I felt pain in one of those hazy nights, lazing through the smoke and the alcohol, making out shapes in the misty, dim-lit room. The soft chimes of the piano keys floated in our midst as I slouched over to make out her face.
I wasn’t sure why I felt the chest clenching pain. I wasn’t sure why it felt like my stomach just dropped down. I tried my best to hide it though and I don’t think she noticed me wince.
“That’s right. I like him, but I don’t think he’ll ever like me back” she gave her reply to my request for clarification.
She likes another man. Apparently, it’s a one side of thing. What was it called now?
“I hope you’re not judging me or something…” her voice trailed off. She looked down with a timid expression, probably because she just disclosed her deepest secret.
I tried to reach out, but my hand was trembling. Out of anger? Out of sadness? The piano was now doing a sonata. I held my hand back and let it fall on the table. I tried to be inconspicuous, by making it as if I was reaching for my coffee cup, but I just looked stupid and awkward.
I reassured her and told her that it’s fine. That people always undergo these sort of one-sided relationships (for which the actual term escapes my head at the moment). I told her that maybe if she could spend more time with him and get to know each other. The usual stuff. You know.
She was a shy girl anyway. Maybe these little moments of minute courage may help her to convince him to reciprocate his feelings. Maybe she can go ahead and live a happy life with this guy. Maybe I’ll stop thinking about her. Maybe then I’ll stop feeling this stupid pain in my chest. Maybe.
This guy who’s playing the piano is terrible. He’s playing the keys too loud now. I don’t think you’re supposed to slam your fingers on the keys.
She smiled. It was a peculiar smile out in the dimness and the fogginess of my mind. She smiled and thanked me and I said it was alright but she thanked me again and kept smiling. She smiled with those pink lips accented with a dab of rouge. It just broke my heart.
I told her that it’s alright to share these things with your close friends once in a while.
“What was that?”
Damn this piano. What does he think this is? An orchestra? You don’t need a damned crescendo in a café.
Nothing.
“Oh” she gave me a frustrated look. She doesn’t like it when I say that. Usually she would pout, but this time she remained silent for a while.
I rubbed my temples with thumb and index finger, trying to sort out my mind but the fogginess and loudness were preventing me from doing so. Everything felt like a dream that you’re keenly aware of, but not exactly lucid. It felt like I was sitting in the sidelines, watching the events unfold. I wanted to say things and express things, but my throat was dry and I couldn’t get the words out.
You don’t know. Sometimes all this pent up emotions might get the best of you. I’m now talking in a louder voice. My stomach felt funny as I was saying these words and my heart felt like twisting. Somehow I felt more pain. This piano isn’t helping either.
I stood up, knocking my chair over. My hand waved through the mist, through the smoke and alcohol, through the pain, as I made my way outside. She was following me as I dragged my feet outside. I was panting and my ears were ringing.
“Are you alright?”
I told her that I was fine. I then continued: I said that it’s not good to keep it in a one sided kind of way. It’ll hurt you in the end. It’s like a Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. Like Cyrano and Roxanne.
“Unrequited love?”
Yeah that’s what it’s called. Couldn’t think through that loud piano inside.
She smiled her heartbreaking smile again. I wanted to tell her to stop that. I was very close! I opened my mouth but cold air just went in my mouth and through my throat. I coughed and then smiled back at her. I said that it’s going to be alright.
“I hope so.”
I didn’t reply and we waited out in the cold for a while. I was leaning on the wall and she was just right there next to me, shoulder to shoulder, shivering, trying to keep some warmth.
I didn’t want to say anything else, but I wanted my presence known. I’m here. I share your plight. For years I’ve always wanted to say things and share things and express things. This sort of thing is slowly killing me inside. I tried to regain my composure and tried to think again: what if all of this works out for her? What if he reciprocates her feelings? I suppose it would be alright. I wouldn’t be bothered by her anymore. I wouldn’t have think and be tormented anymore. Maybe then I won’t have to worry about this whole Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. The pain welled up inside of me, but I can hear the piano inside calming down.
