Emile's First Man

CHAPTER 4

Emile's body ached everywhere. Even in the December cold, his scar felt hot all the time. He couldn't sleep in the bed, so he spread a blanket on the floor by the door and lowered himself onto it carefully.

Every now and then, the fabric rubbing against him made him flinch. He lay there, trying to sleep, but the pain wouldn't let him.

Emile didn't know the exact time, only that a few hours had passed since he left the house. It was late.

Suddenly, he heard their dog barking.

Emile didn't move. He just listened to footsteps wandering from the front yard toward the kitchen, uneven, staggering, like someone drunk.

He thought his father would grab something to eat, since he'd left before dinner. Instead, Joe went to the storage room.

Metal rattled through the rooms, things falling, then a heavy metallic thud against the ground.

Emile wondered what his father was doing. A moment later, he heard something metal being rolled.

Slowly, Emile got up and eased the door open. Through the narrow crack, he could see what was happening.

In the yard, Joe moved under the moonlight. He'd made a small fire in the metal drum they used for trash. The tin pinged as the heat took hold. Flames popped inside.

Joe sat beside it, just staring at it.

Emile frowned.

After a moment, Joe brought out Emile's box, still dirty-stained, its sides a little crushed. He held up one photo, gazed at it lost in thought, then dropped it into the drum.

It curled. It blackened. One by one, Joe fed them in until they turned to ash and the box stood empty.

Emile watched from inside, unable to look away, but not daring to stop him either.

Joe tossed the box aside and remained seated, staring into the fire. No one could know what he was thinking. Only a small bottle kept him company.

Emile stayed behind the door until the fire died down completely. His box lay discarded by the drum. Untouched.

The next morning, Emile woke to the old cart being packed, heavy objects thudding onto it, and footsteps he couldn't mistake. His father was up.

Normally, he would have cooked something early in the morning for the trip, so Joe wouldn't have to spend money on food while selling.

But not this time. He stayed on the floor until the sound of the cart rattling away faded.

It felt childish, but he couldn't face his father. Shame and pain held him there.

Lying on the floor in silence, he felt alone. No one had listened to his side of it, or to how much pain he was in. He felt pathetic.

He wanted to stay on the floor a little longer, but the aching was becoming unbearable.

The sun was already rising, but the winter cold hadn't lifted yet. It would hang on for another couple of hours, then it would start to turn hot.

Emile washed his face carefully in the basin he'd left outside the night before. The water was cold.

He hissed. It hurt every time his hand brushed the damaged skin, most of it had peeled away, and even the air against it stung. The ointment was all he had, and the old tube was almost empty, so he tried to use as little as possible. After that, he wrapped a strip of cloth around his head, checking the edges so it wouldn't slip down.

As the silence grew louder, Emile drifted numbly through the rooms, as if he'd forgotten where everything was.

Breakfast was just a piece of tofu. He looked for the piece of meat, then realized the dog had probably taken it.

Even after the fight with his father, Emile couldn't neglect his chores. Things in the countryside were hard enough, you couldn't spend your days in bed. That included feeding the chickens, already clucking nonstop in their shelter, which was getting old and needed fixing before nature broke it down.

One more thing Emile couldn't do.

He tried to feed the chickens as quickly as he could since the sun was getting higher. While looking for the sack of grain, he saw his box still lying where it had been left, beside the metal drum.

It looked the same, except for a few damp spots where water had beaded. Emile stared at it for a long time, then walked toward it slowly. He knew what he would find once he opened it, but deep down he still hoped that at least some remains were left. Anything.

When he reached it, he picked it up and opened it carefully. Nothing.

—

After his father came home, little changed. Joe went to work; Emile kept to the house, doing whatever he could, from mending the dog's house to scrubbing the last burn stain off the kettle. Anything to keep himself busy.

Before, the two of them at least exchanged a word or two. Now the house stayed silent most of the time. Neither of them bothered to speak.

But something in his father's manner gradually shifted, and Emile noticed it after his second trip to the village.

Tuesday:

"Mm... the food is on the stove, eat it when you can."

"Hmmm..."

Wednesday:

"...I'll reheat it in a minute."

"No need, I ate something in the village."

Thursday:

"George asked for help with his harvest. I'll come home late, don't wait for me."

Emile looked up. George? Wasn't he the village drunk?

Friday:

"Mm... Dad?"

"What?"

"The cart, I already packed the—"

"I'm not going this time, there's barely anything to sell."

Saturday:

"..."

Joe hadn't come home.

That night, Emile stayed in the kitchen, checking the time every now and then. He finished his food in silence. He understood the situation, but deep in his heart he still hoped Joe would come back, at least to sleep.

About the field, what his father said was true. Last time at least a fair amount had sold. Now, looking at the half-empty cart, one could tell how little of it could be sold. It wasn't enough. Most of it was rotting in the storage room.

Lying on the floor, Emile couldn't stop thinking.

A week ago was supposed to be the other village's 60th anniversary. He'd never gone to "parties" with friends, this was something new and exciting to him.

He could have made up an excuse to his "wife" and had fun with him. With them.

Consciously or unconsciously, he had waited for his father to take the initiative to go to the village, so he would be the one to buy meat and face the seller. Emile hadn't dared to go. He didn't know why, but a feeling of pity always filled his mind whenever he thought of the seller.

He was a good man, but something about the incident had made things clearer to Emile. He knew the seller's intentions and his own were different, so why had he stayed, knowing the seller would never see him as anything more than a friend?

Maybe what kept him there was hope, but that same hope had been crushed by reality when his own father showed him a small glimpse of how the world treated people like him