After Hope Dies

by Lilly Haraden

  ‘Sorry guys, gotta take a break this evenin’. Headaches again.’

  ‘Get well soon!’ chorus the nerd friends. White One, White Two, White Three, Chinese One, and African American boi. Oh shit. Hugo is a token.

  Hugo is not transparent. He can’t be an individual. He’s a minority, and minorities are shaped by their surrounds and circumstances and the power imbalances thrust on them by majorities. Nothing less and certainly nothing more. And have you seen the colour of his skin! Please. Just a regular black guy. But oh, to be white. To be ideal and neutral. To be a white-black like old Donald Glover. To be an Oreo. To be whiter than Glover and burning off the outside of his body until people can’t see what he should look like anymore. That sounds nice. And – hey, guess what? – it works the other way too! To be a real black like your typical black boi, or maybe even some black anomaly who commands a factory, who gets lots of money and sends their kids to good schools so they can be educated individuals. Individuals? Yes! That’s right, the ones with desires and real feelings! Wow! A new model with updated firmware: added personality and quirks. They come in pairs now. Pull the cords on their back for lifelike, real, individual voice samples from ‘lifelike’, ‘real’ ‘black’ people like:

  ‘Hey honey, how was work today?’

  ‘Fine, thank you, darling.’

  They kiss, like normal people do.

  ‘What are you doing this evening?’

  ‘I might do some writing. I’ve got a new idea for a story about a hood-black kid who likes deep-cut anime even though he’s twenty-four and two-fifty pounds and did I mention just how black he was? He’s a real “lock your doors” kind of nigger, but not like a nigger with a hard “r”, more like a nigga with the “a” at the end. Know what I’m sayin’?’

  ‘Ah, yes, nice Childish Gambino reference. He’s a fine fellow, isn’t he? What every black man should be. We’re talking 2015 Donald Glover. Not too black, you know? Not like 2016 Donald Glover. But, honey, nobody’s going to read a story like that. Black people haven’t got any agency or ability to define themselves as individual units. It’s the same for all minorities – all four of them: Black, Chinese, Lãtinã and…um, Miscellaneous. When one of them speaks, they speak for all. Otherwise it’s not right. It’s unnatural. Just write a story about a black boy whose father cayn’t work no more (be sure to include the double negatives and misspellings – that’s how they speak), whose brother has been arrested for…I don’t know, what do black kids do illicitly? Rape? Drug peddling? Whatever. That story is much easier to write. Just don’t talk about Hugo liking anime or doing something slightly out of the ordinary because that suggests that people have individuality, that they can be judged on the content of their character rather than the colour of their skin.’

  ‘Oh wait a second, you know what? We’re running into a different problem now. He might actually be too white, too millennial, having a decent grasp of vocabulary (that’s a white-only thing, right?), doing white things in his spare time. Hell, I bet he logs online and only speaks with whites and maybe one Chinese girl or something. Maybe I should nigga him up a bit for authenticity’s sake?’

  ‘Yes, good idea. Make him extra dark and slap a Kendrick Lamar poster up on the wall for good measure. Go on, put it up. Ah. See? Hugo’s a real nigga now with a gangster to idolise.’ [RE this entire section. Lilly, you’ve got to really be careful using the n-word so flippantly. It’s crossing the line into racism, even as metafiction].

  Hugo turns around. See: Good Kid, Mad City beside Kill la Kill. Man, Hugo wishes he could be so black and so white that nobody cared even just a little bit. Least of all himself.

  K-on starts. Shhhhhhh, pestering thoughts, shut up. Anime’s on!

  “If we cut our skirts by two centimetres, we can fly!”

  Look at those four Japanese school girls jumping from the stairs, further than yesterday to reach a higher octave. Their faces wide with happiness, skirts all billowing up in the wind and affording nice shots of legs and thighs. Nice. Shots. Hugo leans back and sighs, cuts the ceiling lights with a remove by his mouse. In the dark, he watches Asian school girls make music and eat cake and bounce around like playthings for socially reclusive men to empathise with.

  Ohhhhhhh, dear god, what the fuck is he doing with his life?