In the clear, cold, cloudless night, there was nothing but the wisps of our breaths, meandering, and ultimately dissipating into the night.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Mr. Business Executive
Mr. Business Executive Richard Ivan Pierce lived all his life without the thrill of the hunt or the enjoyment of the game. Not once did he stop to smell the flowers, or at least bask in his own self-created happiness. All his life was about the stocks and the investors. All his life was aimed towards the goal of retirement. Because of this, he never tasted the good food in the expensive restaurants he would go to. He would just suck it all in, too worried about losing money. After all, his company depended upon him and every moment that he’s not in his office, he’s losing some money. After all, this food is just the sustenance that he needs to survive.
He never really went to his son’s basketball games. Sure, he was physically there, but his fingers were too busy typing in calculations and he would keep telling himself that he shouldn’t stay there for too long. It bothers him that for every minute that he’s not in his office, he’s losing a little bit of money. He forgot what a good night’s sleep felt like. Every creak or crash in the night woke him up. Thieves? No, he never thought about animals that would make noises or the wind. It would keep him up at night, ever vigilante for the nonexistent thieves, his revolver in easy reach.
More importantly, he never really enjoyed having sex with his wife. All through the years he was physically there, humping her, but it was the dry sort of humping without passion. His mind was somewhere doing calculations, analyzing stocks, meeting investors, while his body was in between the legs of a woman who told him to stop five minutes ago. Maybe that’s why his wife divorced him. Or maybe it was the little trysts that he had with his secretaries. After all, having sex at work was pretty damn convenient. He never had to leave his office and he can punch in numbers while she smoked in the afterglow. Even then, he was unable to show any passion afterwards, often pushing away his mistress when she wanted to cuddle up a bit more. He hated his wife for divorcing him. He regretted not signing a prenuptial agreement. Now, he’s going to lose a lot of money. That money was supposed to be his, for his retirement that is. But it’s alright. Just a little more time and he’ll be retiring soon.
For one thing, he was proud that he raised an independent son—one that didn’t cling to him and go back to him to ask for money, that is. He’s off doing his own thing, travelling around Europe, playing for a National team, the hell he cares. He heard that his son’s team made it to the finals once and a ticket to the game ended up in his front desk, though he gladly sold it away without a second thought. He was going to work overtime that night. He just couldn’t be bothered.
Someone pointed out that he’s been coughing a lot recently though. Despite this, he kept punching in the numbers, meeting with investors, observing the stocks. At night, he would wake up and start coughing incessantly. In the morning, he would wake up and find blood all over the sheets. Coughing up blood? Maybe it’ll go away soon. Two weeks passed. His shoulders jutted with pain every time he stretched his arms. His chest felt as if someone put a clamp over it; and then the cough. The cough was beyond excruciating at this point—and it was keeping him from meeting up with investors. He thought to himself, what if investors don’t want to meet because they think they’ll catch whatever I have. Begrudgingly, he set up an appointment with his physician.
X-rays, biopsies, whatever. Just give me the pills, doc, so I can get back to work. He said with an impatient tone. He never trusted doctors anyway. Dentists either. They’ll always find something—some sort of God forsaken disease unknown to man and make you buy pills that cost half a human corpse from a man in a lab coat who gets paid too much for counting pills. Well what are you waiting for, doc? It’s been a week now, just give me the news. TB? Some goddamn flu from Mexico? (I knew I shouldn’t have gone there for that fucking waste of time investors)
The physician looked at him with a stern face and told him that he has lung cancer.
Mr. Business Executive Richard Ivan Pierce looked back at those eyes as if to retort to his diagnosis. Is this one of your scams doc? His voice was rising as he stood up from the chair and began putting in his coat.
The physician clarified and said that if he doesn’t undergo treatment soon, he will die for certain.
No, no, I’m not doing one of your cheap scams doc. I might be sleazy but I’m not stupid. I know how the bunch of you work. He stormed outside and trudged to his car, coughing, covering his mouth with his bloody handkerchief. He finally got in his car, slammed the door and drove out of the lot.
