It was almost too easy.
In my mind I saw her dancing away, teasingly out of reach, gravity and momentum conspiring to pull her away from my grasp. A hundred simulations showed me that no matter how fast I sprang, no matter how deftly I moved, she would see me coming, and with the slightest of effort elude me.
But I tried, nevertheless, fingers outstretched, determined to reach her, to hold her tight... and I did.
I felt her hair, enervated into flowing tresses by the stiff evening breeze, whipping against my arm. I felt her jacket, her thin cotton top, her bra strap, layers that vociferously demanded distinction as I gripped her shoulder tightly. But there was no time to luxuriate in the senses.
"No, please... you cannot go. Not like this." I wasn't sure I had spoken at all, until she turned to look at me. "What will I... we all do without you?"
She smiled. Her lips were quivering. Perhaps, perhaps I was getting through to her?
"I don't know what I can do for you, personally. But I will try. I promise I will try. If you want my company, I'll be here. If not, I'll go." I tightened my grip, although I knew that the real battle wasn't in simply getting her to stay here physically. I needed to persuade her to remain here with me, with us, and find joy in doing so.
She said certain things, but her feeble voice was no match for the rising wind, and her words drifted away before I could discern them. No matter, I had heard what she had said before. It was not likely that she would have anything new to say, by now.
"I've told you. Step by step. Just one day at a time. We'll try together... people have done it before. Why can't we? If we make it through today, just one more day, wouldn't we... wouldn't we be stronger than we were, yesterday? Doesn't that count?"
At some point my emotions, summoned by the unseen hand of some hormonal gland, had boiled up from the pits of my stomach and mixed themselves into the words I spoke. Tears, those attention-seeking fraternal twins to sadness and longing, were blurring my vision, cramping my style.
I must have said a lot more. I must have. I know I wouldn't have given up so easily. The clear knell of defeat, though, came as swiftly as it did unexpectedly, and it presented itself in the most tranquil and serene look of calm I'd seen on her face since the accident those many months ago.
"I have to go and be with him. He's waiting for me."
This time, when she smiled... it chilled me, to the bones. A trick of the light, perhaps? But there was now no warmth to be seen, nor felt, in her round black eyes. Her lips were properly upturned in a gaunt approximation of her normal toothy grin, but there was now a resolute and grim determination to those curves.
She reached up and placed her icy hands over mine, and shook her head slowly from side to side.
My mistake was in being too late. She had left some time ago, and none of us had recognized it.
My fingers unfurled, one by one, and my hand fell slowly, shamefully, back to my side. She turned back, took a deep breath. Looked up at some far-off point in the sky, seeing something I couldn't see.
And she stepped off the ledge.
It was almost too easy.
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Sunday, April 06, 2008
It's Too Late
You lift the covers gently as you climb out of bed, but the cold air which rushes in to usurp your place doesn't wake me. Because I'm not really asleep.
I tilt my head ever so slightly, if only to have my eyes confirm the unthinkable. You tiptoe to the wardrobe, where you begin to dress as quietly as you can.
Swish-swish go your shirt sleeves as you slide your arms through them - it makes me wonder, that shirt you're wearing now, did I buy it or was it a present from her? I can't see well, but I can defnitely imagine.
Clik-clik as your fingernails tap against the buttons - do you know that I've read her letter to you, and know all about tonight being the night you leave me for her? You must. I didn't have the strength to say anything directly to you, so I left a photo of us inside that envelope in your drawer. You must have known I left it there. I'm still hoping it made you change your mind.
Thwip-ip as your belt closes its loop around you. My love, I can hardly breathe. Somehow I'm still praying that this is all just a dream, an ephmeral nightmare from which I can awake. My fists are in balls by my side, and I'm clenching them as hard as I can to keep from shaking. If every move of yours now is a step away from me, I wonder, from when did it begin?
Boof-foo as you sit back down on the bed, facing away from me. I try to shout to you not to go, to cherish and honor me as you said you would, but the words are stillborn in my throat. There is nothing I wouldn't do to keep us together, as long as you would talk to me and tell me why I am no longer enough for you.
Pwoof-foo as your laces intertwine. Really? You would go? Without even giving us a second thought? You can't really mean to go, for you would take with you all that I am now - I wouldn't die without you, but I wouldn't live either. I would be different, changed, no longer as able to trust or to love or to
... and you are gone.
And I realize, that the tears which have been marking your silent departure, are no longer flowing.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Talents
There was a farm on the edge of the moor. Aside from the normal produce, people could also pay a small sum to adopt, and bring home, any one of the animals on the farm.
Every Saturday, the farmer opened the gates that were normally closed, and put up a large sign which invited animal lovers in. He would then shoo his animals out, and prod the sleepier ones so that they might better endear themselves to visitors.
One of the Ducklings was very perceptive, and it occurred to him that he had none of the charms, skills or antics of the other animals. Waddlequack! he thought, I need to improve myself! Or no one would want me!
The Duckling thus begged the Rooster to teach him how to strut. Cockakoo! crowed the Rooster, do you not waddle perfectly well already? But the Duckling was insistent. It is true that I can waddle pretty well, he said, but your strut is a most majestic way to walk too!
The Duckling also entreated the Sheep to teach him how to bleat. Whyforeeee! bleated the Sheep, you are good at quacking your native quack! But the Duckling was insistent. It is true that I can quack pretty well, he said, but it is not better if I knew how to bleat too?
The Duckling also requested the Cow to teach him how to give milk. Whatthemooo? went the Cow, you are really better off… not giving milk! But the Duckling was insistent. It is true that… I am not good at giving milk, he said, but isn’t that all the more reason to make an effort to?
And so the Duckling went around the farm trying his best to learn from the other animals. When Friday night came, the Duckling fell asleep, exhausted at rehearsing all that he had learned in preparation for Saturday.
The next day, the Duckling was the first out on the field, and when the visitors started coming in, he proudly displayed all the various skills he had acquired. Who could possibly resist me, he thought, when I am all that the other animals are too?
The hours went by, a number of animals changed hands, and yet no one had requested to bring the Duckling home. As closing time loomed, a little girl ran towards the pond where the Duckling was. This encouraged him to once again show off all that he had learned, despite all the disappointment already saddling his heart.
The little girl stared at the Duckling in puzzlement for a while, then slunk sadly back to her parents, She took their hands, and as they were walking out of the farm, the Duckling overheard this:
“There was a mighty energetic Duckling there, darling, was he not to your liking?”
“Well… I wanted a Duckling who waddled, not toddle around like he was drunk like Grandpa always is. I wanted a Duckling who quacked, not squawk like he was being stepped on. I wanted a Duckling who could be cheerful, not always look oh so very constipated.
“I just wanted a Duckling to be more, like, well, a Duckling… so no, that wasn’t him.”
Every Saturday, the farmer opened the gates that were normally closed, and put up a large sign which invited animal lovers in. He would then shoo his animals out, and prod the sleepier ones so that they might better endear themselves to visitors.
One of the Ducklings was very perceptive, and it occurred to him that he had none of the charms, skills or antics of the other animals. Waddlequack! he thought, I need to improve myself! Or no one would want me!
The Duckling thus begged the Rooster to teach him how to strut. Cockakoo! crowed the Rooster, do you not waddle perfectly well already? But the Duckling was insistent. It is true that I can waddle pretty well, he said, but your strut is a most majestic way to walk too!
The Duckling also entreated the Sheep to teach him how to bleat. Whyforeeee! bleated the Sheep, you are good at quacking your native quack! But the Duckling was insistent. It is true that I can quack pretty well, he said, but it is not better if I knew how to bleat too?