  Nerd can’t sleep after anime (wait, that should read kush and Kendrick, sorry) so he downs a couple of Unwind.

  Five thirty am. Nobody dreams in chemical sleep.

  Nymphette

  Imagine what it must feel like to wake with the afternoon sun teasing your eyes apart. Daytime’s heat sticking to the sheets, sticking to your body as you peel the layers back like a sour onion. For a few glorious minutes not a single thought enters the man’s head. Nice, isn’t it?

  Big boy stands and topples to the bathroom, urinates long, topples to the kitchen and says hey to Dad as he opens the fridge. Big boy needs a big late lunch: eggs, eggs, milk, bread, supplement to fill in the micronutrient gaps of the substandard food. Sunny side up and smiling on a whiteman’s bread face.

  Dad’s doing stretches in the next room. He has to support most of his weight on a walker frame like an old man but he’s getting slowly better at splitting those matchstick legs apart like a crane made of plaster. One two three four, one two three four in time to the aerobics class on the TV stream. The coordinator looks into the camera and chirps, ‘Mr. Weaving, bend those knees, I know you can!’

  Easy for you, bitch: you’re twenty-one and childless.

  Where’s Mumma? She’s out working but she’ll be home in a few hours.

  So Hugo must practise. He’s got a list of songs they need to go over before the trails for nationals. Tournaments themselves don’t bring in consistent money and what does come in is syphoned into the ever-widening account of emergency expenses. The most Hugo really has to show for Osu (aside from living in this house) is a nice holographic emblem and medal from the ’29 contest, which he keeps beside his collection of anime figures to prove to himself that, yes indeed, he can actually do this. No, the real money comes from the fickle whims of the crowd of watchers. Here one day and gone the next and back the day after. A large part of making these payments more regular is keeping up appearances.

  Hugo sits down at his computer to eat his sammich and connect with the world and earn those tips. It looks a bit like this:

  ‘Hey thanks, man, glad you liked the replay.’

  ‘It’s just practise.’

  ‘Nah, I don’t think Osu has changed for the worse – everyone complains about the new updates and then gets used to them immediately. Peppy’s entitled to do what he likes.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about GU. There are far more important things we can talk about. “Like what?” Serious? How about mandatory IP logging and national registers for Flat Card usage. Child sex trafficking, price of electronics in China vs East America, factory conditions at Foxconn downtown. Games aren’t going anywhere, don’t worry.’

  ‘Yeah, NY’s got a solid team lined up this year but I think we’ll hold our own when it comes down to the nationals.’

  ‘I have nothing but respect for masterfyne. She’s a great player, what more can I say?’

  ‘Congrats on pulling the sign, Senjo – I’d kill for that card, haha.’

  ‘Yeah I use a mouse and keys; to be honest, I’ve never really tried playing with a tablet because my hands tend to shake when I’m holding a pen, so I find mice easier to control. I stick my hand over the weight of the thing, and I find my movements become much more controlled. Just me, though – here take a look: . See how little I move the mouse? I turn the sensitivity way up so that tiny movements correspond to big sweeping gestures. What kind of mouse am I using? Uh…a fan sent it to me, I think it’s a Logi. Tbh you can use a $10 Microsoft mouse, works just as well.’

  ‘You’re most welcome, glad I can help out.’

  ‘Ah you’re very kind, idk, I just enjoy what I do (‘◠‿◠)ﾉ ’

&n
bsp; ‘That means a lot to me, really. I mean, I don’t do this so I can make people happy, but it’s cool to know that what I do brings a little bit of happiness to you. Yeah, I think that’s cool.’

  Fifty Western US dollars. So that’s roughly three hundred Eastern US Dollars. Bland. Predictable. Agreeable. Gentile. Haha, man, he sounds so generic when he streams and types. But it’s not forced or a construct. Strangely, it is a genuine side to his enigma. Maybe he’s just that: a fake.

  Taptaptap.

  Turn.

  Taptaptap.

  She is outside. Neighbour, nymph, knuckle on the window and a sunny face telegraphing those warm hellos. Hugo’s stomach lurches in that old familiar way. What does she want? Boy leans back in his chair and points to the front of his house with a thumb. He’ll have to let her in – Dad can’t stand to greet guests.

