Turing Test

The velvet armchair opposite me cries out in protest when the strangely clad, unfairly symmetrical man finally collapses into it.

His too small button up shirt rides up a little on his stomach, exposing tan, bruised skin and stitches, which my gaze can’t help but linger on. After a moment of stillness, he shifts to fold his one knee over the other, leaning back into the plush red fabric as if he’s been here a million times before.

The smoke from his alabaster cigarette has already spread to become part of the air, blanketing my expensive European furniture with the sixty-five-year-old northern aunt smell of nicotine. 

The soles of his dark, crocodile leather shoes are muddy. He doesn’t seem to notice – or maybe he just doesn’t care – as he drags his feet across my imported Persian carpet in his attempts to get comfortable.

The sound of rain smattering against the window in the living room keeps me docile enough not to care about the abuse to my home decor. After all, I’m sitting tête-à-tête with a man who just twenty minutes ago threw himself four floors off a roof, and somehow survived, sustaining injuries so minor (“Fuck me, my ankles…”) that it’s almost laughable. 

“You mind if I smoke?” He asks suddenly and belatedly, his deep and rumbly timbre enough to make anyone feel adequately un-masculine.

I can’t help but exhale an incredulous huff of laughter at the question. Briefly, I wonder if he’s joking, but he levels me with an honestly inquisitive glance. It almost looks as if he’ll put out his cigarette if I say no. 

“Uh,” I reply dumbly, “No. Go ahead...”

It’s the exact opposite of what I want to say. 

Contrary to mine (and any sane person’s expectations, for that matter), instead of just placing the cigarette back inside his mouth, he fishes out yet another one from his pack, lighting that one up as well.

So, to recap; walking home from the grocery store, someone leaps off the roof of a building, lands on his feet before me, and immediately proceeds to bemoan his current predicament. Invite said man to my apartment for a beer (as you do). Man is now duel-wielding cigarettes in my neatly color-coordinated living room, as if he owns the place. 

Silently, I uncap the two bottles and place them on the glass coffee table between us. He grabs the one closest to me, lifting it up to his lips without hesitation, and takes a few deep swigs, prominent Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow, causing a few droplets of rain to trail down the tan column which is his throat.

Placing the bottle back after a moment, he wipes his damp lips with the back of his hand, clicking satisfactorily. He swallows a burp as I take my first sip of the drink. 

“So… Who’re you, man?” 

He finally voices the question I’ve been dying to ask since I saw him plummeting the final ten meters to the ground, half an hour ago. With a brief bout of laughter, his head lolls back to look at my ceiling. 

“My name—” I begin, eager to return the inquiry, but he immediately cuts me off.

“No. I’m not talking useless shit like that. I’m asking who you are, not who someone else decided you’d be.” He drawls impatiently, and I blink like an idiot.

The words themselves are somewhat reminiscent of an old hippie’s preachings, but something about the way he says it (or maybe the man who says it) gives them a newfound meaning. One that someone as simple as me is not capable of understanding. 

“Well,” I attempt with an amused frown, “I guess, I enjoy—“ But he interrupts for a second time. 

“No.” He admonishes, placing the bottle on the coffee table once more. “Try again.” He encourages. 

“…I’m thirty-two years old—“ 

“You’re clearly not getting this.” He states, leaning back in the chair once more. 

“Well, what is it that you want to hear?” 

“Again. ‘What do I want to hear?’ Do me a favor and pull your tongue out of my ass.” 

I blink at him again, as he takes another sip from the bottle.

“Who the hell are you?” The words slip past my tongue before I give them permission. I get the feeling that’s the effect he usually has on people. 

“Today, I jumped off a roof. I don’t hate myself,” he replies without hesitation. “I look at my surroundings with a deep neutrality. It isn't frightening not to be present. I walk around. I talk to people. I look study them. But I died a long time ago.

“When my body finally disappears, I don't want there to be any evidence whatsoever that I was alive. I'm not in photographs, I don't sign my works, and I'd rather die than hear people talk about me.”

“Wow. I’m... Sorry to hear that.” 

“Why? I’m not.” He quirks an overly sardonic smile. 

“Imagine this.” He shifts in his seat, placing his hands atop his knees. His knuckles are bruised and caked with dry blood. 

“You wake up one morning. You get dressed, eat, and brush your teeth, but just as you're about to open the door, you stop to look at an arm. The arm is stuck in your shoulder joint, and if you try to, you can move it. But the arm is not yours. It is a foreign object on your body. It's not you.

“This condition is known as body integrity dysphoria. Sometimes it goes so far that people who are affected have to amputate the body part because it contributes to so much psychological torment.

“Now, imagine that instead of just that one arm, you wake up one day and feel that the entirety of you, including your mind, doesn't belong to you. It's like you woke up as a different person.

“It causes you so much pain, every day. Now, wouldn’t it be a logical choice to neutralize it? Surgically remove the offending part?

“But in my case, that would be suicide, and suicide, according to the law, is wrong. You must not stop suffering. If you stopped suffering, then others wouldn't be able to see you anymore. Euthanasia is illegal almost everywhere, with a few exceptions in central Europe. You must suffer in exchange for others to be happy. Your life is not your own. How democratic is that?

“So. Can you answer my question? Why do people value life so much?” 

He exhales slowly, smoke pooling out of the corner of his mouth.

His crystalline eyes fix me to my place, gaze scorching where it roams over my figure. 

I can’t answer. 

Eventually, he leans back, looking up to the ceiling again. 

“When you think like me long enough, you get good at pretending. Maybe I'm laughing inside. Maybe I'm completely impartial. Or maybe, I'm a raging sociopath experimenting with human emotions, learning to decipher and mirror them, thereby better camouflaging myself in environments populated by them? You simply cannot know.”

A cheshire grin splits his face. 

“This conversation is a Turing test, and I'm curious to see what your conclusion is.” 

Just as I lean forward, willing to try formulating an answer, a heavy thump interrupts the building tension in the room. I flinch, immediately craning my neck to look at the living room window. 

The sky outside is rapidly darkening, and if I squint, I can see the faintest hint of a shape at the bottom of the pane. 

“I... Excuse me.” I mumble, slowly standing up and making my way toward the glass. The nearer I draw, the clearer the shape becomes.

There’s a dead bird on my windowsill. 

It’s not particularly large. It’s measly and brown, black beak perched open slightly. Its wings are contorted at a weird angle, spread as if it knew it would be dying and wanted to look graceful doing so. For some reason, the thought crosses my mind that the bird looks like me. Its eyes are dark, glossy sheens, so devoid of the spirit that any living creature should have.

But then again, it’s dead, isn’t it?

“Huh… A bird flew into the window.” I mutter, curious as to the man's reaction to this. 

I’m met with silence.

After a moment, I turn around.

“There’s a…”

I trail off immediately upon registering the gaping absence that is my dimly lit living room.

“…Hello?” I ask, my voice falling upon deaf ears. 

I turn back toward the window to look out at the street. He left? But in this rain, he’ll surely get sick. 

Only, outside, there is no rain.

There isn’t a single droplet on my window, nor the street down below. 

“Hah…” I laugh, disbelievingly. 

Slowly backing away, my leg bumps into the coffee table, and I turn around. 

There’s only one bottle of beer on the table. The plush red seat across mine is in pristine condition, my carpet unsoiled. 

There's nothing to indicate him ever being there.

Nothing, except my own memory.

Nothing, except the dead bird on my windowsill.