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All the World



I say something. There's a slight twitch in the eyes of the man with the funny mustache. I think I said something that I wasn't supposed to say, even though that's the thing I felt I was supposed to. He fumbles for a second like somebody who starts to describe an awesome dream they had only to realize they don't remember it anymore. Then he says something. I'm not sure if that's what he's supposed to say but he probably thinks it is.

He stabs me. If this moment was a color, it would be pale purple.

I die.

I lay there dead while people walk and talk around me. That's the worst part. Being dead should be more entertaining. At one point somebody stubs their toe on me and trips. That's not a fun part either.

Pale Purple.

Sometimes those thoughts come back, but it's been a long time since I did those things.

Now it's all over.

Everything goes black.


Then I'm not dead anymore.

I stand up with everybody else and take my bows. I didn't used to bow, but people seem to like it better when I do, so I do that now. It's a weird feeling standing there in front of everybody covered in not real blood next to the person that didn't really kill me, but it's part of the not real I do now. Sometimes I feel like a llama dreaming of what it's like to be a penguin. Sometimes I just feel like me.

The people watching cheer and clap and most importantly they smile. This is the moment I stop being
Reimi Yanase, girl that thought she was smarter than she was and got killed and start being Rin Tezuka again. That's a girl that's pretty sure she's as smart as she is and isn't dead again, also it's me.

That's the good thing about acting. You get to be a person you're not like putting on a pair of pants but they're still your pants and you can be you again later. Except later you're the you that remembers acting like another person. It gives you perspective.

It's remarkably therapeutic, much better than sitting on a couch and talking about feelings and your childhood like those people that do that sort of thing. I remember trying to reinvent myself used to be a major concern with me and I was never quite sure how to do it. It turned out that it was actually really easy.

At least, I think I tried that. That might have been a TV show I watched once.

I used to not watch TV. I just didn't like it. There are plenty of reasons. I thought it was the wrong level of not being real and lacked imagination. Things change, even for me. Now I actually like to turn on TV and watch sometimes. The key is never watch a full show. Watching for ten minutes and then turning it off gives you just the right amount of time to be interested. Then you have to fill in the rest of the story in your own head. I'm not a good storyteller, but I can be a good story thinker.

Some people do sports. I do mind sports.

Other actors are still bowing. The crowd is still cheering. I'm bored now. I wonder what I'll have for dinner tonight.

...

Stew.

I will cook stew.

Stew is a good dinner. No matter what you put into it, it's still stew. Unless you're a really bad cook and make it something so horrible that it's not stew anymore. I'm really not a bad cook. Kitchens weren't made for feet, but I've found my way around that over the years. Step benches and those trays that have wheels on them help.

The applause is less now and I realize everybody else has walked off the stage. I bow again and then leave. I can never remember if you're supposed to exit stage right or exit stage left. That bothers me. I go left.

I think it was supposed to be right because I now have to loop around the hallway to get to the dressing rooms. The place is a maze without a minotaur and without most of the maze. It takes me a while to reach the dressing rooms. Along the way, the man who owns the place and organizes things stops and congratulates me. He's a nice man, but the cologne he wears makes my nose want to leave. So the rest of me does. I change most of the costume myself, but another girl helps me with the things I have trouble with. It's easier that way. Today she was a young nurse. Yesterday she was an old witch, or maybe that was last week, last month, or last year. Maybe it never happened but I just think it did. I hope she was an old witch because I remember that part being fun, if it happened.

I change clothes. I talk with the others. Usually actors are interesting people, but nobody has anything interesting to say tonight so I don't pay much attention. Mostly people just telling each other good jobs. It's boring. Once I'm changed, I stand by the exit door. Somebody usually offers to take me home. I don't know why. I can walk home myself. It just takes me a long time. I think it's just tradition at this point.