  Keep yourself together, boy.

  Janelle’s presence fills the front door. Every wave and particle is centred on her being in this very spot at this very time. Such gravity. A new costume: school uniform all anime white and blue, flowy across a flat body. Loli-black stockings cling to those legs and when her body relaxes and bends into ease she is simply a marvel.

  Voice belonging to her: ‘I wanted to come and say hi, even though you’re probably sick of seeing me.’ Blonde waterfalling past her shoulder blades, dark freckles under fresh eyes…

  Hugo shakes his head and steps aside to offer her passage. Where to? Kitchen, room. Where would she be most comfortable? Where is most appropriate? The questions of a split mind in a futile attempt to draw focus away from the girl’s back and to gracious hosting.

  ‘Want some’n to drink?’

  ‘A glass of milk would be nice.’

  ‘Sure, kitchen’s just on the right at the back.’ Away from Dad’s television shows so they won’t distract him and vice versa. Jan takes up residence at the table and Hugo finds a spare glass, pours and distributes milk to girl.

  ‘Thank you. For the milk, and for saving me from that girl yesterday night.’

  ‘Kinda scary, wasn’t she?’ Hugo sits gingerly on the thin chair, letting it creak and crack until it has his weight. He relaxes and crosses arms, says to the little girl as her face hides behind the cup of white, ‘Never thought to ax you who she was. Or what business she had tryin’ to cut your throat open.’

  Janelle finishes her milk and sets the glass down very carefully. She has a ring of white under her nose creating an adorable cocaine streak across that thin lip. Girl wipes it away and says, ‘She’s a fake copy. A copy of me to be exact. And if I’m being honest, I myself am a copy of the original Janelle. We’re sisters, I guess. You know about the law of twins in sci-fi?’

  Hugo says no but can piece together what she means before she explains it. The man replies, ‘Strange days indeed. Jus’ keep your eyes open from now on. You’d be smart to always look out for trouble in the form of that kid.’

  Janelle nods but presses, ‘You don’t seem particularly phased by any of this.’

  ‘Long since given up on tryin’ to make sense of this world. Maybe if I had my soul intact, these sorts of problems wouldn’ worry me.’

  Girl leans back in her chair and raises two hands into the air, stretches like a vertical cat all feline and angular. All done now, she rests her chin in her hands, leans forward on the table. Says, ‘Well, I want to show my appreciation to you, if you’ll let me.’

  The man’s heart skips into perverse places but he self-corrects with a sigh. She’s just a little girl for fuck’s sake, what the fuck is wrong with you, man? Hugo shakes his head at himself, at the offer, ‘You don’t have to do anythin’.’

  Janelle’s voice goes soft and honey-sweet, ‘Aww, but I want to.’

  Fire!

  A girl: Janelle. Standing by the doorway of his bedroom, one sock on, the other a witness. Unwrap her like so many have done before, shed the foil shell of school clothes. A body of slender, tight, flat weight and muscle soft. Hazelnut and Golden Sun are the colours of her. Her – a fire, a shade, a feeling of fabric, skipping down the chest and splashing in the stomach. Pools of her. (As you can see, someone’s just read Lolita and can’t shake the writing style). How much would she cost at the club? How many men have looked at this child and wondered, with a split mind, what is wrong with them, and what is right with her.

  ‘Let’s go to your room; I want to see that girl with the sun hat again.’

  There is no innocence in thoughts, Hugo knows. The man bites his lip and asks, ‘What did you have in mind,’ and waits for the girl’s answer. Janelle cocks her head to the side and replies with her eyes not exactly meeting his own, ‘Let’s go on a date.’

  ‘You’re a little too young for a date,’ he lies. Lies. Shut the fuck up, you insidious mind. Intrusive obsessions, baseless fantasies.

  ‘Not a date in the conventional sense!’ Janelle waves both hands in front of her – nono – and continues, ‘I just want to make my appreciation for what you did more tangible than words. So a dinner would be a good opportunity to do that. And I want to discuss a couple of things with you. Things about the supernatural and your place in it.’

