, this was a first. Unless... N-no. I had to get that idea out of my head. But once again, that damn voice repeated: "You made a mistake. And this is a mistake that Mr. J. will never forgive."