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M and the Responsibility Nobody Asks For

As M stepped through the apartment door on the third floor, he saw him, the yellow Power Ranger, in his yellow Power Ranger costume, legs crossed, sitting in the middle of the room.

He was gazing vaguely out the window at the house opposite, which, in the most colorful five minutes of sunset, appeared in a bright orange hue.

When M closed the apartment door, he flinched briefly, but his position remained unchanged.

The apartment was unfurnished, and the few items it contained: some dishes, clothes, and books, were lined up against the walls of the rooms. From the street, the sound of a jackhammer penetrated the room.

M cleared his throat.

“Your father asked me to visit you; he says you haven’t been doing very well lately.”

The Power Ranger, who was sitting with his back to M, did not react.

“Your father says you have a problem with… your sensitivity.”

The Power Ranger flinched.

At the last word, the construction work downstairs had stopped, and it echoed through the room with an inappropriate loudness.

M walked across the room and stood in front of the window, his shadow falling on the Power Ranger, who turned his head away.

“Your father says you sit here and look out the window, and you don’t eat, and you don’t speak.”

M now spoke slowly, mindful of the reaction of the person opposite him, whose large Power Ranger helmet, however, only reflected M himself, motionless.

“The weather today was incredibly wonderful, truly incredibly wonderful… Yes… you might have seen it. The sun shone incredibly, and the temperature was exactly as you imagine the temperature to be when you think of a wonderful summer day.”

But it had grown dark now, and as M went to the entrance of the room to turn on the light, he stumbled.

He blinked into the darkness and recognized the Power Ranger’s leg as what he had just tripped over.

Now M wondered if he had overlooked the leg or if the Ranger had placed it there, and that this was a huge difference, because the latter would at least be a form of communication, and he could consider this progress.

While he was pondering this, he switched on the light; the glare of the bare light bulb and the bareness of white walls created a sterility that caused a dull discomfort in M.

“You were so cool when I met you… so cool… and now you’re sitting here in this white hole, and you don’t eat, and you don’t speak.”

The apartment door was thrown open.

“Now I’m here, my little weirdo, my darling, I’m back.”

Text Moritz Stellmacher