The Duckling also requested the Cow to teach him how to give milk. Whatthemooo? went the Cow, you are really better off… not giving milk! But the Duckling was insistent. It is true that… I am not good at giving milk, he said, but isn’t that all the more reason to make an effort to?
And so the Duckling went around the farm trying his best to learn from the other animals. When Friday night came, the Duckling fell asleep, exhausted at rehearsing all that he had learned in preparation for Saturday.
The next day, the Duckling was the first out on the field, and when the visitors started coming in, he proudly displayed all the various skills he had acquired. Who could possibly resist me, he thought, when I am all that the other animals are too?
The hours went by, a number of animals changed hands, and yet no one had requested to bring the Duckling home. As closing time loomed, a little girl ran towards the pond where the Duckling was. This encouraged him to once again show off all that he had learned, despite all the disappointment already saddling his heart.
The little girl stared at the Duckling in puzzlement for a while, then slunk sadly back to her parents, She took their hands, and as they were walking out of the farm, the Duckling overheard this:
“There was a mighty energetic Duckling there, darling, was he not to your liking?”
“Well… I wanted a Duckling who waddled, not toddle around like he was drunk like Grandpa always is. I wanted a Duckling who quacked, not squawk like he was being stepped on. I wanted a Duckling who could be cheerful, not always look oh so very constipated.
“I just wanted a Duckling to be more, like, well, a Duckling… so no, that wasn’t him.”
Monday, September 24, 2007
Ugly Duckling
When the Ugly Duckling reached maturity, and beautiful grace dripped from its every movement, the other Swans came and enticed it to join them.
"You belong with us!", they cooed all day. But the Ugly Duckling, with pitiful longing in his eyes, would avert his gaze and noiselessly shuffle back to the flock of ducks he had grown up with.
And oh! how the Ugly Duckling would dance! Across the moor where they lived, the Ugly Duckling often trailed a shimmering ribbon of white as he danced to please the ducks, hoping to earn a place amongst them.
And oh! how the Ugly Duckling would sing! The stillness of the air was frequently punctuated by the melodious exertions of the Ugly Duckling - every note as unique and mesmerizing as the first snowflake of winter, every note a humble plea to be accepted and cherished.
But still the Ugly Duckling lived on the fringes of the flock, and no duck went out of its way to make the Ugly Duckling feel welcome.
Early one morning, as the Ugly Duckling stirred fitfully in his sleep, searching for the answers he so desperately wanted, a hunter came upon the moor. This the Ugly Duckling noticed immediately.
"Wake up, wake up, flee while you can!" the Ugly Duckling hoarsely screeched, flapping his wings in agitation. But the ducks awoke too slowly, and as the hunter raised his rife and took aim at the ducks...
... the Ugly Duckling soared into the air a final time, his outspread form against the bleak morning sky becoming a tableaux of timeless beauty, the inspiration for a thousand poets... the perfect target.
The gunshot was the switch that flooded the moor with life.
As the Ugly Duckling lay crumpled upon the grass, the red taint spreading across its feathers, his gaze lingered upon the backs of the ducks scattering away. Hot tears of bitterness threatened to sully its pristine beak, but the Ugly Duckling fought them back, soothed as he was by the satisfaction of helping the ones he loved.
Being the epitome of serene beauty, the Ugly Duckling was also graceful in the way he accepted the realities of life.
"You belong with us!", they cooed all day. But the Ugly Duckling, with pitiful longing in his eyes, would avert his gaze and noiselessly shuffle back to the flock of ducks he had grown up with.
And oh! how the Ugly Duckling would dance! Across the moor where they lived, the Ugly Duckling often trailed a shimmering ribbon of white as he danced to please the ducks, hoping to earn a place amongst them.
And oh! how the Ugly Duckling would sing! The stillness of the air was frequently punctuated by the melodious exertions of the Ugly Duckling - every note as unique and mesmerizing as the first snowflake of winter, every note a humble plea to be accepted and cherished.
But still the Ugly Duckling lived on the fringes of the flock, and no duck went out of its way to make the Ugly Duckling feel welcome.
Early one morning, as the Ugly Duckling stirred fitfully in his sleep, searching for the answers he so desperately wanted, a hunter came upon the moor. This the Ugly Duckling noticed immediately.
"Wake up, wake up, flee while you can!" the Ugly Duckling hoarsely screeched, flapping his wings in agitation. But the ducks awoke too slowly, and as the hunter raised his rife and took aim at the ducks...
... the Ugly Duckling soared into the air a final time, his outspread form against the bleak morning sky becoming a tableaux of timeless beauty, the inspiration for a thousand poets... the perfect target.
The gunshot was the switch that flooded the moor with life.
As the Ugly Duckling lay crumpled upon the grass, the red taint spreading across its feathers, his gaze lingered upon the backs of the ducks scattering away. Hot tears of bitterness threatened to sully its pristine beak, but the Ugly Duckling fought them back, soothed as he was by the satisfaction of helping the ones he loved.
Being the epitome of serene beauty, the Ugly Duckling was also graceful in the way he accepted the realities of life.
Monday, September 17, 2007
White Lie
04 seconds before Karen hit the ground, Jerome materialized in a puff of white smoke.
His outstretched wings quickly, neatly folded up in 02 seconds, and he tucked them behind him as he gingerly sat on the ground next to her. Angels were fastidious beings.
14 seconds passed before Karen opened her eyes and groaned. Jerome knew it was 14 seconds exactly, because he was counting them under his breath, especially now that time was very, very precious.
"Hello Karen. My name is Jerome. I'm an angel, and I'm here in case you want to talk."
"An.. angel? Am I dead?"
"Nope. But you will die soon. I thought you should know that."
Karen coughed quite hard then, and couldn't form any more words until Jerome touched her throat lightly. A brief glow emanated from his finger, and the blood in her throat cleared sufficiently for her to talk again.
"Karen, it's important you understand quickly so you don't waste any time. I specialize in keeping company those unfortunate people who die in solitude, so that their passing from this world to the next is made a littler easier. Capiche?"
Karen nodded, closed her eyes and started sobbing. Jerome grit his teeth, and inwardly swore (even angels do!) at the rules that forbade him from interfering with her pain. But a suspicion lingered that the hurt afflicting Karen, wasn't exactly physical.
Through the sobs came Karen's voice, weaker by the second. "I spent my life on him, my entire life! My parents wanted me to give him up, said single mums rarely made it... but I did!"
"I know, it's something..."
"No! You don't understand... I had no friends, no one else in my world but him! I gave him everything! And I never asked for anything back, nothing at all..."
Jerome laid a cool hand on her fevered brow, and it brought a calming to her troubled heart. Her involuntary twitching lessened, and Karen struggled with her broken hands to brush away her tears. Jerome did it for her.
"Tell... me... Jerome. Will... he have a good life? Will that... wife of his... make him happy?"
A sardonic smile nested itself on Jerome's face. Ah, he thought. This is the legendary selflessness humans possess... selflessness even in the face of abandonment by one's own child. What a bittersweet thing to witness.
"Worry not, Karen. He'll come to his senses eventually, and he'll raise two children who'll love and respect him."
The lie burned Jerome's ears even as it unrolled from his tongue, but he would rather be damned than deny her a fleeting moment of peace after her years of toil. Heavens knew how many others, like Karen, needed it.
"That's... good... a pity that I wouldn't be around to..."
Jerome sat there for a while more, eating into the 86 hours, 04 minutes and 17 seconds that would pass before a jogger would come by this way and discover Karen's body.
His outstretched wings quickly, neatly folded up in 02 seconds, and he tucked them behind him as he gingerly sat on the ground next to her. Angels were fastidious beings.