Deep inside Mr. Business Executive Richard Ivan Pierce, he had a small voice that was telling him: you’re going to die, Dick. You’re going to die. Then he said out in a hollering voice (it hurt his throat) that there’s no fucking way. That damn doctor liked to talk to his ex-wife anyway. Maybe they’re on to this together. It’s probably some elaborate scam. Either way, he can’t die now. There’s no way. Despite this, the tiny voice kept saying the same words: you’re going to die, Dick. You’re going to die. This time, they were a little louder and they echoed in his mind.
No. It’s a scam. That fucking bastard of a doctor’s sleeping with my wife. They’re trying to take my money. Cough.
These were his last thoughts as his car slammed into a raised flatbed truck, utterly annihilating his face. The paramedics had to pick up the pieces of his brain and skull, which spilled all over the asphalt, and the police had to look for his ID because it was near impossible to identify him. Afterwards, his car was towed away, unceremoniously, and the city’s biohazard crew had to clean up the blood he spilled all over the road, creating backed up traffic. Everyone who got stuck in traffic swore off whoever the asshole was that was the cause of this.
As it turns out, he held his business all by himself through some sort of superhuman feat. His will declared that all of his money be invested back into his business, which in retrospect, was a terrible idea because his spineless second-in-command never really knew how to run the business. Investors fled. The company went under. Bankruptcy was filed.
All that is left of Mr. Richard Ivan Pierce was his corpse in the morgue, with his crushed face and broken body. It lay there, unclaimed and ready to be shipped off to a University for dissections, or maybe it will stay there in the morgue for a while and some funeral home donates their time to give the poor wretch a funeral and bury him somewhere no one will remember. No one remembers him anymore, and he never left a single speck of him ever existing (besides his son and his other bastard children, but they’ll never really know their father). Perhaps he planned for that enormous amount of money that he was amassing to be his monument—his gravestone in the corporate world, in a way, but none of that exists anymore.
He never really went to his son’s basketball games. Sure, he was physically there, but his fingers were too busy typing in calculations and he would keep telling himself that he shouldn’t stay there for too long. It bothers him that for every minute that he’s not in his office, he’s losing a little bit of money. He forgot what a good night’s sleep felt like. Every creak or crash in the night woke him up. Thieves? No, he never thought about animals that would make noises or the wind. It would keep him up at night, ever vigilante for the nonexistent thieves, his revolver in easy reach.
More importantly, he never really enjoyed having sex with his wife. All through the years he was physically there, humping her, but it was the dry sort of humping without passion. His mind was somewhere doing calculations, analyzing stocks, meeting investors, while his body was in between the legs of a woman who told him to stop five minutes ago. Maybe that’s why his wife divorced him. Or maybe it was the little trysts that he had with his secretaries. After all, having sex at work was pretty damn convenient. He never had to leave his office and he can punch in numbers while she smoked in the afterglow. Even then, he was unable to show any passion afterwards, often pushing away his mistress when she wanted to cuddle up a bit more. He hated his wife for divorcing him. He regretted not signing a prenuptial agreement. Now, he’s going to lose a lot of money. That money was supposed to be his, for his retirement that is. But it’s alright. Just a little more time and he’ll be retiring soon.
For one thing, he was proud that he raised an independent son—one that didn’t cling to him and go back to him to ask for money, that is. He’s off doing his own thing, travelling around Europe, playing for a National team, the hell he cares. He heard that his son’s team made it to the finals once and a ticket to the game ended up in his front desk, though he gladly sold it away without a second thought. He was going to work overtime that night. He just couldn’t be bothered.
Someone pointed out that he’s been coughing a lot recently though. Despite this, he kept punching in the numbers, meeting with investors, observing the stocks. At night, he would wake up and start coughing incessantly. In the morning, he would wake up and find blood all over the sheets. Coughing up blood? Maybe it’ll go away soon. Two weeks passed. His shoulders jutted with pain every time he stretched his arms. His chest felt as if someone put a clamp over it; and then the cough. The cough was beyond excruciating at this point—and it was keeping him from meeting up with investors. He thought to himself, what if investors don’t want to meet because they think they’ll catch whatever I have. Begrudgingly, he set up an appointment with his physician.