  Wow, can she talk though. The man doesn’t say a word.

  ‘Oh, come on, please? It’s rude to make me beg.’

  ‘Fine, fine. I’ll drive us in. Heads up – I got a colossal appetite.’

  Janelle claps her hands like the child she is and jumps to her feet. ‘Great, I’m so glad. We’ll have fun – I’ve picked a place already so you can follow my directions there.’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘And I have my own money so I can afford to pay. Meet you back here at six?’

  ‘If it’s ok with your ’rents.’

  ‘Mum says it’s fine.’

  Hugo nods and smiles, feeling it tense up his face. Kind of a rare thing. Janelle blinks and smiles without any tension or unease whatsoever, as if it’s second nature. She nods once – that’s settled then. Turns and skips, leaves, front screen door closing soft behind her wake. ‘Bye-bye!’

  It’s not a particularly safe situation to be in, is it. To be alone with a girl that stirs up such feelings. But, those feelings aren’t entirely true, are they, Hugo. See, the problem with your flavour of confabulated paedophilia and obsessions is that one bleeds into the other until you’re not quite sure whether the lust for this girl is a product of an errant mind or a consequence of an errant mind. To put it simply, Hugo rethinks for the dozenth time this month – are his feelings genuine or fake? That’s the problem, not being able to tell what is what. So, no, hell no, in no way is this girl in any danger from being around him. Rather, Hugo is in danger from himself and himself alone.

  I mean, just look around his room. The colossus of anime eyes are a dead giveaway for innate perversion, no matter the matrix of justifications that exist to prop up the hobby. Right? Nubile eyes are an ‘artistic choice’; flat bodies with hips and extended legs are powerful and direct; flowing dresses to distract are fashionable and individual. But it’s all an excuse. Right? In fact, if you look at the anime figures along his computer desk from just the right angle, you can see their panties! Nice design feature. The same applies to real life, probably, right, Hugo? If you tilt your head to the perfect angle you could probably see Janelle’s panties. What colour do you reckon they’d be? Reach out and grab the hem of her skirt and lift it gently while she looks away and blushes red – the blinds of skin and fabric and skin, bellybutton to knees with the triangle of white to cut out the nudity. How does that make you feel…?

  Oh, it’s a natural perversion, a natural response, the bloodrush of young lust for young. Twenty thousand years ago the biology served you well, didn’t it? Living until you were old (i.e. thirty, and on your biological deathbed), forging your desires for young out of sheer necessity for survival. Now civilisation’s all grown up, but the girls haven’t, have they? They stay the same age and the world skips along the ages.

  Wait, where are you going? We�
�re not finished with you, come back here! Fuck.

  Hugo takes a shower while we wait outside.

  But don’t worry. Soon enough, these thoughts will trickle back inside his head. I mean, if he thinks he can escape that easily then he’s certainly got another think coming [‘think’, not ‘thing’ – that’s the correct expression]. We have a festering array of obsessions for him to deal with, and some are certainly more effective than others. Let’s double down. Enough of that cultural identity bullshit – that can wait.

  Stick with what hurts the most, right?

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Why does it get so dark so early? Why does the sky cry foul at 5PM, howling in reds and yellows and greys spewed forth from the factories? Maybe it’ll rain tonight. Maybe they’ll have to spread more basewater on the lawns afterwards to keep the grass from shrivelling. 6PM now and she is here. Hugo directs her to his cycle in the garage.

  Hugo passes her a spare helmet slab and asks, ‘You know how to ride?’

  With obvious practise, Janelle unfolds the helmet into shape and slaps it on her head. ‘Let’s go!’

  He’s impressed.

  Her arms hug maybe halfway around his girth, touching his hips with a gentle grip. Monkey latch and secure. On they ride. Jan should probably ride in his lap – that might be a safer riding position for his model. Pinned between him and the handlebars…Hugo brushes that dangerous thought aside. Focus. Every so often her voice will trickle triple-filtered through the helmet coms into his ears.

  ‘Left here. Straight ahead. Right, then left. Ok, we’re here.’