14 seconds passed before Karen opened her eyes and groaned. Jerome knew it was 14 seconds exactly, because he was counting them under his breath, especially now that time was very, very precious.
"Hello Karen. My name is Jerome. I'm an angel, and I'm here in case you want to talk."
"An.. angel? Am I dead?"
"Nope. But you will die soon. I thought you should know that."
Karen coughed quite hard then, and couldn't form any more words until Jerome touched her throat lightly. A brief glow emanated from his finger, and the blood in her throat cleared sufficiently for her to talk again.
"Karen, it's important you understand quickly so you don't waste any time. I specialize in keeping company those unfortunate people who die in solitude, so that their passing from this world to the next is made a littler easier. Capiche?"
Karen nodded, closed her eyes and started sobbing. Jerome grit his teeth, and inwardly swore (even angels do!) at the rules that forbade him from interfering with her pain. But a suspicion lingered that the hurt afflicting Karen, wasn't exactly physical.
Through the sobs came Karen's voice, weaker by the second. "I spent my life on him, my entire life! My parents wanted me to give him up, said single mums rarely made it... but I did!"
"I know, it's something..."
"No! You don't understand... I had no friends, no one else in my world but him! I gave him everything! And I never asked for anything back, nothing at all..."
Jerome laid a cool hand on her fevered brow, and it brought a calming to her troubled heart. Her involuntary twitching lessened, and Karen struggled with her broken hands to brush away her tears. Jerome did it for her.
"Tell... me... Jerome. Will... he have a good life? Will that... wife of his... make him happy?"
A sardonic smile nested itself on Jerome's face. Ah, he thought. This is the legendary selflessness humans possess... selflessness even in the face of abandonment by one's own child. What a bittersweet thing to witness.
"Worry not, Karen. He'll come to his senses eventually, and he'll raise two children who'll love and respect him."
The lie burned Jerome's ears even as it unrolled from his tongue, but he would rather be damned than deny her a fleeting moment of peace after her years of toil. Heavens knew how many others, like Karen, needed it.
"That's... good... a pity that I wouldn't be around to..."
Jerome sat there for a while more, eating into the 86 hours, 04 minutes and 17 seconds that would pass before a jogger would come by this way and discover Karen's body.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Not Entirely Broken
School bells rang.
Edna looked up from the wares arranged nearly in front of her. She didn't need to look twice to know that these boys, this specific group jauntily strolling out of the school gates, would be trouble.
They were the upper-years, a gang of boys who had long ago discovered an almost refined palate for cruelty to those too weak to fight back. It seemed as if no school anywhere, nay, no society anywhere was complete without them.
"Hey guys, look! Edna's back! Let's see what she has for sale today!" Hoots of laughter rose from the group as they rushed over to the humble two-by-four groundsheet on the sidewalk that comprised the entirety of Edna's enterprise.
Edna positively looked like an oasis of calm next to the jackals that had descended upon her store. The boys scrambled over each other as they rushed to manhandle the little toys that lay on the groundsheet, competing to see whose wit was sharpest in ridiculing the toys.
"Guys, look at this one! Is it just me or is this doll a leftover from Halloween?"
"That's nothing next to this set of tin soldiers! Any kids who suffers this would be better off under Welfare!"
Soon, when even their diseased little minds ran out of insults for the toys, the boys moved on to their next target.
"You're old and ghastly! Why don't you get someone younger and prettier to sell your toys!"
"No one wants your toys! Who wants useless broken junk? Go home Edna!"
"Oh, sorry I forgot! You have no home to go back to, right? Who would want you!"
But not one word left Edna's lips. She simply kept her eyes downcast and waited for their store of delinquent energy to wear itself out, as it always did. Mercifully, they soon tired of Edna the way they tired of the toys that wouldn't fight back, and they cackled as they left the battlefield triumphant.
Once they turned their backs, however, Edna sprang to life. As quickly as she could, she rearranged the toys neatly, and straightened out the groundsheet. Moments after she was done...
... school bells rang again, and this time it was the lower-years who were released from school.
As they spilled out from the school gates, they made a bee-line for Edna and her wares. They crowded around her store, transfixed as they always have been at the worlds Edna brought to them.
One little girl, drawn to a petite pinwheel, cautiously picked it up and admired it. As the colourful silver-foil wheels turned in the afternoon breeze, the little girl couldn't help but smile.
And it was then that Edna received her first payment of the day.
Edna looked up from the wares arranged nearly in front of her. She didn't need to look twice to know that these boys, this specific group jauntily strolling out of the school gates, would be trouble.
They were the upper-years, a gang of boys who had long ago discovered an almost refined palate for cruelty to those too weak to fight back. It seemed as if no school anywhere, nay, no society anywhere was complete without them.
"Hey guys, look! Edna's back! Let's see what she has for sale today!" Hoots of laughter rose from the group as they rushed over to the humble two-by-four groundsheet on the sidewalk that comprised the entirety of Edna's enterprise.
Edna positively looked like an oasis of calm next to the jackals that had descended upon her store. The boys scrambled over each other as they rushed to manhandle the little toys that lay on the groundsheet, competing to see whose wit was sharpest in ridiculing the toys.
"Guys, look at this one! Is it just me or is this doll a leftover from Halloween?"
"That's nothing next to this set of tin soldiers! Any kids who suffers this would be better off under Welfare!"
Soon, when even their diseased little minds ran out of insults for the toys, the boys moved on to their next target.
"You're old and ghastly! Why don't you get someone younger and prettier to sell your toys!"
"No one wants your toys! Who wants useless broken junk? Go home Edna!"
"Oh, sorry I forgot! You have no home to go back to, right? Who would want you!"
But not one word left Edna's lips. She simply kept her eyes downcast and waited for their store of delinquent energy to wear itself out, as it always did. Mercifully, they soon tired of Edna the way they tired of the toys that wouldn't fight back, and they cackled as they left the battlefield triumphant.
Once they turned their backs, however, Edna sprang to life. As quickly as she could, she rearranged the toys neatly, and straightened out the groundsheet. Moments after she was done...
... school bells rang again, and this time it was the lower-years who were released from school.
As they spilled out from the school gates, they made a bee-line for Edna and her wares. They crowded around her store, transfixed as they always have been at the worlds Edna brought to them.
One little girl, drawn to a petite pinwheel, cautiously picked it up and admired it. As the colourful silver-foil wheels turned in the afternoon breeze, the little girl couldn't help but smile.
And it was then that Edna received her first payment of the day.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Rapunzel
Rapunzel waited by her window until the first prince came along.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for she had been waiting her whole life to be rescued. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, as she slept, he took down her Magic Mirror, her Magic Apple, her Magic Brush, packed it all into a bag and crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by her window until the second prince came along.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for she was also taught that trust is the road to love. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, as she slept, he lay with her against her wishes, and took her dignity and pride. When he was done, he crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was very important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by her window until the third prince came along.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for now more than ever did she need to be rescued. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, he shared his deepest fears and insecurities about the world, and soon his words poisoned her little heart. After his cynical views had taken her idealism and hope, he crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was most important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by the window again, but for what she no longer knew.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for she had been waiting her whole life to be rescued. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, as she slept, he took down her Magic Mirror, her Magic Apple, her Magic Brush, packed it all into a bag and crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by her window until the second prince came along.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for she was also taught that trust is the road to love. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, as she slept, he lay with her against her wishes, and took her dignity and pride. When he was done, he crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was very important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by her window until the third prince came along.
Help me up, he said. And she did, for now more than ever did she need to be rescued. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.
That night, he shared his deepest fears and insecurities about the world, and soon his words poisoned her little heart. After his cynical views had taken her idealism and hope, he crept away into the night.
When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was most important to her.
