Wrong Place
"No," In the echoing silence, my vehement denial reverberated as I stood by the dying girl, wondering how it was that I ended up in her room.
Despite my explicit request to the mystical globe for a journey to Seoul, South Korea, destiny had woven a different tapestry, entwining me with the sorrowful existence of a random Nigerian girl, unfolding before me in the most heart-wrenching manner imaginable.
You might be wondering who I am and what the heck I am talking about.
As an entity devoid of a name, I am the storyteller—a fledgling in this realm, a mere week into the art of weaving tales and navigating the intricacies of existence.
But one week of countless stories pouring in through my consciousness is enough to make any being bored.
In this brief span of a week, this ceaseless influx of stories has become a monotonous tide, revealing a striking semblance in the diverse lives of humans. Their narratives, though outwardly distinct, cyclically converge on common themes of peace, war, and indifference; an almost repetitive script that unfolds across their varied existence.
So I decided to just become one of them and look around, instead of being cooped up where I work.
My workplace is a sprawling library, and curiously, since my inception, the end of the vast library has eluded me. It extends endlessly, cradling the boundless stories of countless humans—echoes of past existences and the ongoing tales of those presently navigating the tapestry of life.
In the expansive library, myriad formless beings tirelessly oversee the stories of both past and present-day humans, floating through the endless ends of the library as they carry out their duties. These beings can also be known as the librarians.
Despite the perpetual busyness, an eerie monotony prevails as these enigmatic beings who are devoid of communication abilities, excel solely in the execution of their duties. In their silent efficiency, the library becomes a realm of routine, where they proficiently manage narratives but remain detached from any form of interaction.
So, essentially, I found myself alone in the great library, with no one but myself to relate to.
So, about the globe. The globe, a literal representation of Earth, possesses an extraordinary twist; it is not just a static object but a sentient teleportation device.
With the power to transport me to any desired location, the catch lies in the unique condition that I must inhabit the body of a human exactly like the majority of people in that chosen area.
Despite my specific request for South Korea and a 5-foot-4-inch female body, the unpredictable nature of the globe had led me to inhabit the form of a six-foot Nigerian male.
I found myself in the bedroom of a dying lady who had lost all her will to live. I couldn't do anything about the wrong location and avatar because I was trapped on Earth for the next 24 hours, bound by the temporal constraints of the globe's teleportation abilities. It's not my rule or even the globe's rule. It's just the time taken before the globe can afford another teleportation.
Chimsy meanwhile wasn't sleeping. She attempted to dive deep into her imagination and amidst the nonrhythmic closing and opening of her eyes, she discerned the presence of an apparition; a cinnamon-skinned male, taller even than than K-cee was the last time she saw him.
"Is... Is... this real?" she muttered, the words escaping her lips after days of silence.
It felt as though she had almost forgotten how to perform that simple human motion, the act of vocal expression now a hesitant and uncertain endeavor.
"K-cee? Are you real?" she questioned, although the man before her differed in every aspect from K-cee.
Yet, the yearning in her voice revealed a desperate desire for the presence of someone familiar. Perhaps, against reason, she clung to the hope that K-cee had sensed her suffering from afar and hastened to her rescue.
"Dumbass!" The apparition in front of her spoke, and she contorted her face in surprise, watching as the once blurry image of the stranger standing before her snapped into sudden clarity with the spoken word. The unexpected clarity added an eerie and perplexing layer to the encounter.
She was confused. It was supposed to be only in her house so how did this person even enter?
Or maybe he wasn't real? But she couldn't have imagined a rude man or even any person who wasn't K-cee. Doubt crept in as Chimsy questioned the reality of the cinnamon-skinned male.
The notion of encountering an unfamiliar, possibly imaginary figure clashed with her expectations.
In an attempt to correct the hallucination, she closed her eyes, coercing her mind to revisit the ever-clear yet distant memory of K-cee, striving to reshape the strange apparition before her into the familiar contours of the one she sought.
"Get your head straight! You're a huge mess! And that is even the greatest understatement of the year! You look pitiful," The man in front of her chastised, holding his hand over his nose with a disgusted expression. "And damn, I'm not as ugly as that motherfucker."
The blunt words cut through the confusion, laying bare the stark reality of the encounter, and the man's disdain painted a vivid picture of her current state in his eyes.
Despite not desiring to inhabit this human body, the K-cee she daydreamed about paled in comparison to the allure of the form the globe had bestowed upon me.
As if the yelling stranger had jolted her senses to life, she let out a scream and attempted to rise.
However, the pain from her sores shot through her, reaching her brain, and she screamed once more. This time, it wasn't fueled by fear but by the profound, searing pain coursing through her body.
"Yeah, such a quick reaction," I remarked as I walked over to open the window with my hand still covering my nose.
Despite being a storyteller, with the narratives of every human passing through my consciousness, it hadn't prepared me for the actual stench emanating from this girl's room. The visceral experience surpassed the detached understanding of stories, reminding me of the tangible and often unpleasant realities within them.
I felt my eyes water, and tears slowly dripped from them. The overwhelming stench was suffocating, forcing me to open my mouth.
Even then, it felt as though something diseased was permeating into my mouth, adding a layer of discomfort to an already troubling situation.
"How are you even alive?" I questioned, my face pressed against the window to relish the fresh air that gracefully enveloped me, filling my nostrils with its delightful essence.
At that moment, I realized that I had never yearned for anything so much except the desire to escape the confines of the great library.
She lay there, unresponsive, her storyline paused; a clear sign of true unconsciousness, distinct from the states of sleep or daydreaming.
"So finally seeing a real human being after all this while was enough to knock you out!" I remarked, injecting a touch of irony, aware that one could argue the very nature of my own existence and whether I qualified as a real human being.
I explored her house, discovering it to be a slight improvement over the room she was decaying in. Although stuffy and dusty, with cobwebs scattered about, the rest of the house lacked the thick stench of death and decay that permeated the room.
A thought crossed my mind; I could take her money and treat myself to a lovely Nigerian local dish. After all, indulging in local cuisine was one of the many reasons I had decided to come to Earth.
Despite the tempting notion of taking her money for a meal, I found myself walking back to her room, wrapping her in one of the thick blankets. An unexpected sense of empathy overcame me, urging me to provide a small gesture of comfort amidst the somber surroundings.
"Let's get you treated," I said, carrying her toward the door.
While I had observed similar acts unfold in the stories of numerous humans, executing it myself felt odd.
Perhaps it was the overwhelming stench of decay and death enveloping the dying girl or the realization that she was composed merely of bones and atrophied organs, clinging desperately to life, making her incredibly light.
Whatever the reason, this moment diverged from the usual narrative where someone had to carry another in such a fragile state. It didn't feel heroic in any way, just odd.
"You're lucky the globe made a mistake and sent me here. If not, I wonder what could've happened to you," I mused aloud.
Despite my ability to comprehend the current events of every human and extract information about the past from the great library, the future remained an enigma.
I had no foresight into the destiny awaiting either the humans or the beings within the great library. The unpredictability of the future cast a shadow of uncertainty over the unfolding narrative.