In the autumn of 1995, I thought myself, rightly or wrongly, drifting towards a 
solitary state. The novelty of college was wearing off; getting a decent grade was 
less and less possible without a large amount of work, and even then was not 
guaranteed. Though I was still close to my parents, a year with only weekly 
telephone calls had begun to separate me from them on a psychological level. I 
had moved from the raucousness and immaturity of the dorms to a small 
cooperative house; it proved large enough to allow conflict to take the place of 
intimacy. My employment provided a sense of camaraderie, but that 
camaraderie came at the cost of constant stress. Finally, distance and time were 
separating me from the close friends I had made in high school. Our only form 
of communication now was electronic mail, and that consisted mainly of 
repeating the same in-jokes that our four years together had bred. In short, I 
found myself a leaf blowing in the wind, a pine tree on a hill.

Solace--the child of loneliness and serenity--had a place in my heart. I took solace 
in the early hours of the morning, when most were asleep or fighting off a tired 
stupor. I would walk across the campus, feeling the cold morning air blowing 
against my skin, and take a sensual delight in that contrast. I read for pleasure, 
making equal spaces in my time for H. P. Lovecraft and Lao-Tzu. It was enough 
for me, at times, to merely stare off into space and let my mind wander, thinking 
of the universe and mortality, toying with songs never written and building 
mighty empires of thought. Between such activities as these I perpetuated my 
withdrawal, perhaps finding a trace pleasure in the activity or simply giving 
myself that enjoyment out of desperation.

The events I wish to tell of happened in the month of October. There must have 
been some incidents that provoked my initial wandering, but I have forgotten 
them, and they hold no bearing upon the story. One evening I found myself at 
the Tower Records store on Durant Avenue, one block from the Berkeley 
campus. The enterprise is a single level, devoted to a variety of printed and 
recorded media. I entered out of boredom, for the business held scant interest 
for me: there were better record, book and video stores within walking distance, 
and I dislike chains as a rule. I started my usual circuit by glancing past the 
magazines, then made my way aimlessly into the books section. There was little 
there to hold my interest, and it was only out of smug amusement that I looked 
at the small selection of Japanese graphic novels that they had just begun to 
carry.

I should explain that I had been slightly acquainted with this sort of work before. 
In grade school I had had friends who loved the dubbed TV shows: "Star 
Blazers", "Robotech", "Voltron". I hadn't minded watching them, but they held no 
long-term interest for me. Later, in high school, my family had hosted a foreign 
exchange student with an interest in the comics themselves. True, I couldn't read 
any of it, but I picked my way through books out of curiosity. It established, in 
my mind, what secondhand rumors had told me about them--sex, violence, 
romance, intrigue, but nothing I couldn't find in American comics. And American 
comics had characters that were proportioned like normal people, too.

Shaking my head, I stood up from a quick perusal of "Sanctuary" and something 
called "Hell Baby". "No," I thought, "I'll take 'Stranger in a Strange Land' over this 
any day." And I had resolved to leave, when the sound of fluttering wings 
captured my attention.

She was just big enough to cradle in my arms...that was the first thing I thought 
when I looked upon her. She must have once been half a meter long, but her 
body was falling to pieces from underneath her. She was still supported by about 
half an arm and most of two legs; but they had precious little to support. Only a 
thin backbone connected her pelvis to her torso. A long tube lay draped around 
chest and back, dragging onto the ground as though her aorta had served as an 
umbilical cord. Two wings, unfurled to show their tatteredness, were raised into 
the air; not proudly like banners, but more as though they had been left there, 
floating in space, and only by chance had they found a person to alight upon.

But it was her face that was to captivate me. She was looking down to where all 
her parts lay spread upon the floor. She did not look out of tired resignation, as 
though she had fought and lost this battle before; nor did she look of anger, 
furious with the contemptible forces of nature that had wronged her so. Her 
gaze was only one of perception, dulled by an obvious pain. She was trying to 
grapple with the scrap and corrosion that surrounded her, that had come from 
her, that she in an illogical manner could be held responsible for. She was the 
wistful beauty of once-perfection and the ugliness of entropy, an integrated part 
of the cycle that she struggled to understand.

