The Nose

Look down and observe.

That hump you breathe through – nothing absurd.

Your eyes have learned to ignore it,

And that's fine, I suppose,

But have you ever wondered why

Faces are generally composed

Of two eyes and a mouth,

But only one nose?

*

Having one mouth was useful for the human – it halted greed in its tracks. When the human went swimming, I noticed how it breathed out of the mouth into the water, and it became amused at the bubbles this action produced. The mouth was very beneficial to the human: breathing, eating, speaking. The human seemed to be content with having only one.

It was also content with having two ears and eyes, as I believe it aided it in gaining a deeper understanding of the surroundings. How adorable the human is as it squints to view things further along in the distance, and how it puts seashells to the ear. The human tells others that the lapping ocean waves can be heard echoing through the seashell, mimicking a telephone – not that the human knows what that is (my kind haven't shared that advancement with the human yet).

It analyses creatures it lives alongside all the time, but lately, it has been comparing bodily features. The human sees animals bend to sniff at plants with a strange, twain-holed protrusion on the face. It wishes to know what that bump is, because the human is without the nose. The mouth breathes and eats and speaks, and it's located on the face – it does everything the human needs for survival, so what good is the facial bit that sniffs?

The human ponders this, and I'm watching it do it. It sits on the grass, the legs crossed and digits brushing over the forehead. It doesn't seem satisfied with the placement. It touches the centre of the face, where the cheekbones meet flatly. It is void of the hump the human wishes to possess.

The cat and the dog use the protrusion on a regular basis, shaking the nose near potential food and other creatures. I see the human think this over, and it understands that the bump might be helpful to it, too. Of course, getting the bump was going to be difficult for the human alone, for it didn't know where the nose came from.

At that revelation, the human doesn't dwell on this further, and it seems satisfied not to. It stands up and walks down the sandbank and into the warm water. I am charmed by how it dives in, gleeful at the feeling of being soaked from head to toe. As it swims, however, the human's complex mind begins to churn. Soon, it's psyche is swarming with thoughts. I hear the mind scream out:

What is that on the creatures' faces? I want it; I really want it. Where do I get it from? How do I craft it?

The energy it emanates is saddening. It's desperate for the protrusion to exist on the face. I pity it profoundly as it wades in the chest-deep sea. To my surprise, the human does not go back to shore in order to figure out, thoroughly this time, how to obtain the facial bump. Instead, it just stands there, swishing the arms to stay afloat rather aimlessly.

From further out comes a slimy creature with a bulbous head and eight long arms. The octopus has a purpose, I observe. It marches through the water, the tentacles curling to mimic the human's legs. The human has seen the octopus before – not close up, but it knows what kind of animal it is.

The octopus has heard the human's cries of frustration vibrate throughout the water, so it floats over to the human – my guess is that the octopus wants to help, but the octopus can be an onerous animal to read sometimes. The human is startled and begins to step away. The octopus follows until it is just merely submerged in the ocean. The human stands about a metre away, espying the suspicious appearance.

The octopus' facial protrusion is starkly defined compared to the rest of the lanky, jelly-like body construction. Seeing the octopus unmoving, the human steps closer to view it better. The nose is straight, akin to a slanted triangle sitting between the eyes. The nose has two holes at its base in a similar fashion to the other creatures. The human is disheartened again, for it never saw the cat or the dog shake the bump beneath the water, meaning the nose of the octopus was pointless for it, yet, it possesses one.

Rather empathetically, I watch as the octopus presses the suction-bottomed tentacle to the protrusion and rip it off in one clean yank. The human is still not aware of what the creature is doing, so it watches on curiously. The octopus howls internally, shuddering at the removal of the flesh. It rests the protrusion on the sand, head thumping thunderously as pain pulses through the body. And, although this event is dastardly painful, the octopus would have torn off another few noses if it had any more. No other creature was brave enough to endure such pain and sacrifice such an asset. But the human isn't privy to this.

Upon seeing the protrusion, purple in colour, the human is addled to the core. The octopus is bleeding blue blood, but it melts into the seawater. Consequently to having the open wound, the octopus' face is stinging dramatically. The human doesn't notice. It picks up the former protrusion and brings it closer to the eye, attempting to discern what it should now do with it.

The octopus sees that the work is done, so it merely wriggles back into the water and floats away. The human, very cutely, decides to push the hump onto the face, and at once, the nose, with a circular suction-cup on it from the octopus' arm, sticks royally to the face. The human gasps and attempts to remove it, but it remains sturdy.

It rushes to the family, but the human doesn't find the family around the fire like it normally would. Panic has settled in the mind. It tries to pull the foreign protrusion from the face over and over, but the bump remains attatched firmly. The human sees it in the line of sight. I assume this is starting to annoy it.

Over the next few minutes, the octopus' nose melds with the skin of the human. The flesh intertwines and the purple colour fades to the pale skin tone of the human. The human is still trying to pry it off when it realises it now feels the pulling; it feels the fingernails digging into the skin. Befuddled, the human runs to the water to see the reflection. It inhales through the hump and chokes on air. I laugh at how simple and precious the human is.

It inhales again, finding that it can breathe in this manner. It can also smell things, which is a new sense to intrepet the world.

It's like I am tasting with my tongue but by breathing rather than licking.

The human spent the rest of the day getting close to plants, rocks and the creatures, and sniffing them all. The human felt, finally, that the overwhelming, unrelenting itch it had was completely scratched with this new ability – and all thanks to the octopus who gave the human its only nose.