Rapunzel then waited by the window again, but for what she no longer knew.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
To Fly Away
I spot her on a leaf a whole branch away, and right then I know that it's got to be her.
By the time I inch my way over, the Sun is beating a hasty exit over the horizon, urged on by a revitalized Moon hungry for the centrestage. I'm panting and my legs are all sweaty, but somehow I manage to force the words out.
"Please, be with me. I need you."
She turns to look at me, blank-faced for a moment, then the import of the words hit home. She swallows her mouthful of leaf hurriedly, but her shuffling feet betray her self-consciousness. Her voice is as sweet as I had imagined.
"You know how difficult it will be in the morning."
"I do, but that's a problem for tomorrow."
"You don't understand. Parting will hurt. We'll be different for each other then, completely diff..."
"If I tell you I don't care, will you set free your worries too?" I smile as reassuringly as I can.
She hesitates for a while more, but I know her heart is mine. Noiselessly, we shuffle towards each other, and the feel of her warm skin on mine electrifies me.
Our leaf shook in the wind, threatening to dislodge us both, but for the moment nothing could remove me from the perfect world we were sharing... we were swimming in a pool of liquefied bliss.
Sunlight rends apart my peaceful sleep, and I awaken to see her perched on the edge of the leaf, ready to take flight. And sure enough, she is different.
"Goodbye, and fare you well," she says, in a smooth, steely voice devoid of the warmth I craved so much to hear again.
A magnificent flap of the wings, and she was gone.
I sit alone on the leaf, watching the spot she occupied just moments ago. I bask in the memories of yesterday, but soon shrug them off.
Another magnificent flap of the wings, and gone too am I.
By the time I inch my way over, the Sun is beating a hasty exit over the horizon, urged on by a revitalized Moon hungry for the centrestage. I'm panting and my legs are all sweaty, but somehow I manage to force the words out.
"Please, be with me. I need you."
She turns to look at me, blank-faced for a moment, then the import of the words hit home. She swallows her mouthful of leaf hurriedly, but her shuffling feet betray her self-consciousness. Her voice is as sweet as I had imagined.
"You know how difficult it will be in the morning."
"I do, but that's a problem for tomorrow."
"You don't understand. Parting will hurt. We'll be different for each other then, completely diff..."
"If I tell you I don't care, will you set free your worries too?" I smile as reassuringly as I can.
She hesitates for a while more, but I know her heart is mine. Noiselessly, we shuffle towards each other, and the feel of her warm skin on mine electrifies me.
Our leaf shook in the wind, threatening to dislodge us both, but for the moment nothing could remove me from the perfect world we were sharing... we were swimming in a pool of liquefied bliss.
***
Sunlight rends apart my peaceful sleep, and I awaken to see her perched on the edge of the leaf, ready to take flight. And sure enough, she is different.
"Goodbye, and fare you well," she says, in a smooth, steely voice devoid of the warmth I craved so much to hear again.
A magnificent flap of the wings, and she was gone.
I sit alone on the leaf, watching the spot she occupied just moments ago. I bask in the memories of yesterday, but soon shrug them off.
Another magnificent flap of the wings, and gone too am I.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Mr. Snuffles
07
You squeal with delight when you first lay eyes on me, and I reciprocate by falling in love with you instantly.
How does one ever forget an image like that? Of you running up to me, laughing as you wrestle me away from your mother’s outstretched hands. You are a sight, a little girl of 7 struggling to hold me up, when I’m almost half your size.
You fuss over me, and I can’t help but preen myself as you heap endearments on me. You gush about how my tail is frizzy, how I’ve got the softest fur, how my button eyes are already speaking volumes to you.
I think it’s in the way you hold me. It’s in the way you laugh, a hearty, innocent laugh that fills the house with warmth. I can’t help it if you inspire trust in me so very easily.
I stay awake that first night, just to watch you sleep. Time just doesn’t seem to flow anymore, and the bedside clock has the courtesy and good manners to signal her ticks softer. By the moonlight you look so very, very perfect.
You can’t hear me, but I’m holding on to you with my paws and I’m promising you, over and over again, that I will always be there to soothe away your pains, to comfort and guide you as best I can.
I belong to you, already.
14
I sit in your lap contentedly, as you scribble furiously away in your diary. Your tears are still hot against my fur, but they do not bother me.
You hold me up to let me see what you have written. I can’t read, so you say it aloud for me. I’m telling you to stop, that apologies aren’t necessary, but you go on anyway (you’ve always been stubborn!).
I’m trying to say, I understand. I know you wanted to seem like a big girl in front of your friends, especially around the boy you have a crush on. So I understand that when they found me on your bed and asked who I was, you casually said I was just some soft toy, like I didn’t matter to you.
You start crying again, burying your face in my side. I know you have recorded this incident in your diary so that you will never forget how important I am to you, but you know why it’s not necessary?
It’s because you have spent these past 7 years by my side constantly. I’m your confidante, your closest friend. You have shared your deepest secrets with me, and have always felt renewed with the silent companionship I offer. You have given me more than I could ask for, and now it is my turn to do something for you.
If what you need is space, to grow closer to your other friends, take it. Do not feel guilty about it. Love is letting go too, yes? I’m glad enough to know I can always cheer you up, make you happy. So, shoo!
21
You pick me up, squeal my name, and hug me tight, for the first time in months. And that’s when I know today’s the day you make your choice.
You have been deconstructing your room lately, packing it all up into little brown boxes. Some boxes are shoved into your wardrobe, but others are adorned with bright air-mail stickers and moved into the hallway.
You’re about to leave for a study program overseas, and I wonder which kind of box I will end up in. I’ve tried to ask you gently for some time, but you don’t really talk to me anymore.
I hate to admit it, but I miss you holding me to sleep.
Twice this past year you have let me comfort you, once when you fell out with your parents, and another when you failed a class test. Twice this past year did I feel needed, wanted again.
And twice this past year did I feel ashamed of myself, for being so selfish. For I have seen what an alluring, confident, successful woman you have become, and I know that asking you to love me like you did years ago, would only hold you back.
I’m proud of the way you are handling most problems on your own now. I’m proud of the close friendships you have cultivated with others. I’m proud of the way you stand on your own two feet, independent, strong.
My heart still aches, sometimes, when I see that you really do need me less, but I understand. It is necessary. I’m just not what you need now.
You slip me into a box, and slowly tape up the opening. I know then that you won’t be bringing me with you, for the rest of the box is filled with an assortment of oddities you won’t be needing overseas.
You confirm my suspicions when you shift the box a short distance, and then close the wardrobe door. As the sounds of you packing continue to filter in, I slowly let go of the hope I’ve been nursing in the bowels of my heart, and it floats away like the morning mist.
35 / 07
The sunlight hurts my eyes, as the lid of the box is pried away. There's a strange male voice in the background, and he wants me thrown out.
You do not listen (you never did!), and instead you lift me out and hug me. You have aged, my angel. There's a certain gauntness to your face I did not think possible before. What storms have you weathered without me?
It's a warm, familiar hug, one that I've not felt in 14 years. I hug you back instinctively, with love I've bottled up for so long, and I regret it at once. It hurts the very second that you disengage just a little too hastily, because I know you no longer feel the same about me.
"Mummy! Who is he!" I turn to see a younger you on the bed, jumping in excitement. She has your eyes, your hair, and most importantly your warmth. Before you can react, she has grabbed me away from you.
She engulfs me in a hug, defiantly staring you down. You disapprove, saying that I’m unclean (I take umbrage at that!), but she doesn't seem to hear you (it runs in the family!). She demands that you let her keep me.
I hesitate.