I can't drive a car. When I tell people I think it would be interesting to learn, they laugh. I can't bike. I've tried a skateboard and roller skates, but I really don't like those. They're like walking but not and it's weird. Ice skating seems like it would be interesting, but I've never tried. Even if I had, you can't really ice skate home. Not usually.

“Apparently, it's true what they say about you,” a voice says. I look up and see that the voice belongs to the man who killed me earlier.

“They say lots of things about me. Some of them would have to be true. That's the law of averages,” I tell him. He looks at me the way I look in my fridge when I know I want food but no kind of food I have looks like something I want to eat.

I really want stew now.

“So, you're not going to ask me what they say about you?” he asks. I shrug. Then I remember there are some people who like to talk to talk. He might be one of them, so I talk.

“You wanted to tell me; go ahead,” I say. He finds something about that amusing.

“They say, well, that you have a habit of doing your own thing,” he says. He reaches up and runs his hands through his hair as he talks. I would do that if I had hands. Instead, I shake my head back and forth rapidly, whipping my hair around on my head. “What was that?” he asks.

“Nothing interesting,” I say with a smile before changing the subject back to what the subject was before. “I do my own thing.”

“You know, when I started here, they told me to watch out for you. I just thought that was a disabled thing, but .. wow. We've rehearsed the scene how many times and on the night of the actual show, that's when you decide to start changing your lines?” he laughs here. There were two questions and I'm not sure if he's angry or finds it funny. Maybe he's one of those people that likes being angry. I stare at him blankly. “Let's try this again,” he says. I was having a hard enough time following this conversation the first time. Now we're doing it again? “Why exactly did you change your lines? You put me on the spot there. I am not that good at improvisation.” This is a different conversation. I can answer this one.

“I thought about it and Reimi Yanase wouldn't have said what people expected Reimi Yanase to say. So I said what she should have said.” I try to think of the term people used to describe that sort of thing. “Method actor. No. That's not it. Immersion in character but I'm not sure it's that either.”

“I think I get you now. Let me see. When you start acting you become the character to the point where you can't do something you don't think the character would do. Is that right?” I nod. It's close enough. “I can respect that,” he says. He still has some fake blood on his hand, mostly just on his finger nail. It looks like he's painted one nail and none of the others.

“Maybe something like that,” I tell him. “You seem an interesting enough person that I'd like to talk to when you're not trying to kill me, but I really want stew right now.” I think I want french fries too. You can't put french fries in stew, but you can put potatoes in it, which is weird because they're the same thing just cut different. It's like when people try to tell you squid isn't just an octopus with a funny hat. They're probably wrong. “Stew and french fries.”

“O—kay,” he says. He doesn't seem to be keeping up with this conversation. I thought it was easy to follow and I'm notorious for not being able to think many things at once.

“I mean, I'm hungry.” I'll give him that one. Let me stop and think about this for a second. How do other people do this. “I'm hungry. I have food at my house. Do you want to take me there? And if you don't want to do it, would you do it anyway?”

“That's rather forward, don't you think?” he asks. I try to think. It's forward after I turn around, then to the left, up a few streets till I reach that tree that looks nothing like an octopus but should, then – He's talking again. I should pay attention.

“I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention. I was thinking about a tree that wasn't-- it's not important. What I was thinking of. The tree might be important.” Stop rambling myself. “You're taking me home. I'll fix dinner.”

“I guess I can take you home, sure,” he said.

“Don't worry. I can fix dinner myself. It's not that hard.” He was probably going to ask that next. most people do. “I use my feet in case that was the next question you were going to ask.”

“Actually I was just wondering how you normally get home,” he said.

“Something like this. Somebody takes me. Usually.” I smile at him and add “I can't drive. Obvious reasons,” I add raising what there is of my arms in case he didn't understand why.

“What about a bus?”

“I can't drive a bus either.” He looks at me oddly. I'm not good at jokes. He smiles anyway.

