Life #2

I’ve always wanted to silence my life with a bread knife, but I couldn’t. My mother would always scold me in fear whenever I aired my thoughts. Unknown to her, I had a tiny journal titled How To Kill Yourself Your Way: 101. Just to make everything censored: It’s not about brutality and maiming, it’s just me planning on how to eat, digest and poop all kinds of food my illness had never let me taste. To hell be with setbacks.

Currently, thankfully, I was back in my dark, solo universe called ‘my room’, literally. I was laid in bed, everywhere dark and quiet save for the few sniffles that escaped my mother as she prayed on the other side of my closed door in a hushed tone, choked and suffocated.

I’m not a reliable narrator dear readers... Now, am I? I’m just confused because right now I’m supposed to be telling you how I had my first crush vomiting, had my first kiss with a magazine, and my first time being nothing. Now, got anything fun I could do? Nothing? Okay, but I do.

Tonight, I was going to have an excursion of the outside world. It’s not like I’ve never left home like a princess locked in a tower. No, I meant the outside of the outside, if that made sense; please I need encouragement. I was not one to upset my mother. I hope she never finds out that I’m gone. She’ll—

The sound of my bedroom door creaking open made me and my rambling thoughts freeze. I tiredly pulled an eye open and saw my mother walk gently and exhaustedly into my dark room. She left the door slightly open so she could find her way through the darkness, letting the dim light from the hallway slide into the room.

Seeing her frail form made me feel—I don’t know—miserable? Tensed? Sad? Defea—no, not defeated but surviving.

All was quiet and serene as my mother knelt on the floor beside my head. She looked like she was about to loose it. Her hair was housing the many cockroaches in our house, her lips were broken by her awful wails, her eyes were baggy like all my trousers and her clot—forget about her cloth; let’s leave it to the unknown.

“Sot-tonye,” she stuttered my name as she tightened her hand around the crucifix in her hands. “Oh God. Oh God, please, my son, he...”

She started crying again, but she had exhausted her tears. If it were possible—which it wasn’t—I would have lended her my tears since I rarely cried. But well, it’s impossible. My mother’s whole being shook as she recited every biblical quotes she could recall. I just listened docilely, nothing penetrating my expiring core.

Was I sick? Yes. Was I dying? Yes. Was I ready to live? If only there was something blissful in this world that held a reason for me to fight to live, something like love, then yes... Yes, I was ready to live for love. Not just any kind of love but romantic love.

My mother kept whispering quotes after quotes from the Bible, fiddling with the crucifix in her hands. I wish I could pray with her, but the pounding feeling in my head and the burning of my stomach kept me paralyzed and weakened. I just listened to her, my eyes stinging and my thoughts colliding.

Now where are my tinted glasses that my stingy, ugly cousin gave me? Bless her.

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The night was as silent as silence itself as I put on my decaying sandals—its leather had totally peeled off, and it was wet due to the times that the house got flooded, and its sole had totally pulled off. I loved my life. When I crosschecked my bag again, making sure I got everything I needed, I flung it over my shoulders and pulled on my badly sellotaped glasses. I silently walked out of the room, slyly—and with tightly shut eyes—avoided my mother’s sleeping form in front of my bedroom’s door and crouched to say goodnight.

“Mummy?” I whispered to her heavily breathing form. “I’m leaving for the night Mummy. Take care, okay?” I thought of searching for something to cover my mother but then remembered that she was a light sleeper and shuffled away from her with a defeated exhale.

I studied the dirty and dying wall before me. It wasn’t painted. I looked up and glared at the unceilinged ceiling. Oh dear, sweet, syrupy life. I just moped at the ceiling, stiffening as I heard a perching sound. I felt something caress my fingers and turned to see a cockroach creep onto my fingers.

“Ew!” I hissed and flung it off my fingers. “Ew! Ew! Ew!” I shut up and silently scurried out of the house. Sharing my bedroom and my life with cockroaches was one thing. Sharing my body with cockroaches was another. Ew!

Now some of you might say that I hardly went to school but exclaim “posh” terms. The simple reason is that I had once lived with my rich cousins and had learned from them. Those were the worst days of my life.