My heart's in pieces as it is. Can I really go through all this again? Of caring for her, living a life with her, only to see her grow up and walk away, just like you did? You have no idea how painful it is, to love someone with all your being, and then to realize one day that your love is simply not wanted anymore.
That's when she kisses me.
Despite what the male voice says about my thinning fur and loose stitches, despite what you say about me being old and dusty, despite her knowing that there are a thousand other prettier companions out there, she has kissed me.
"I love you, Mr. Snuffles. Will you be mine?"
I hear those words, and something in me mends. I think it may just be possible… for me to love another again.
You squeal with delight when you first lay eyes on me, and I reciprocate by falling in love with you instantly.
How does one ever forget an image like that? Of you running up to me, laughing as you wrestle me away from your mother’s outstretched hands. You are a sight, a little girl of 7 struggling to hold me up, when I’m almost half your size.
You fuss over me, and I can’t help but preen myself as you heap endearments on me. You gush about how my tail is frizzy, how I’ve got the softest fur, how my button eyes are already speaking volumes to you.
I think it’s in the way you hold me. It’s in the way you laugh, a hearty, innocent laugh that fills the house with warmth. I can’t help it if you inspire trust in me so very easily.
I stay awake that first night, just to watch you sleep. Time just doesn’t seem to flow anymore, and the bedside clock has the courtesy and good manners to signal her ticks softer. By the moonlight you look so very, very perfect.
You can’t hear me, but I’m holding on to you with my paws and I’m promising you, over and over again, that I will always be there to soothe away your pains, to comfort and guide you as best I can.
I belong to you, already.
14
I sit in your lap contentedly, as you scribble furiously away in your diary. Your tears are still hot against my fur, but they do not bother me.
You hold me up to let me see what you have written. I can’t read, so you say it aloud for me. I’m telling you to stop, that apologies aren’t necessary, but you go on anyway (you’ve always been stubborn!).
I’m trying to say, I understand. I know you wanted to seem like a big girl in front of your friends, especially around the boy you have a crush on. So I understand that when they found me on your bed and asked who I was, you casually said I was just some soft toy, like I didn’t matter to you.
You start crying again, burying your face in my side. I know you have recorded this incident in your diary so that you will never forget how important I am to you, but you know why it’s not necessary?
It’s because you have spent these past 7 years by my side constantly. I’m your confidante, your closest friend. You have shared your deepest secrets with me, and have always felt renewed with the silent companionship I offer. You have given me more than I could ask for, and now it is my turn to do something for you.
If what you need is space, to grow closer to your other friends, take it. Do not feel guilty about it. Love is letting go too, yes? I’m glad enough to know I can always cheer you up, make you happy. So, shoo!
21
You pick me up, squeal my name, and hug me tight, for the first time in months. And that’s when I know today’s the day you make your choice.
You have been deconstructing your room lately, packing it all up into little brown boxes. Some boxes are shoved into your wardrobe, but others are adorned with bright air-mail stickers and moved into the hallway.
You’re about to leave for a study program overseas, and I wonder which kind of box I will end up in. I’ve tried to ask you gently for some time, but you don’t really talk to me anymore.
I hate to admit it, but I miss you holding me to sleep.
Twice this past year you have let me comfort you, once when you fell out with your parents, and another when you failed a class test. Twice this past year did I feel needed, wanted again.
And twice this past year did I feel ashamed of myself, for being so selfish. For I have seen what an alluring, confident, successful woman you have become, and I know that asking you to love me like you did years ago, would only hold you back.
I’m proud of the way you are handling most problems on your own now. I’m proud of the close friendships you have cultivated with others. I’m proud of the way you stand on your own two feet, independent, strong.
My heart still aches, sometimes, when I see that you really do need me less, but I understand. It is necessary. I’m just not what you need now.
You slip me into a box, and slowly tape up the opening. I know then that you won’t be bringing me with you, for the rest of the box is filled with an assortment of oddities you won’t be needing overseas.
You confirm my suspicions when you shift the box a short distance, and then close the wardrobe door. As the sounds of you packing continue to filter in, I slowly let go of the hope I’ve been nursing in the bowels of my heart, and it floats away like the morning mist.
35 / 07
The sunlight hurts my eyes, as the lid of the box is pried away. There's a strange male voice in the background, and he wants me thrown out.
You do not listen (you never did!), and instead you lift me out and hug me. You have aged, my angel. There's a certain gauntness to your face I did not think possible before. What storms have you weathered without me?
It's a warm, familiar hug, one that I've not felt in 14 years. I hug you back instinctively, with love I've bottled up for so long, and I regret it at once. It hurts the very second that you disengage just a little too hastily, because I know you no longer feel the same about me.
"Mummy! Who is he!" I turn to see a younger you on the bed, jumping in excitement. She has your eyes, your hair, and most importantly your warmth. Before you can react, she has grabbed me away from you.
She engulfs me in a hug, defiantly staring you down. You disapprove, saying that I’m unclean (I take umbrage at that!), but she doesn't seem to hear you (it runs in the family!). She demands that you let her keep me.
I hesitate.
My heart's in pieces as it is. Can I really go through all this again? Of caring for her, living a life with her, only to see her grow up and walk away, just like you did? You have no idea how painful it is, to love someone with all your being, and then to realize one day that your love is simply not wanted anymore.
That's when she kisses me.
Despite what the male voice says about my thinning fur and loose stitches, despite what you say about me being old and dusty, despite her knowing that there are a thousand other prettier companions out there, she has kissed me.
"I love you, Mr. Snuffles. Will you be mine?"
I hear those words, and something in me mends. I think it may just be possible… for me to love another again.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Ladies Of The Night
There was no love here.
I could smell sickly-sweet alcoholic fumes flirting with bitter-dry cigarette smoke, I could hear the ladies laughing their rehearsed, high-pitch schoolgirl squeals, I could taste the primal, naked lust in the air.
But no love. I could sense no love here. Not in this dimly-lit 7-11 of vices. Love was even more elusive here than an emboldened demon making merry in the streets of heaven.
I pushed past couples locked in embrace, their passions on coarse, open display. My neck itched, victim both of my vanity and the new shirt I had just bought. I came here the night before as an ordinary, forgettable leaf from the past, but tonight... I wanted her to remember me.
There she was, seated between two men, their arms around her like diseased tendrils across her fair skin. A curious mix of jealousy and anger bubbled in me. I had no right to feel that way, not when she was not mine. Not anyone's, for that matter.
She recognized me, a fleeting moment before I wrenched her away from them. And in those seconds as she was uprooted, she suddenly looked lost, confused, her gaities falling away like melting wax. No longer the confident, commanding lady of the night she pretended to be.
At a quiet corner, she lit up, pointedly looking away as the smoke rings danced away from her.
"You can't just pull me away like that. They will be angry, and you don't exactly look like the sort who can defend yourself."
"I can pay. I will pay. Look, just come away with me, again." I sounded desperate. I didn't care.
She laughed. "Pay? And towards what purpose? I'm a girl who likes to earn her money, you know, and last night didn't do much for me at all."
I wasn't shaken - the facade was as plain as day. "You lie. It was the best damned night you've had since forever, and you know it. Come with me, again, please."
She was silent for a while, then she struck out at me like an enraged rattlesnake. I was pushed back against the wall hard, but the pain barely registered. I could only notice the creases in her makeup, thin flaking lines etched in by the scowl she wore.
"Last night did not happen. You hear me?"
"It did, and nothing you can do will make you forget it."
"No. You came to me for my body, paid for it, got what you wanted, and you left. That's what happened. Another simple transaction in this sprawling existance of ours."
"I never wanted your body, never touched it. I only came to talk to you. You know that."
My perseverance was paying off. Just like last night, her defences were coming down, one at a time. The brimming tears of anger in her coloured-contacts-eyes said it all.