X-rays, biopsies, whatever. Just give me the pills, doc, so I can get back to work. He said with an impatient tone. He never trusted doctors anyway. Dentists either. They’ll always find something—some sort of God forsaken disease unknown to man and make you buy pills that cost half a human corpse from a man in a lab coat who gets paid too much for counting pills. Well what are you waiting for, doc? It’s been a week now, just give me the news. TB? Some goddamn flu from Mexico? (I knew I shouldn’t have gone there for that fucking waste of time investors)
The physician looked at him with a stern face and told him that he has lung cancer.
Mr. Business Executive Richard Ivan Pierce looked back at those eyes as if to retort to his diagnosis. Is this one of your scams doc? His voice was rising as he stood up from the chair and began putting in his coat.
The physician clarified and said that if he doesn’t undergo treatment soon, he will die for certain.
No, no, I’m not doing one of your cheap scams doc. I might be sleazy but I’m not stupid. I know how the bunch of you work. He stormed outside and trudged to his car, coughing, covering his mouth with his bloody handkerchief. He finally got in his car, slammed the door and drove out of the lot.
Deep inside Mr. Business Executive Richard Ivan Pierce, he had a small voice that was telling him: you’re going to die, Dick. You’re going to die. Then he said out in a hollering voice (it hurt his throat) that there’s no fucking way. That damn doctor liked to talk to his ex-wife anyway. Maybe they’re on to this together. It’s probably some elaborate scam. Either way, he can’t die now. There’s no way. Despite this, the tiny voice kept saying the same words: you’re going to die, Dick. You’re going to die. This time, they were a little louder and they echoed in his mind.
No. It’s a scam. That fucking bastard of a doctor’s sleeping with my wife. They’re trying to take my money. Cough.
These were his last thoughts as his car slammed into a raised flatbed truck, utterly annihilating his face. The paramedics had to pick up the pieces of his brain and skull, which spilled all over the asphalt, and the police had to look for his ID because it was near impossible to identify him. Afterwards, his car was towed away, unceremoniously, and the city’s biohazard crew had to clean up the blood he spilled all over the road, creating backed up traffic. Everyone who got stuck in traffic swore off whoever the asshole was that was the cause of this.
As it turns out, he held his business all by himself through some sort of superhuman feat. His will declared that all of his money be invested back into his business, which in retrospect, was a terrible idea because his spineless second-in-command never really knew how to run the business. Investors fled. The company went under. Bankruptcy was filed.
All that is left of Mr. Richard Ivan Pierce was his corpse in the morgue, with his crushed face and broken body. It lay there, unclaimed and ready to be shipped off to a University for dissections, or maybe it will stay there in the morgue for a while and some funeral home donates their time to give the poor wretch a funeral and bury him somewhere no one will remember. No one remembers him anymore, and he never left a single speck of him ever existing (besides his son and his other bastard children, but they’ll never really know their father). Perhaps he planned for that enormous amount of money that he was amassing to be his monument—his gravestone in the corporate world, in a way, but none of that exists anymore.
Friday, April 9, 2010
One night I inadvertently felt pain.
I felt pain in one of those hazy nights, lazing through the smoke and the alcohol, making out shapes in the misty, dim-lit room. The soft chimes of the piano keys floating in our midst as I slouched over to make out her face.
I wasn’t sure why I felt the chest clenching pain. I wasn’t sure why it felt like my stomach just dropped down. I tried my best to hide it though, and I don’t think she noticed me wince.
“That’s right. I like him, but I don’t think he’ll ever like me back” she gave out her reply to my request for clarification.
She likes another man. Apparently, it’s a one side of thing. What’s it called now?
“I hope you’re not judging me or something…” her voice trailed off. She looked down with a timid expression, probably because she just disclosed her deepest secret.
I tried to reach out, but my hand was trembling. Out of anger? Out of sadness? The piano was now doing a sonata. I held my hand back and let it fall on the table, attempting to be inconspicuous, as if I was reaching for my coffee in the first place.
