The Other Me

I live in a house on a hill. There are no doors and only one window. High up in my house on the hill, I can look down into the valley below. I can see tolerably far and wide, but there are no houses save one. It’s a pretty house, but it has no doors either, and only one window. The window faces my window, and sometimes at night I see the shadows moving within and I wonder what it is down there. Sometimes I think there are people like me. But when I reach for my looking-thing from my two-legged table, I can see that the shapes aren’t like me.

The shadows are tall or thin or shapely, and I think that the creatures down there must be like no creatures I have ever seen before. I have seen floating animals in the sky; I call them fliers. I have seen funny little scampering animals with bushy tails; I call them friendly little scrubbers. I have in my house a dark-haired animal that makes low, comforting noises when it is happy; it sounds as though a stone is rattling around inside him, but it is pleasant. I call him Honey, because he is near to my heart and ought to have a real name, unlike the fliers and scrubbers who have no individual names. I have a jar that says “honey” and the yellow stuff inside is sweet. When I lick the sticky stuff from my fingers, I think of Honey’s softness.

But it was not until I saw the shadows against the curtains in the window of the house in the valley—many sunrises ago—that I saw these other Mes. I had thought there weren’t any others Mes in the world, only fliers and scrubbers and Honey. I had never met another Me, so it made sense that Mes were unique. Only one in all the world. There was no other Me on the hill, in my house, in the sky above; I thought I was alone and special.

On that day many sunrises ago, I looked out the window and saw the figures in the house far below. I peered closer, and thought, “My, how much like a Me that shadow looks!” for I had seen my own shadow and discovered that it was simply an outline of me. The shadows in the house far below looked very much like my own. I asked Honey what he thought of it.

“Well,” he purred sweetly, “it ain’t a Honey.”

I agreed that the shadow didn’t look like a Honey.

So I found some binoculars; I didn’t know what they were called until I saw the symbols on them. I had learned that the symbols meant sounds and words. So I said, “Binoculars,” and Honey commented, “Mmmhmmm,” just like he knew what he was talking about.

Ever since that day many sunrises ago, I have looked down at that other house with my binoculars. Now it is night, and I see a shadow far below, moving across the curtain. When the light is on I can see the another Me very clearly. She moves across the window, and I see a pile of hair on her shoulders, a thin waist and straight nose. I do not understand why I find that so pleasing. I do not know why I call it a she, but I think she is like me and not like Honey, and I call Honey “he” and think that I am “she.” I decide she is like the tree, but not like Honey: I like to look at her, but I don’t really want to talk to her like I want to talk to Honey. I would be afraid to talk to another Me.

When she starts to spin in a rhythm, I can see the cloth at her waist billowing outwards. I do not know what to call what she is doing; there is no word for it, no words to say what those movements mean. I can’t decide whether I like it or not, but I like the way the fabric of bounces and sways. I wish I had a cloth like that. I decide that when I am done looking at her I will find cloth and try to make clothing like hers so I can spin, too, and feel the cloth bouncing around my hips. But my hips aren’t as trim as this other Me’s hips are. I know that because I have seen my own shadow, and because Honey fits comfortably across my lap when I sit. He would not fit so comfortably across the lap of this Other Me

I become a little envious, thinking of how ugly I must be. After all, I like this Other Me but I am not like her. I must be ugly, then. I look at Honey and wonder why Honey cares about me. Why does he talk to me? I am a silly thing. I am a Me, and everyone knows that Mes are worthless.

“Honey, am I pretty?” I ask.

“What is pretty?” he asks. “I don’t know that word.”

I try to explain, but he doesn’t understand. Honey just licks his paws. I tell him he’s pretty, in his own way. So Honey asks me if pretty means having fur and paws. I say no, the other Me has no paws or fur. So Honey’s confused even more now than ever.

I like my house, and I like my window. When I reach out my hand, my world stops when I touch the hard clear stuff. It never has occurred to me that the things out there might come inside. Until now.

“Honey, what if that flier came and hit this hard clear stuff? Would the hard clear stuff break? Could the flier be in here with us?”

Honey shakes his head. “No. No, because the flier is out there. The clear stuff can’t break. And the flier can’t come in here. Just like I can’t be part of you, it can’t come in here. We are here, it is there. This is real. Everything else is out there.”

Honey continues to lick his paws and purr. I wander around my house, first up the stairs then down. Then I sit. Then I stand. Then I notice the round flat thing I use to cook food. I spin it in my hand and toss it at my window. It breaks and Honey arches his back and makes an angry sound like water spraying.

He seems scared when I make the hole big enough to thrust my head through. I feel the air, and it is strange on my skin, like every inch of me is being sucked inwards. I move back into my house with no doors and only one window, and Honey is shivering, pacing unhappily along the floor.

“I don’t like this,” he says.

“I will call it cold,” I say.

“Fine. I will call it bad.”

“Do you think I can leave, Honey?’