"You had no right to do that, you hear me? You had no right to spend the whole night doing nothing but talk to me, talking like we are still the friends we were so long ago. You were supposed to come in, take me, then leave! Not linger like this!"
I placed a hand on her shoulder, and waited for her to calm down. "I'm sorry," I found myself saying, "You said you were lonely last night, and all I wanted was to talk to you again. That's all."
When she eventually looked up it was as I feared. The mask was rigidly in place again, the pleasant, genial, vacant expression she wore for all her customers.
"Honey. Last night won't ever happen again. That girl you talked to, the one you shared old stories and laughed with, she's not living here anymore. She left a note for you, though. She said she's moved away, and if ever she finds a place of her own again, she'll contact you, so don't bother looking for her now."
She patted my cheek in that infuriatingly condescending way of hers.
"She said, don't be so idealistic anymore. Our youth has deserted us. You think you have choices in life, that you're always in control, but it's not so simple. We all have responsibilities, wouldn't you agree?"
"You know that's not true. You know that..." Her finger to my lip cut me off. I'm weak that way.
"Don't spoil the moment." She smiled then, but from whom the smile sprung from I was no longer sure. "If it matters to you that much, she also says thank you, for being nice to her last night. She felt... appreciated, and maybe one day, one day she would like to feel that way again."
I lost her then. She turned and slipped back effortlessly into that black, oil-slicked sea of leering faces and earnest hands. My feet guided me out, for I could not stay and watch. The pain was killing me.
To anyone else my resolve to return and try again may seem suicidally stupid, but no one else saw her as I did last night. And if they did, they would know it would be worth it.
Another day it would have to be, then.
* This was inspired by a friend's post, and is not reflective of my real life. Maybe the emo bits, but not the salacious bits. Sigh.
I could smell sickly-sweet alcoholic fumes flirting with bitter-dry cigarette smoke, I could hear the ladies laughing their rehearsed, high-pitch schoolgirl squeals, I could taste the primal, naked lust in the air.
But no love. I could sense no love here. Not in this dimly-lit 7-11 of vices. Love was even more elusive here than an emboldened demon making merry in the streets of heaven.
I pushed past couples locked in embrace, their passions on coarse, open display. My neck itched, victim both of my vanity and the new shirt I had just bought. I came here the night before as an ordinary, forgettable leaf from the past, but tonight... I wanted her to remember me.
There she was, seated between two men, their arms around her like diseased tendrils across her fair skin. A curious mix of jealousy and anger bubbled in me. I had no right to feel that way, not when she was not mine. Not anyone's, for that matter.
She recognized me, a fleeting moment before I wrenched her away from them. And in those seconds as she was uprooted, she suddenly looked lost, confused, her gaities falling away like melting wax. No longer the confident, commanding lady of the night she pretended to be.
At a quiet corner, she lit up, pointedly looking away as the smoke rings danced away from her.
"You can't just pull me away like that. They will be angry, and you don't exactly look like the sort who can defend yourself."
"I can pay. I will pay. Look, just come away with me, again." I sounded desperate. I didn't care.
She laughed. "Pay? And towards what purpose? I'm a girl who likes to earn her money, you know, and last night didn't do much for me at all."
I wasn't shaken - the facade was as plain as day. "You lie. It was the best damned night you've had since forever, and you know it. Come with me, again, please."
She was silent for a while, then she struck out at me like an enraged rattlesnake. I was pushed back against the wall hard, but the pain barely registered. I could only notice the creases in her makeup, thin flaking lines etched in by the scowl she wore.
"Last night did not happen. You hear me?"
"It did, and nothing you can do will make you forget it."
"No. You came to me for my body, paid for it, got what you wanted, and you left. That's what happened. Another simple transaction in this sprawling existance of ours."
"I never wanted your body, never touched it. I only came to talk to you. You know that."
My perseverance was paying off. Just like last night, her defences were coming down, one at a time. The brimming tears of anger in her coloured-contacts-eyes said it all.
"You had no right to do that, you hear me? You had no right to spend the whole night doing nothing but talk to me, talking like we are still the friends we were so long ago. You were supposed to come in, take me, then leave! Not linger like this!"
I placed a hand on her shoulder, and waited for her to calm down. "I'm sorry," I found myself saying, "You said you were lonely last night, and all I wanted was to talk to you again. That's all."
When she eventually looked up it was as I feared. The mask was rigidly in place again, the pleasant, genial, vacant expression she wore for all her customers.
"Honey. Last night won't ever happen again. That girl you talked to, the one you shared old stories and laughed with, she's not living here anymore. She left a note for you, though. She said she's moved away, and if ever she finds a place of her own again, she'll contact you, so don't bother looking for her now."
She patted my cheek in that infuriatingly condescending way of hers.
"She said, don't be so idealistic anymore. Our youth has deserted us. You think you have choices in life, that you're always in control, but it's not so simple. We all have responsibilities, wouldn't you agree?"
"You know that's not true. You know that..." Her finger to my lip cut me off. I'm weak that way.
"Don't spoil the moment." She smiled then, but from whom the smile sprung from I was no longer sure. "If it matters to you that much, she also says thank you, for being nice to her last night. She felt... appreciated, and maybe one day, one day she would like to feel that way again."
I lost her then. She turned and slipped back effortlessly into that black, oil-slicked sea of leering faces and earnest hands. My feet guided me out, for I could not stay and watch. The pain was killing me.
To anyone else my resolve to return and try again may seem suicidally stupid, but no one else saw her as I did last night. And if they did, they would know it would be worth it.
Another day it would have to be, then.
* This was inspired by a friend's post, and is not reflective of my real life. Maybe the emo bits, but not the salacious bits. Sigh.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Choice
You sit facing me, a questioning ghost of a smile on your lips. You don't know why I suddenly asked you to be quiet for a while, to give me time to say what I want.
But you suspect you know, and that explains the slight furrow in your brow, the short breaths you are taking. We both know that the next five minutes will change everything.
In five minutes, words that I speak will be more than just gasps of air squeezed through my vocal chords, tempered by my tongue. They will tell you what I've been keeping secret in my mind. They will invite you to partake of my innermost thoughts.
But here I am, looking at you, thinking furiously. If I simply laughed now and looked away, we would definitely still stay friends, for a long while more. That weighs heavily on my mind, but I'm distracted, distracted by the way your hair is tied back, distracted by the shimmering reflection of myself in your eyes, distracted by... you.
I'm considering where we'll go from here. We would forge ahead, candles burning twice as brightly for our union, blazing a trail of potent memories and content laughter. Our mutual understanding alone would spill vibrant dashes of colour across our days, and even the little things would suddenly seem worth doing.
We would plumb depths of affection previously unknown to either of us. If ever the darkness that is ahead seems overbearing, in the tangle that is our hands clasping we would feel our fingers squeeze reassuringly, a silent commitment to braving this together.
That seems… tempting. I open my mouth, and begin to speak.
But! But, spectres from the past reveal themselves from the shadows, and in a cacophony of shrill warnings they bid me stay my confession. And I suddenly recall the other possibility, the other outcome. We might one day part, and we would disintegrate like a spider’s web yielding to a vengeful duster.
Paralyzed, floundering without the support of the other, we would wail and rage against things we could not control. Our bountiful memories would acquire a tint of murderous acidity, our previous laughter echoing hollowly. In the Eden garden of our understanding, there would sprout weeds of doubt, of deceit, of decay.
That seems… mildly unpleasant. My words die in my throat, a guttural sound that could mean anything.
Yet I look at you, and I know my heart if not my mind is made up. No bigger fool would there be if I gave up now, before we even started. Even if later I should despair in an endless, boiling pool of sorrow, I would not fault the me that is looking into your eyes now.
