"Doctor, what's wrong with her."

 

Six-year-old Hazel shifts uncomfortably, like a convict in an interrogation chair, as her mother rattles off her symptoms. It sounds like she's dying, afflicted with a combination of fading vision, smell, taste, hearing, and even touch. Her eyelids are rubbed raw, yet her eyeball looks utterly normal. 

 

The doctor orders a blood test and Hazel cries when she sees the needle. Vials of blood are drawn, and a slew of obscure tests are ordered. 

 

The final doctor crumples the medical report in one hand and pinches his nose bridge with the other. 18-year-old Hazel slouches on her chair, gazing placidly at the ceiling. Blinking hard, she rubs her hands on her shirt roughly. She tilts her head to scratch her left ear against her shoulder. 

 

The doctor's nasally voice comes into focus, "I've never seen this before. I'm sorry, Mrs Wang."

 

Her mother inhales sharply, and the doctor attempts to placate her impending tirade. "Have you considered she might not be truthful? You know how teenagers are."

 

That night, her mother pinches her arm, each one harder than the last, testing her. In the morning, Hazel feels sick looking at the trail of purple-green bruises. She wishes that she was lying, that she didn't have this undiagnosable affliction.

 

¤

 

26-year-old Hazel has gained a new habit to interrupt the monotony of her desk job – lurking on a discord server. It is named "Cloth Masters" and is populated with others who share the same condition, which they call "Blurring". Usually, the members share tips on how to regain their senses quickly. Hazel has found the suggestion to use a microfibre cloth particularly helpful (Thank you @Shiv!).

 

One day, a strange message pops up from @Kenzole.

 

Looking for research participants:

Hello! I am Kenza, a university student looking to do my honours thesis on the Blurring condition. I am looking to interview people who identify with this condition. A small token of appreciation will be provided. Dm me if you are keen.

 

Kenza is the only one in the server whose profile photograph is a portrait shot, most people use animated avatars. She has yellow and orange dyed hair and she looks youthful with her bright blush and graphic eyeliners. She wears a garment that can only be described as strips of sheer, iridescent fabric that coalesces into a jellyfish-like mass.

A university? Hazel thinks about every doctor who accused her of lying. Every nurse who blatantly dismissed her symptoms. Every medical journal that was inflated with jargon. Every Google search that told her she had cancer. 

 

Maybe this was the one chance to learn more about herself.

 

¤

Kenza plops her sleeping bag in the middle of Hazel's living room floor. Her freshly-curled hair is bright against her well-worn grey hoodie.

 

"Wow, thank you for letting me do this," she says, rummaging through her black Nike duffel bag. "No one else replied to me."

 

Hazel ignores the sinking feeling of regret. She had imagined that her participation would involve interviews and test-taking. She couldn't have fathomed that she would have let some stranger into her tiny two-room flat for six months. 

 

"Of course, I hope that you'll share your findings with me." Yet, her curiosity got the better of her, and Kenza appeared sincere enough. 

 

"Yes! On that note." Kenza pulls a huge binder out of her duffel bag.

 

She explains that she is an Anthropology student, which Hazel understands to be the study of a very niche group of people. Her niche group of people are those with the "Blurring" condition, which she characterises as the periodic losing of senses that can only be remedied by cleaning the associated body part. It is unclear what causes these symptoms and most remedies come from a community discord channel. There's a crazed light in Kenza's eyes as she explains her topic. 

 

"Now, time for the bureaucracy."

 

She arranges her many forms all over Hazel's white tiled floor and begins rambling about her college's ethics committee. Scratching her pen against paper, Hazel signs the first form.

 
¤

 

19-year-old Hazel is dancing, circled by her friends. The club is dark and smoky, with an EDM Nicki Minaj remix blasting. She's drunk on a shoddily-mixed concoction of cheap vodka and even cheaper fruit juice. Between the strobe lights, the pulsing music, and the sweaty bodies, Hazel feels both everything and nothing at all. 

 

She's dancing with someone who steers her into the bathroom. As clumsy hands roam over her body, Hazel suddenly realises that she cannot see the dingy bathroom or her companion. 

 

"Hey, hey."

 

"What's up, beautiful," her companion slurs.

 

"Give me one second."

 

The prickly fabric of her companion's dress unsticks from Hazel's body. 

 

Kneeling down on the damp bathroom floor, Hazel finds the hem of her satiny black dress. Despite its unfamiliar gummy texture, she guides it to her eye and scrubs frantically. When the palazzo flooring becomes visible, she works at the next eye. 

 

"Dude, that's damn gross. You'll get an infection."

 

She looks up and her companion's mouth is crooked with disgust. Hazel flashes an apologetic smile and reaches for her face. 

 

The girl sidesteps, "Urgh, I'm too drunk for this."

 

She leaves, her magenta dress sparkling with every step. 

 

¤

"Can I try?" Kenza asks one day. 

 

Her voice is quiet, and she nibbles at a piece of dried lip. Kenza had requested to view all of Hazel's cleanings. She scribbles in her neon green notepad and asks inane questions about the type of cloth she uses, the temperature of water, the brand of soap. Yet, she has not requested something like this before. 

 

"Sure," Hazel agrees easily. "You've seen how it's done."

 

She tosses a cloth towards Kenza, and she catches it with reverence. 

 

"Thank you," Kenza's voice is brimming with boundless and ungrounded gratitude. 

 

"Come over, you have to actually touch me to do anything."

 

Kenza shuffles on her knees towards Hazel. Her fringe is tied up to the top of her head like a bean sprout. That's how Kenza is when she's serious, she's even willing to compromise her hairdo. 

 

"Just go in little circles, like with a window."

 

Kenza obediently wipes. Hazel's arm feels plasticised, embalmed almost. The cleaning does remove something, Kenza realises. There's softness in those areas now, the warmth of Hazel's blood seeps through the cloth. 

 

"Ah, that's nice. Be gentle, I feel tingly."

 

This was new, having someone to come home to, and having them care for her.

 

¤

 

"Hazel, there's a harvest moon, come look!"

 

Kenza gazes out of Hazel's bedroom window. She walks over, but stumbles on one of Kenza's carelessly placed binders. 

 

"Sorry! I'll clear it. Oh!"

 

Hazel can hear Kenza's smile, as she supports her to lie on the floor. Kenza cradles Hazel's head as the light of the supermoon floods the living room. Her hands shake as she cleans Hazel's sclera with a faded pink microfibre cloth. When she lifts her eyelid to get under it, Hazel sighs, soft but full of relief. 

 

"That feels good." 

 

Kenza's face starts to form as the opaque film around Hazel's vision dissipates. Her moon-lit features are tense with concentration, framed by her neon yellow-orange hair. She smells of fresh pine, the woody base notes of her regular perfume. When her gaze meets Kenza's, Hazel's breath catches. From the squeeze in her chest, she can tell that something's changed. Like an angsana seed blown at just the right angle, how fortunate it is that she and Kenza had met at all!