“I don’t know,” says Honey. “I didn’t think the hard clear stuff could break.”

So I start to move outwards, then I realize that I will go down. When I jump up, I always come back down to the floor. If I drop from the window, I realize, I will fall down to the gross stuff below. I call it dirt because I have learned the word “dirty.” I tie things together so I can climb out, and Honey weeps from fear.

“Everything will be alright, and I’ll be okay,” I say as I climb out.

Now I feel the cold nibbling at my hands and feet, like Honey did when he was little except without the love. I find my feet on the dirt and I almost fall because it is soft.

I am unsteady on this stuff I have named dirt. I want to run, but I am afraid I might fall. So I move carefully down the hill. It is not like I thought it would belike. I did not think it would be so gooey, and I did not know my feet would sink into it like they do. My toes are hurting because of the cold. There are plants, green stuff that litters the hill. I feel smart because I know why the hill is bare; I watch when the rain carries away dirt and plants. There are a few trees scattered about on the hillside. I turn around and look back at my house.

I am amazed to see the outside. I did not know it was blue. And it looks so very small. Tiny against the blue openness overhead, which is not blue today but grey. I do not see Honey on inside. I think he is too afraid to come near to the broken window. I decide that is okay. Honey would not understand that there are things beyond the bumps in the earth. He wouldn’t understand how the dirt seems to rise up like folds in cloth. I think I could climb over the hill where my house is and see another hill. I want to see it. But first, I must see the Other Mes, particularly the one who sways and turns to a rhythm. I want to see her and decide if she is like Me or not.

I turn to look back down the hill towards the house of the Other Me. I am running down the hill because it steep and makes it hard to go slow. I come to the bottom and it is very dirty, except there is far too much water mixed in with it. I lift my lip because it is gross. I call the gross stuff mud and I decide to avoid it.

I look at the window, but there are no shadows there. I should have waited until I saw the shadows. But I am not patient and I can’t wait for anything. Honey even says so, and Honey does not say mean things often. Well, I must do something. I look on the ground and look for something that might break the Other Mes’ hard clear stuff. I pick up something odd-shaped and heavy. It is just right, I decide. I throw it, and it hits the clear hard stuff, shattering it. Shards of it are hanging from the edges of the window.

Maybe they did not know the hard cold stuff could be broken. Maybe they are like me and did not realize they could go outside. Maybe they don’t know that there are other hills to explore. If there are Other Mes, I want to show them and I want them to follow me when I go looking at the other hills. I have decided to go looking, now, and I will come back to Honey when I am done. He will be sad but he will be happy again when I return. And I will be happy because I met other Mes.

There is sound from within and my muscles become tight. The thudding of my chest is quicker, and I can hardly breathe. I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the creatures that make the shadow against the window. The curtain has been knocked loose. It is blowing a little as cold moves into the house.

The curtain is pulled away. And I see the face. Eyes, a nose, a mouth. Angry. I take a step back as the Other Me shakes his fist. It is not the Me who sways to the rhythm. I have seen his shadow before but never paid any attention to it. I step back again and feel the cold biting at me. I want to go home.

Then she comes to the window and looks out.

“Hey!” she calls, stopping him from speaking. I did not know the words he spoke anyway. They seemed like mean and angry words. “Hey, who are you?”

I crinkle my nose. “I live in the house on the hill.”

They look up at the hill. I do, too. My house looks small and peculiar. I gulp, wondering what the Other Mes think of me. I am shivering. The one who sways to the rhythm smiles.

“You’re my neighbor!” she says. “I haven’t ever seen anyone from that house! And I’ve lived here my whole life.”

I do not understand her.

“She broke our window,” says the man. “Look, the glass is everywhere. I hope she’s planning to pay for it.”

“Oh, don’t be such an idiot,” she says, grinning. “It was an accident.”

“What is she doing here?’

My eyes are wide, and I do not like where I am and what I am doing. What will it be like to go exploring over the hills? Will it be like this? If it is, I’m not so certain that I want to explore anymore. I am starting to turn and go back to my house.

“Hey, don’t go! What’s your name?’

“Name?” I ask.

“Yeah, what’s your name?” She thinks I am stupid.

“I don’t have one.”

The Other Mes look at one another. I don’t what they are thinking. It is a mystery.

“Would you like to come in?”

I consider. I am afraid. They scare me, like looking into the sky when there are flashes of lights and rumbles that sound like Honey’s purrs but much louder. The Other Me who is angry is folding his arms over his chest.

“She broke our window.”

“I think she has . . . problems,” muttered the woman.

I move closer, trying to hear. She grins at me. She thinks I am stupid.

“Whatever,” says the angry Other Me.

“Would you like some tea?” asks the Other me who moves to rhythms.

“I don’t know what tea is, but I will try it.”

“Okay,” she says. “Just come around the house and come inside!”

She is smiling again, this time with kindness. But I am confused.

“How?”

“You know,” she says, “through the door on the other side of the house.”