I want those precious days, weeks, months of happiness with you, very, very badly.
I smile, and then I try to speak again.
But you suspect you know, and that explains the slight furrow in your brow, the short breaths you are taking. We both know that the next five minutes will change everything.
In five minutes, words that I speak will be more than just gasps of air squeezed through my vocal chords, tempered by my tongue. They will tell you what I've been keeping secret in my mind. They will invite you to partake of my innermost thoughts.
But here I am, looking at you, thinking furiously. If I simply laughed now and looked away, we would definitely still stay friends, for a long while more. That weighs heavily on my mind, but I'm distracted, distracted by the way your hair is tied back, distracted by the shimmering reflection of myself in your eyes, distracted by... you.
I'm considering where we'll go from here. We would forge ahead, candles burning twice as brightly for our union, blazing a trail of potent memories and content laughter. Our mutual understanding alone would spill vibrant dashes of colour across our days, and even the little things would suddenly seem worth doing.
We would plumb depths of affection previously unknown to either of us. If ever the darkness that is ahead seems overbearing, in the tangle that is our hands clasping we would feel our fingers squeeze reassuringly, a silent commitment to braving this together.
That seems… tempting. I open my mouth, and begin to speak.
But! But, spectres from the past reveal themselves from the shadows, and in a cacophony of shrill warnings they bid me stay my confession. And I suddenly recall the other possibility, the other outcome. We might one day part, and we would disintegrate like a spider’s web yielding to a vengeful duster.
Paralyzed, floundering without the support of the other, we would wail and rage against things we could not control. Our bountiful memories would acquire a tint of murderous acidity, our previous laughter echoing hollowly. In the Eden garden of our understanding, there would sprout weeds of doubt, of deceit, of decay.
That seems… mildly unpleasant. My words die in my throat, a guttural sound that could mean anything.
Yet I look at you, and I know my heart if not my mind is made up. No bigger fool would there be if I gave up now, before we even started. Even if later I should despair in an endless, boiling pool of sorrow, I would not fault the me that is looking into your eyes now.
I want those precious days, weeks, months of happiness with you, very, very badly.
I smile, and then I try to speak again.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Short Stories 1 - We Have No Use For Them
I sat behind the counter, fiddling with the stationery. Ms. Leene sat beside me, papers of the day meticulously folded into a neat square in front of her. She barely made a sound as the papers rustled under her thin fingers.
Barely 3 hours into my temp job here, already I felt I couldn't breathe. It... it was the patients. They would come in sullen, morose, crestfallen, holding a grubby little slip in their hands - their appointment cards. I would tick them off the list (subject to Ms. Leene's approval) and then send them in to the doctor's.
And when they left, they all had the same blank, peaceful, idiotic expression. That was the worst part. Patients are supposed to leave better, not... different.
The checklist of questions was printed out and tacked in front of me. Ms. Leene was very particular about this. "Ask every question there, and be sure you get their answers. Only when you're satisfied then do they sign their forms and go on in. Understand?"
I understood, of course. We had to make sure the patients knew what they were in for, what they were asking for. People who didn't fully understand the procedure tended to get lawsuit-happy afterwards. It's no small deal, you know, having your memory erased.
Swish! went the glass doors as they slid open to present the latest patient. Barely 3 hours here, and we just received our 17th… and 18th patients.
She had her head bowed, standing one significant step behind the man. I couldn’t see her face, what with the hastily-set shawl over her head, but I didn’t really need to look closer to know she couldn’t be smiling underneath.
He stood at the doorway, looking down at his slip again, then up at the clinic’s logo. A man of average stature, he looked not a day beyond 25. But his hands were trembling, his eyes were bleary, his stubble poking up defiantly like spilt ash on pristine silk. Oh, this one had it bad.
They walked over to the counter with surprising resolve, and he wordlessly passed me his slip. After checking it against the records, I flicked the switch to turn on the hidden cameras that would record our ensuing exchange, and began the standard spiel Ms. Leene had instructed me in.
“Good day, thank you for choosing our memory clinic. Now this card indicates that both of you are slated for an appointment, but before you go in, just some formalities, if you please. First, are both of you sure that…”
Ms. Leene pushed aside her papers, leaned forward, and turned the cameras off. “It’s ok,” she said, “the doctor is ready to see you. You may enter together, if you wish.”
They might have been emotionally distraught, but they could still recognize authority when they saw it. They nodded, as one, and shuffled into the doctor’s room. From where I sat, I could hear the doctor warmly, cheerfully greet them, in a tone that was strangely antiseptic and human at the same time.
I opened my mouth, trying to frame my question in the most respectful of ways. After administering 16 painfully detailed interviews, listening to Ms. Leene rebuke me over and over for any mistakes I made, hearing her emphasize how important formalities and protecting our asses were, she actually did something like this?
The whirring sounds began to seep out from the doctor’s room. It had already begun. I wondered who was undergoing the treatment first, him or her?
“It’s ok, I know what you’re going to ask.”
“No, mam, with respect, it’s not ok. You just spent the whole morning telling me we had a job to do, that we had to watch out for them too. That we had to be sure they wanted it too. What if they didn’t want the procedure?”
Ms. Leene returned to her papers, hardly seeming to notice as my angry accusations rolled off her.
“Oh come on now. I’ve heard their stories many times, and frankly, I have no idea how they can get their memories wiped clean, leave this clinic as strangers, and yet somehow fall in and then out of love again within months. Some people should just stay away from each other! I’m not going to listen to their tragic story yet again, not on my last day here.
That’s their fourth time here, together, you know.”
*Note*: Yes, this is a rip-off of Eternal Sunshine, but I like to think of it as a tribute instead.
Barely 3 hours into my temp job here, already I felt I couldn't breathe. It... it was the patients. They would come in sullen, morose, crestfallen, holding a grubby little slip in their hands - their appointment cards. I would tick them off the list (subject to Ms. Leene's approval) and then send them in to the doctor's.
And when they left, they all had the same blank, peaceful, idiotic expression. That was the worst part. Patients are supposed to leave better, not... different.
The checklist of questions was printed out and tacked in front of me. Ms. Leene was very particular about this. "Ask every question there, and be sure you get their answers. Only when you're satisfied then do they sign their forms and go on in. Understand?"
I understood, of course. We had to make sure the patients knew what they were in for, what they were asking for. People who didn't fully understand the procedure tended to get lawsuit-happy afterwards. It's no small deal, you know, having your memory erased.
Swish! went the glass doors as they slid open to present the latest patient. Barely 3 hours here, and we just received our 17th… and 18th patients.
She had her head bowed, standing one significant step behind the man. I couldn’t see her face, what with the hastily-set shawl over her head, but I didn’t really need to look closer to know she couldn’t be smiling underneath.
He stood at the doorway, looking down at his slip again, then up at the clinic’s logo. A man of average stature, he looked not a day beyond 25. But his hands were trembling, his eyes were bleary, his stubble poking up defiantly like spilt ash on pristine silk. Oh, this one had it bad.
They walked over to the counter with surprising resolve, and he wordlessly passed me his slip. After checking it against the records, I flicked the switch to turn on the hidden cameras that would record our ensuing exchange, and began the standard spiel Ms. Leene had instructed me in.
“Good day, thank you for choosing our memory clinic. Now this card indicates that both of you are slated for an appointment, but before you go in, just some formalities, if you please. First, are both of you sure that…”
Ms. Leene pushed aside her papers, leaned forward, and turned the cameras off. “It’s ok,” she said, “the doctor is ready to see you. You may enter together, if you wish.”