Drawn by a greater force than I had ever known in my life, I scooped her up into 
my arms. I pressed her, and all her iron and silicon, to my chest. I felt her--so 
light!--snuggling towards me, trying to bury herself into my shirt. I didn't know 
if she was sick or starving, or merely broken, or if she had chosen the much-less-
than-perfect form she wore for some reason. But I knew I had to take her home.

As I paid for my discovery, the woman at the counter gave me a rather peculiar 
look. Bitch.

			*			*			*

By the time I had crossed the campus to my house, I was frenzied with panic. 
Her unbelievable lightness in my arms drove me to irrational thoughts, full of 
the fear of dropping her, or losing some of her pieces. I could feel her every 
move in my arms; though she was not the least bit a burden, she moved with 
determination behind every action. She might have been struggling for 
something, but I didn't know, I was too driven by my need to save her that I 
hadn't paid attention to what she was doing at that instant. I walked as fast as I 
could through the streets, between the shadows the trees cast from alongside the 
blaring streetlights.

I paused for breath and to reconnoiter outside of my house on Leconte Avenue. 
Gingerly I shifted her--as much of her as I could, I didn't want to look down at 
her for fear of making eye contact--to my left arm, and fumbled for the keys to 
the house and to my room. I knew somehow that I would regret everything I 
had done that evening, but I felt with equal conviction that I was doing the right 
thing. "Just by helping her at all...and she'll tell me later what she needs..." I 
thought, as I forced the door open and dashed up to my room.

I let my bedroom door slam behind me, and climbed up the ladder to my bed. 
My roommate wasn't in (thank God!), so I was free to examine her discreetly. I 
put her down upon the sheets, took off my jacket and t-shirt, and began to 
watch her, hoping to diagnose her problem from her behavior.

Nothing.

She opened her large brown eyes and, her head jerking, looked around her--
across the red digits of my clock, over my roommate's bed, past the closet to the 
bookshelf, and back again--with a blank stare. The wings on her back fluttered 
now and again, endeavoring to lift her up from the ground she lay spread 
across, and failing utterly. At once, she lurched forward a few steps; the motion 
was far, far too jarring, and her arms crumbled underneath her, dropping her 
frail torso to the ground as she let out a tiny coo of sorrow.

Awkwardly, I slipped my fingertips up under her chest and raised her to a sitting 
position. Her upper half was slouching sickeningly forward, supported only by 
her backbone; but she was out of danger, for the moment. "Poor, poor angel," I 
said to her, gently stroking her head and wings. "I just don't know enough to 
save you...I'll do what I can, it's the only thing I know how to do...it--it might do 
more harm than good, but I don't know enough to help you any other way." 
She nodded weakly, her chest heaving with the effort.

I scooted myself up towards her and put the palms of my hands on my 
pectorals, my fingers lining up across my sternum. I closed my eyes and exhaled 
gently, clearing my mind to prepare it for the pain. Then I tensed my muscles 
and began to dig my fingers into my chest. Skin penetrated skin easily; but it was 
only with difficulty that I forced my nails into, then finally through, my rib cage. 
I paused, for the most difficult part was before me still. I pressed my thumbs to 
my chest, bent my elbows, and pulled. I heard the crack a moment before the 
pain erupted: I had broken my chest open. Cold air seeped into my viscera, 
making me shiver, and sending bizarre thrills through me.

But I had no time to meditate upon this sensation, responsibility beckoned. With 
my sternum now open, I rested my left hand upon the bed, and slipped my right 
one through the gap. I felt, delicately grasped, then carefully extracted my 
objective: covered in tissue and fluid, still pulsing, very much alive, I pulled forth 
my own heart.

"Here," I gasped. I could feel that the pulmonary arteries and veins were still 
attached to my lungs, endangering them; and so I leaned even closer to her, 
slumping onto the forearm that now corralled her, sacrificed a fraction of her 
liberty for the chance to live. She craned forward towards the bright red thing, 
beating with the life she needed. She opened her tender mouth and, with the 
delicacy and grace of a geisha, began to suckle from the base of my heart.