“Just give me a few minutes to change,” he says. I had forgotten he was still in costume. His clothes look like normal people's clothes except for that big smear of red that looks like the color strawberries should be but aren't. That was the fake blood from the me I'm not anymore. I'd rather not have anyone taking me home with me-blood all over them.

Maybe I shouldn't have a person that killed me taking me home at all.

It's something to think about.

So I do.

Think about it.

“Hey, Tezuka, need a lift?” a girl asked me. She was a police man who was a woman today. One of the ones who wears a large brown coat and hat that looks like a pancake with a castle built on top of it and doesn't wear a policeman's uniform. It was like a homeless policeman. Are there homeless police men? People that enforce laws by day and sleep on a bench or alley at night? Maybe homeless policemen only enforce the laws for the homeless. She would take them to jail, except there wouldn't be a jail there because it's too much like a home of some kind.

“Yes.”

“Alright, let me just grab my jacket and we'll be off,” she says as she walks out of my immediate line of sight. I don't remember if I'm supposed to turn and watch people when they walk off or not, so I don't. It might be the wrong decision. It might be a lot of different things. Right now I'm starring at the wood texture on the door. I don't think it's real wood. Many times the lines of wood form interesting looping and twisting designs. This one doesn't look interesting at all.

“Ready to go, Rin?” my killer from earlier asks. Not-Police woman looks at us strangely.

“I thought you wanted me to take you home?” that woman says. I shrug. Does it matter? … Now that I think about it again, it might. “I'm not interrupting your date or anything, am I?”

“Pretty sure this isn't a date,” I say. I can't be positive. I've never quite figured out what counts and what doesn't. More importantly, the stew that I haven't made yet is getting cold in my mind. Maybe I could make meatloaf. It's always fun to cut into non-meatloaf shapes like those people on TV who do that sort of thing do.

The two of them are talking. I'm not paying attention. Not to their words at least. Those don't tell you enough about a person. Watch the way they talk. Killer Man uses big facial expressions when he speaks, as though the words aren't enough to let you know what he means. He wants you to see how he feels about it too. Homeless Police stands more rigid. Less movement. Somewhat uptight feeling.

The outfit I had to wear two plays ago felt too tight. I couldn't even get my feet up to my head in it without it tearing. I did like the story though. I don't remember it, but I liked it. I remember that much. Something about ghosts. People that aren't people anymore but are only the idea of people are really neat.

I went to a school for people that didn't have legs or arms or other things. I wonder if there's a school just for people that don't have bodies anymore.

They're still talking.

“I want food now. Let's go. Both of you,” I say. That should solve the argument. Or neither of you, I think as I walk out the door. I go to open it with my feet, but killer man stop and opens it with his hands. It's not a bad idea. They are called handles after all. I once went into a store and asked for footles. I don't remember what happened after that, but I never did get footles.

I just thought of something disappointing. A good stew takes hours to make. So does a mediocre one. I guess I can't make stew then. Not tonight. Stew will be for tomorrow.

“Oh, Tezuka!” somebody says. I turn to see the man who owns this place, pays me, and got me my acting job walking up holding papers. His name doesn't start with an 'N' but I've always felt it should.

I pivot on my feet to face his direction completely. “You already told me 'great show tonight' but you can say it again if you want to. I like hearing it” I tell him.

“Great Show tonight,” she says. “Again,” he adds with a chuckle, “but that not what I was going to tell you. I've got your mail. I meant to give it to you earlier, but in the post-show excitement, I almost forgot.” He waves a few envelopes in front of me. Then he looks awkward. He was the one that gave me a chance here and is the one constantly telling people how good I am, but even he forgets I don't have arms sometimes... or maybe he remembers I don't have arms, but forgets what that means.

“Why does he have your mail,” guy who killed me asks.

“I don't like mailboxes,” I answer. For me, that seems like a good reason to get my mail sent here instead of being sent to my apartment. He seems unsure.