They might have been emotionally distraught, but they could still recognize authority when they saw it. They nodded, as one, and shuffled into the doctor’s room. From where I sat, I could hear the doctor warmly, cheerfully greet them, in a tone that was strangely antiseptic and human at the same time.
I opened my mouth, trying to frame my question in the most respectful of ways. After administering 16 painfully detailed interviews, listening to Ms. Leene rebuke me over and over for any mistakes I made, hearing her emphasize how important formalities and protecting our asses were, she actually did something like this?
The whirring sounds began to seep out from the doctor’s room. It had already begun. I wondered who was undergoing the treatment first, him or her?
“It’s ok, I know what you’re going to ask.”
“No, mam, with respect, it’s not ok. You just spent the whole morning telling me we had a job to do, that we had to watch out for them too. That we had to be sure they wanted it too. What if they didn’t want the procedure?”
Ms. Leene returned to her papers, hardly seeming to notice as my angry accusations rolled off her.
“Oh come on now. I’ve heard their stories many times, and frankly, I have no idea how they can get their memories wiped clean, leave this clinic as strangers, and yet somehow fall in and then out of love again within months. Some people should just stay away from each other! I’m not going to listen to their tragic story yet again, not on my last day here.
That’s their fourth time here, together, you know.”
*Note*: Yes, this is a rip-off of Eternal Sunshine, but I like to think of it as a tribute instead.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
In The Club In The Dead Of Night
She sat at the other end of the bar, hands tightly clasped around her Cosmopolitan, staring fiercely down at the bar top. You could see that she was different, somehow.
The music raged on, trapped notes straining to escape the confines of the large speaker-boxes hanging overhead. Bodies, bodies slick and wet as eels, continuously slithered around the club. Smoke trails flowed through the air, their camouflaged passage occasionally betrayed by the strobing lights. Everything moved, jangled, vibrated, brought alive with the magic of the night... everything but her.
There! A spirited motion, a flick of the hand, and her drink was gone. She brought her glass down, wrapped her hands around it, and resumed her motionless virgil. The bartender tottered over after a while, refilling her glass, careful not to spill any on her hands. And the cycle went on.
If she were quenching anything, it surely wasn't thirst.
The moment I approached her, penetrated the sphere of dead air around her, I could tell she was discomfited. It was the way her eyes twitched, almost as if she instinctively wanted to look at me but then stopped herself. I relaxed, back against the bar, legs stretched out. Two could play this game.
I took my chance when the music lulled, when even the tireless crowd tired of their vain attempts to dance away their worries and cares.
"I wanted to talk to you," I said. I knew she could hear me.
She mulled the request over, but not for long... all her instinctive shackles of caution were rendered useless against the lubricant that is alcohol.
"I don't even know you," she replied, voice tremulous. I was right, then.
"It's better this way, then, isn't it? I don't know you too."
She looked up then, transferring her steely gaze to me, giving sweet respite to that spot on the bar top that had suffered long enough. There was no way she could have seen my puffy eyes or my drained complexion or my uneasy smile in that light, but she must have seen something which told her all she needed to know. And when I recognized that look of understanding on her face, we both laughed.
"You too?"
"Yes," I said, "evidently me too."
She sighed, then after a short comfortable silence, "Makes you wonder how you're ever going to get through it all, doesn't it? Every sunrise seems dimmer, every night seems bleaker. No matter how many times it happens, it's always the same."
"It's never easier, whatever they say. But what can one do? Experience tells us if we keep at it, if we just concentrate on one foot plodding on after the other, there has to be some end to all this... darkness."
"Indeed."
My phone buzzed, and I casually fished it out. I read the message, replaced my phone slowly, and chuckled to myself.
"My friends. They're looking for me. I don't have much time."
"Oh? Then you better go," she said.
"There they are, in fact." I pointed over yonder, and she turned to look. But she was quick, this one. She examined my expression again, noted the grim tight smile I plastered on, and she understood. A meeting of minds.
"She's that one, that red one, over there?"
"Yes, that one. And I'm not even going to ask how you know. We're friends now. Friends. Just friends."
She laughed, a much lighter, tinkly laugh than the one we had just shared. She shook her head, then exclaimed, "Why, thank you, stranger. You made things a little better for me, knowing that there are sorrier asses out there!"
I got up to leave. I smoothed out my shirt, crumpled by this brief foray into the unknown. She had resumed her original hermetic position, and no one could have told that we had just had a conversation. A conversation, an exchange of words that meant something, that was now drowned in a sea of white noise.
I laid my hand on her shoulder. "Strangers we might be, but hardly as alone as you think. That will be nice to remember, yes?"
And I walked away. I never again met my friend in the club in the dead of night.
The music raged on, trapped notes straining to escape the confines of the large speaker-boxes hanging overhead. Bodies, bodies slick and wet as eels, continuously slithered around the club. Smoke trails flowed through the air, their camouflaged passage occasionally betrayed by the strobing lights. Everything moved, jangled, vibrated, brought alive with the magic of the night... everything but her.
There! A spirited motion, a flick of the hand, and her drink was gone. She brought her glass down, wrapped her hands around it, and resumed her motionless virgil. The bartender tottered over after a while, refilling her glass, careful not to spill any on her hands. And the cycle went on.
If she were quenching anything, it surely wasn't thirst.
The moment I approached her, penetrated the sphere of dead air around her, I could tell she was discomfited. It was the way her eyes twitched, almost as if she instinctively wanted to look at me but then stopped herself. I relaxed, back against the bar, legs stretched out. Two could play this game.
I took my chance when the music lulled, when even the tireless crowd tired of their vain attempts to dance away their worries and cares.
"I wanted to talk to you," I said. I knew she could hear me.
She mulled the request over, but not for long... all her instinctive shackles of caution were rendered useless against the lubricant that is alcohol.
"I don't even know you," she replied, voice tremulous. I was right, then.
"It's better this way, then, isn't it? I don't know you too."
She looked up then, transferring her steely gaze to me, giving sweet respite to that spot on the bar top that had suffered long enough. There was no way she could have seen my puffy eyes or my drained complexion or my uneasy smile in that light, but she must have seen something which told her all she needed to know. And when I recognized that look of understanding on her face, we both laughed.
"You too?"
"Yes," I said, "evidently me too."
She sighed, then after a short comfortable silence, "Makes you wonder how you're ever going to get through it all, doesn't it? Every sunrise seems dimmer, every night seems bleaker. No matter how many times it happens, it's always the same."
"It's never easier, whatever they say. But what can one do? Experience tells us if we keep at it, if we just concentrate on one foot plodding on after the other, there has to be some end to all this... darkness."
"Indeed."
My phone buzzed, and I casually fished it out. I read the message, replaced my phone slowly, and chuckled to myself.
"My friends. They're looking for me. I don't have much time."
"Oh? Then you better go," she said.
"There they are, in fact." I pointed over yonder, and she turned to look. But she was quick, this one. She examined my expression again, noted the grim tight smile I plastered on, and she understood. A meeting of minds.
"She's that one, that red one, over there?"
"Yes, that one. And I'm not even going to ask how you know. We're friends now. Friends. Just friends."
She laughed, a much lighter, tinkly laugh than the one we had just shared. She shook her head, then exclaimed, "Why, thank you, stranger. You made things a little better for me, knowing that there are sorrier asses out there!"
I got up to leave. I smoothed out my shirt, crumpled by this brief foray into the unknown. She had resumed her original hermetic position, and no one could have told that we had just had a conversation. A conversation, an exchange of words that meant something, that was now drowned in a sea of white noise.
I laid my hand on her shoulder. "Strangers we might be, but hardly as alone as you think. That will be nice to remember, yes?"
And I walked away. I never again met my friend in the club in the dead of night.
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