I shuddered as the cold, night air mockingly slapped my face. I looked towards the horizon but shuddered again when I heard the shouting of my neighbour as she senselessly whipped her wailing children. The sounds pierced my already aching brain and I pressed my hands against my ears to at least quell the noise.

“Can’t they at least get peace?” I hissed weakly as I moved my legs and dumped them in the pool of dirty, smelly water that had stagnated in front of my house—it emanating a light splash—and started my one-man journey.

To think that dying my own way was easy, then I was just joking. It was a joke.

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I’m never gonna make it, I thought as I dragged my body down the lofty hill thay was barricaded by wispy bushes and dancing palm trees. Oh fudge ball. The mosquitoes buzzed around me, their buzzing piercing my pounding brain like pin.

I was cold, alone, hungry—we hardly had any food supply—and tired. I paused my trekking as I pulled the old bag off my shoulders and weakly shot my hands into it to retrieve a water bottle. As I unscrewed the cap and tilted my head back, I looked up to the ebony sky, occupying my mind as I downed the stale water. I can’t say ‘disgusting’ because I have lived with this water—we use it to bath, to cook, to quench our thirst, to live. Don’t judge or make a weird face—I come from a poor nuclear family and have rich extended family members who care less about my well being. That’s just life.

When I was done and returned the bottle to the bag, I wiped drops of water off my lips and slung the bag over my shoulders. My stomach growled to the empty sky and I clutched it, feeling its many folds. Being fat and suffering from peptic ulcer at the same time has been a mystery to me—a damned mystery. The various holes in my overall clothing mocked me as the wind danced through them, scratching my skin with thin, pin-like claws. Oh fudging, fudge, fudge-cake. Oh dear.

Now I know that me narrating this story is dull and boring, but there’s no one here for me to talk to.

As I continued brooding internally—my brain lifting invisibility, my stomach digesting acid—the wind suddenly picked up, making the various palm trees sway in accordance to its command, the bushes vibrating in response. I shivered in response and clutched my arms around myself, begging God to let me survive this night. Apparently, the sky itself was mad at me because it suddenly started rumbling in anger. It didn’t even waste anytime and it started crying like a widowed sheep. The muddy ground soaked its tears and everywhere became slippery. I was afraid as I steadied my footsteps as I crept down the hill.

Why in the name of stew did my parents have a house on a hill?! Oh fudge. Oh fudge!

The environment shook as the thunderclaps lighted the sky with such ferocity that it made my eardrums explode and clog. My breathing heightened, my heartbeat fastened, my stomach tightened, and the pain in my head mocked me as I lost consciousness for a split second and tripped on my own two legs. My fall was sloppy as I rolled down the muddy hill, mud gumming my cloths to my skin. Mud blocked my nostrils and filled up my mouth. I couldn’t and didn’t have the strength to scream. My glasses flung off my face and I lost it. The straps to my old bag snapped and the bag tumbled away from me.

Luckily, my head was saved and only my shoulders broke my fall and made the hard impact. Clearly if someone saw me right now they’d think that I was an avalanche because I perfectly blended in due to my dirty clothes, my short, round body and my dark skin. Funny, I’m being crude to myself, meanwhile I’m supposed to be trying HOW TO SAVE MYSELF! Ow, that hurt. Shouting in my head was like those times my mother mishandled a mortar and a pestle.

When I finally got to the bottom of the hill, and tumbled towards the concreted main road, my head finally made the long deserved hard impact, causing my vision to whiten. My breath came out in exhausted puffs as I laid stiffly in the thunderstorm, my ears ringing and a few of my bones aching; a few of them had broken, especially my shoulder bones.

I thought the heavens above were finally opening for me as everything faded in and out of focus when I got tired of breathing. But the sound of a motor approaching made me think: They won’t stop. But when I heard the motor stop and a door was opened and slammed shut, it made me think: Wow, that’s a surprise.

After—after—I finally let go, I felt warm arms embrace my flabby, stout body into a warm, muscular one and I heard, “where have you been all my life?” I’ve never heard a voice so soft and it made me exhale in delight before I passed out.

Was I still ready to survive life or live it? Maybe no, maybe yes. It all depended on the meaning behind the person’s words. But now that I’ve got an opportunity, I needed to grab it.