I. Dahlia

<Me, the Dirty Dahlia>

 

‘The dirty Dahlia.’

That’s what they called me. That’s what all those filthy people living in the cursed district of Hildesreville called me.

In a place where a strong fragrance vibrated everywhere, I was the only existence emitting a foul stench, so it was only natural.

The more women sold their bodies, the more bathing and adornment were essential to them. Even those who bought women with money couldn’t tolerate the odor emanating from my body. In that street, whether you were a woman or a man, everyone wore perfume. However, since I started living there, I have never washed my body, and I have been branded as a filthy existence.

“She’s an ominous woman. A wretch. She’s even blind. That’s why that bitch can’t even do a proper errand, tsk. It’s a wonder that the bitch’s mother still receives customers. Why don’t they kick out such a useless person….”

A young prostitute, a newcomer, was curious about my presence. There were only two reactions to my being called a dirty dahlia: offensive and disgusting, or pitiful and pathetic.

Neither side can hurt me. I can’t see anything. Whether they insult me, curse me, make disdainful expressions, or twist their mouths in pity, it doesn’t matter because I can’t see them.

No, I hear all those words, and countless cracks form inside me again. I sigh once more, thinking I would rather not have heard them. I fall into silence. Once again, I am engulfed by the end of all this pain, into death.

Not being able to see, and on top of that, like a garbage bag filled with years of accumulated filth that has never been cleaned, I once again kill myself. I rekindle the flames of that night within my tightly shut and hardened eyes that have been closed for a long time.

The mansion ablaze, the screams emanating from within. Mother and I, running away from it.

I was too sad to believe it was an escape from there, a fresh start. The fact that I couldn’t go back anymore. The realization that I would never see him again struck my young heart. At that moment, my existence shattered into a thousand million pieces. Nothing thereafter could fill the cracks within me. Even losing my sight didn’t seem to matter.

“Dahlia, I’m going to cover your eyes. You must never take it off. There are too many dirty things here. So until I take it off, you must never touch it.”

Mother had told me so. The gentle touch of the velvet blindfold pressing against my temples.

Yes, I considered it fortunate. With both eyes covered, I wanted to conjure up only the faces I wanted to see within my closed eyes. And even if tears welled up, no one would know.

My mother went from being violated by just one man to having to endure multiple men frequenting her. And both she and I, caught in a situation where she might have to show such a state to me, were trapped in a room where no one could help us. Little did I know that the blindfold she had tied over my eyes would remain in place for nearly a decade, and that no one would ever remove it from me.

It didn’t matter.

Because I was alive, but not really alive.

The dirty Dahlia.

I was known by that name and existed there, but I never truly lived a single day in that place.

 

* * *

 

They said that if someone approached me, their nose would rot, but in reality, my own nose was perfectly fine. My sense of smell, hearing, and touch—everything except vision—were incredibly sharp.

I smelled it again.

The scent of death.

The touch of flames.

Fire was burning. All of it.

It was too vivid for it to be a hallucination, with the heat and the smell of burning.

“Mother!”

For the first time in a long while, I opened my mouth.

I searched for my mother, flailing in the air. Things that stuck to my feet, things like a dull, heavy low table, things like old dresses and curtains, things that would burn if they caught fire. I needed to get out of the room where I was trapped, out of the space where all those things lay, as useless as I was.

And I had to find my mother. I had to find her, who, even at that moment, might be buried under someone else’s body.

“Mother! Mother…”

“Dahlia!”

It wasn’t my mother. Ever since one day, my mother stopped coming to call me. The one who brought me food wasn’t my mother either. Nevertheless, I still waited for my mother.

But in this moment, as I heard that voice, I realized that I wasn’t waiting for my mother.

Was I waiting for him? Is this an auditory hallucination? Have I already died just as I wished?

“I’m going to take you out of here, Dahlia. It’s okay if you don’t say anything. The acrid smoke is thick, so it’s better to hold your breath for a moment. We’ll be out soon. You’ll breathe in fresh air soon.”

The scent of peppermint wafted from the cotton handkerchief that approached my nose. And someone gently stroked my head. It was a tender touch devoid of hesitation.

A prostitute who had entered the warehouse a while ago to find necessary items had remarked that the dirty Dahlia’s hair smelled like an old rotten rope. Recalling those words, I wanted to reject that touch. However, the owner of that touch did not refuse me or give me a chance to reject it. They simply lifted me up and held me tight. My two feet, which had never been in the air for a long time, dangled and swayed.

And just like that, I was carried away. Eventually, just as he promised, a cold breeze, the scent of winter that I haven’t smelled in a long time, blows against my cheek and shatters me. The sensation is so new and refreshing that I stop crying.

Tears, warm and sticky, trickle down my cheeks. Perhaps it’s a smear of mucky, dirty water.

And then someone licks it with something soft and smooth and plump. Is this a dog? Animals can be so affectionate like this. And a human could never do this. Because I am the dirty Dahlia.

“It’s better to fall asleep for a moment. Don’t be afraid of anything. I’m here now. We will go back again. So just sleep for a while, without dreaming of anything, my Dahlia.”

The scent of the handkerchief touches the tip of my nose again. This time it’s not peppermint. I wondered if it was lavender or chamomile, but I have no memory of what came next. That was the last night I remembered as the dirty Dahlia.