“You'll get used to it,” not-witch police-woman says, taking the letters from my boss. Boss doesn't seem the right term. He pays me though. Maybe it's supposed to be something like theater play management. I can't remember if he has a title like that.

“Open it. What's it say?” As long as she's here, I might as well have her read the mail to me. It's hard to do standing up like this.

“Okay, the first one is from the Art Gallery of --” she starts.

“Nope. Don't do that anymore,” I say. I rarely do that kind of art anymore.

“Not even remotely interested?” kill-me man says.

“I am not,” I say. He looks confused again. Maybe I said that wrong.

“It's a shame, Tezuka used to be such a fine artist, but I can't complain too much because what the art world lost, the acting world gained,” theater boss says. I'm not quite sure I understand what he was saying.

Maybe that's what people feel like when talking to me.

“The rest of this is just junk mail,” lady actor says. “Oh wait. This looks interesting. It looks like your school is having a class reunion.”

“Not interested,” I say.

“Really? You don't want to see how your classmates have turned out?” one of them asks me. I wasn't paying attention.

“There's no old friends you want to see again?” killed-me actor asks.

I try to think back to high school. I'm sure there were some people that were important to me back then. There was something about running ... and ... pills? … and that's the extent of my memories on the subject. I was always good at forgetting thing.

I guess whatever it was couldn't have been that important.

“Nah. There's nobody I can think of that I want to see again.”

He shrugs in that way people shrug when they think they're supposed to say something but don't know what to say. “It's just funny, I guess.” he says. “You just strike me as somebody that lots of people would have wanted to hang around with.”

“Believe it or not, I used to be really weird in highschool.” I say. I still want french fries.

Ah, that's an excellent take on Ms Tezuka. I don't think I've ever read one like that before; it's not a career one would think of straightaway. Thanks for writing it!

Agree with Bry, wouldn't associate Rin with acting, until reading this that is. Nails the character, nails the interactions, supremely good. Always interested to see people write Rin, and you definetly do her justice here.

I'm ashamed of how long it took me to realize what the title meant. Oh well.

Excellent writing, you do Rin very well, even as first-person, "stream of consciousness" style, which can be hit-or-miss. I think you struck a good balance.

As people have mentioned, acting seems a strange fit. I always imagine good actors having very wide emotional ranges, which clashes with the deadpan expression I expect of Rin. That said, you certainly addressed the point - the idea of "you get to be a person you're not" was an interesting one, and while it doesn't necessarily imply that Rin is an especially talented actress (though other parts of the story do), it shows that it's something she enjoys, which might well be reason enough.

The ending felt a bit strange - not like it was wrong, just that it didn't sit right with me. It left me wondering - did Rin forget about anyone she might've had connections to in high school, or has she made a conscious decision that she's not going to revisit that part of her life? Or have I misjudged something, and there was nothing worth revisiting in the first place? Obviously it depends a lot on context that can't be expressed in a short piece like this, so I don't expect there to be a proper answer, it's just what popped into my head after I finished reading.

Anyways, great syntax and great writing, and an enjoyable scene overall. Very nice work!

I agree with the others: Good story.
I can see Rin taking up acting - she's an artist by heart, and when she doesn't want to paint anymore she'll need something else to scratch that itch... But I expect she'll have to be pretty much type-cast to a certain kind of role...
As for the last part I thought it was pretty clear that she'd forgotten all about high school - whihc I found strange since memory problems never seemed part of her range of problems. Maybe an extended period of medication abuse would do something like this...

I suppose I could tell you how I meant for Rin's memory problems to come across, but frankly, your interpretations are just as good as anything I could tell you.

Heck, it might even make more sense to you than if I tried to explain it.

Honestly, I just liked the idea of taking Rin AWAY from a painting career. You usually in these future stories, you see her as a successful artists or sometimes a struggling artist. I just wanted to take her away from the artist role. She's done with that. She's found new ways to change and express herself.