I reassured her and told her that it’s fine. That people always undergo these sort of one-sided relationships (for which the actual term escapes my head at the moment). I told her that maybe if she could spend more time with him and get to know each other. You know, the usual stuff.
She was a shy girl anyway. Maybe these little moments of minute courage may help her end up with the person she likes. Maybe she can go ahead and live a happy life with this guy. Maybe I’ll stop thinking about her. Maybe.
This guy who’s playing the piano is terrible. He’s playing the keys too loud now. I don’t think you’re supposed to slam your fingers on the keys.
She smiled. It was a peculiar smile out in the darkness and the fogginess of my mind. She smiled and thanked me and I said it was alright but she thanked me again and kept smiling. It just broke my heart.
I told her that it’s alright to share these things with your close friends once in a while.
“What was that?”
Damn this piano. What does he think this is? An orchestra? You don’t need a damned crescendo in a café.
I repeated what I said: that it’s good to share these things with your friends once in a while.
She laughed.
You don’t know. Sometimes all this pent up emotions might get the best of you. I’m now talking in a louder voice. My stomach felt funny as I was saying these words and my heart felt like twisting. Somehow I felt more pain. This piano isn’t helping either.
I stood up, knocking my chair over. My hand waved through the mist, through the smoke and alcohol, through the pain, as I made my way outside. She was following me as I dragged my feet outside. I was panting and my ears were ringing.
“Are you alright?”
I told her that I was fine. I then continued: I said that it’s not good to keep it in a one sided kind of way. It’ll hurt you in the end. It’s like a Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. Like Cyrano and Roxanne.
“Unrequited love?”
Yeah that’s what it’s called. Can’t think through all that loud piano inside.
She smiled her heartbreaking smile again. I wanted to tell her to stop that. I was very close! I opened my mouth but cold air just went in my mouth and through my throat. I coughed and then smiled back at her. I said that it’s going to be alright.
“I hope so.”
I didn’t reply and we waited out in the cold for a while. I was leaning on the wall and she was just right there next to me, shoulder to shoulder, shivering, trying to keep some warmth.
We talked for a little while and the pain stayed with me. Like I said, maybe if she does end up with this guy, I’ll eventually forget her. I won’t have to regret not saying anything in the first place. I won’t have to think about her… and just forget her.
Maybe if she finds someone else to talk to, I won’t have to worry about the whole Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. The pain welled up inside of me, but I can hear the piano inside calming down.
In the clear, cold, cloudless night, there was nothing but the wisps of our breaths, meandering, and ultimately dissipating into the night.
I wasn’t sure why I felt the chest clenching pain. I wasn’t sure why it felt like my stomach just dropped down. I tried my best to hide it though, and I don’t think she noticed me wince.
“That’s right. I like him, but I don’t think he’ll ever like me back” she gave out her reply to my request for clarification.
She likes another man. Apparently, it’s a one side of thing. What’s it called now?
“I hope you’re not judging me or something…” her voice trailed off. She looked down with a timid expression, probably because she just disclosed her deepest secret.
I tried to reach out, but my hand was trembling. Out of anger? Out of sadness? The piano was now doing a sonata. I held my hand back and let it fall on the table, attempting to be inconspicuous, as if I was reaching for my coffee in the first place.
I reassured her and told her that it’s fine. That people always undergo these sort of one-sided relationships (for which the actual term escapes my head at the moment). I told her that maybe if she could spend more time with him and get to know each other. You know, the usual stuff.
She was a shy girl anyway. Maybe these little moments of minute courage may help her end up with the person she likes. Maybe she can go ahead and live a happy life with this guy. Maybe I’ll stop thinking about her. Maybe.
This guy who’s playing the piano is terrible. He’s playing the keys too loud now. I don’t think you’re supposed to slam your fingers on the keys.
She smiled. It was a peculiar smile out in the darkness and the fogginess of my mind. She smiled and thanked me and I said it was alright but she thanked me again and kept smiling. It just broke my heart.
I told her that it’s alright to share these things with your close friends once in a while.
“What was that?”
Damn this piano. What does he think this is? An orchestra? You don’t need a damned crescendo in a café.
I repeated what I said: that it’s good to share these things with your friends once in a while.
She laughed.
You don’t know. Sometimes all this pent up emotions might get the best of you. I’m now talking in a louder voice. My stomach felt funny as I was saying these words and my heart felt like twisting. Somehow I felt more pain. This piano isn’t helping either.
I stood up, knocking my chair over. My hand waved through the mist, through the smoke and alcohol, through the pain, as I made my way outside. She was following me as I dragged my feet outside. I was panting and my ears were ringing.
“Are you alright?”
I told her that I was fine. I then continued: I said that it’s not good to keep it in a one sided kind of way. It’ll hurt you in the end. It’s like a Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. Like Cyrano and Roxanne.
“Unrequited love?”
Yeah that’s what it’s called. Can’t think through all that loud piano inside.
She smiled her heartbreaking smile again. I wanted to tell her to stop that. I was very close! I opened my mouth but cold air just went in my mouth and through my throat. I coughed and then smiled back at her. I said that it’s going to be alright.
“I hope so.”
I didn’t reply and we waited out in the cold for a while. I was leaning on the wall and she was just right there next to me, shoulder to shoulder, shivering, trying to keep some warmth.
We talked for a little while and the pain stayed with me. Like I said, maybe if she does end up with this guy, I’ll eventually forget her. I won’t have to regret not saying anything in the first place. I won’t have to think about her… and just forget her.
Maybe if she finds someone else to talk to, I won’t have to worry about the whole Dante and Beatrice kind of thing. The pain welled up inside of me, but I can hear the piano inside calming down.
In the clear, cold, cloudless night, there was nothing but the wisps of our breaths, meandering, and ultimately dissipating into the night.
Friday, September 4, 2009
The Ocean
I’ve never seen the ocean at night, but when I did, it evoked strange emotions that I’ve never felt before. The vastness of the bleak and dark sea didn’t call forth warmth and happiness that I felt as a child, but it conveyed a dark void, beckoning me towards it with the crashing sound of its ebbs and flows. There were no stars, there was no moon; there were only clouds that stretched on to infinity, and the unsteady waters grasping for the horizon.
I found it strange that this was the same ocean that I loved. This was the same ocean that enveloped me in its cooling crests. This was the same ocean that caressed my back with the warmth of the sun as I sat and played with the sand. That same scent of the ocean breeze now sends fear pervading through my body, standing the hairs on the back of my neck. The crashing sounds no longer remind me of frothing waves, but instead remind me of the snarl of wild beasts who are hell bent on devouring me.
The unknown that brewed inside me fermented with the most violent of fears. I fear the demon that lurks within the darkness of the Earth’s cold blanket. I fear the darkness imbued within it that threatens to swallow me.
6/??/2009
I found it strange that this was the same ocean that I loved. This was the same ocean that enveloped me in its cooling crests. This was the same ocean that caressed my back with the warmth of the sun as I sat and played with the sand. That same scent of the ocean breeze now sends fear pervading through my body, standing the hairs on the back of my neck. The crashing sounds no longer remind me of frothing waves, but instead remind me of the snarl of wild beasts who are hell bent on devouring me.
The unknown that brewed inside me fermented with the most violent of fears. I fear the demon that lurks within the darkness of the Earth’s cold blanket. I fear the darkness imbued within it that threatens to swallow me.
6/??/2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
2, 587
I had a roommate who followed the same routine for two years and never broke it.
His alarm would blare at exactly 5:15 AM and he would let it would blare for a while but he would then stop it after two minutes. I know this because I timed it. This may sound annoying, but I eventually grew to sleep over it. Around 6 AM, he would stand up and immediately eat the same breakfast for two years: cold milk and corn flakes. This was the time when my alarm would go off and I would join him for breakfast. He would finish breakfast at precisely 6:15 AM and he would take a shower and dress and leave at 6:45 AM. He would arrive home at 5 PM, eat dinner at 6 PM, and then finally, sleep at 9 PM.
I wasn’t sure how he could handle such routine. At that time, I couldn’t even handle my college schedule. So I had to ask him somehow—perhaps he could share tips in strengthening one’s willpower to overcome such a boring schedule. So one time I did.
“Two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.” He answered.
“What does that supposed to mean?” A magic number, perhaps? Or maybe a philosophy based on symbolism.
“It’s the number of dots on my room’s ceiling.”
I paused for a bit, not sure if I heard him right. “I’m sorry, but can you repeat that again please?”
“It’s the number of dots on my room’s ceiling.” He repeated verbatim and with a tone that was eerily the same as his first answer.
It turns out that in the gap in between 5:15 AM and 6 AM, he counted the number of dots on his ceiling. Every day. For the past two years. I doubted him at first but he kept a straight face. He explained to me that this was the only way that would force him to keep up with the routine—he would wake up, turn on the lights and stare at the ceiling, counting the number of dots.
“Well, are they like constellations where you see images and stuff?” I queried.
“No. It’s just dots.” His reply was firm. “Why would I think of that?”
I tried it once after he mentioned his odd hobby. It didn’t really work out too well. I woke up to the sound of his alarm and this signaled me to count the dots on my room’s ceiling, hoping to see routine in the way he sees it.
1… 2… 3…
Around 150 or so, I lost count.
Actually, I fell asleep.
There was one day, however, where my peculiar roommate stayed in his room later than 6 AM. This obviously made me worried and curious. He never broke routine. Not even once. So I knocked on his room, only to find out that the door was cracked open. I peered in and saw him lying, staring at ceiling.
“Hey, it’s almost 6:30. You’re going to be late for work.”
No answer.
“Is there something wrong?”
He lifted a finger at me, as if he asking me to wait for a second. His lips moved, whispering and counting at a rapid pace. And then he paused.
“Two thousand, five hundred eighty-eight.” He muttered.
“What?”
“The number of dots. It’s changed.”
“Well, you probably miscounted or something. Or maybe it’s a dot you haven’t noticed before.” These were my futile attempts at reasoning.
“No. It has always been two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.” He sat up, but his head was tilted and still faced the ceiling.
After minutes of bantering, I somehow convinced my roommate to get changed and get to work because he was sincerely planning on staying home and counting those dots over and over the entire day. It was hard and it took a lot of yelling but he eventually gave in. Something was wrong with him before he left. He was paler than usual and he twitched slightly. Sometimes his fingers would give out spasms, which I noticed as he waved goodbye. Perhaps it was about the dots on his ceiling, or perhaps it was a bit more.
I never knew the exact reason why he counted the dots on his ceiling and I suppose no one will ever know why.
You see, he died in a car accident on that day where he found it strange and alarming that the dots had one more among them.
It was strange.
He drove the same car that he drove for two years. He took the same route that he rode for two years. He followed the same routine that he followed for two, long, monotonous years. Perhaps, he sensed the difference in today.
Before I could leave for my class, a police officer knocked on my door and asked if this was the residence of my roommate. Afterwards, he informed me of his demise in the mesh of steel, on that stretch of concrete. He had no contacts to his family; all the ones that he provided for work were dead ends. No one claimed his body and frankly, it was as if he never existed in the first place. All his belongings were useless and no one really knew who he really was. It was as if he died without leaving a single thing, not even a memory. He did leave one thing: two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.
9/2/2009
His alarm would blare at exactly 5:15 AM and he would let it would blare for a while but he would then stop it after two minutes. I know this because I timed it. This may sound annoying, but I eventually grew to sleep over it. Around 6 AM, he would stand up and immediately eat the same breakfast for two years: cold milk and corn flakes. This was the time when my alarm would go off and I would join him for breakfast. He would finish breakfast at precisely 6:15 AM and he would take a shower and dress and leave at 6:45 AM. He would arrive home at 5 PM, eat dinner at 6 PM, and then finally, sleep at 9 PM.
I wasn’t sure how he could handle such routine. At that time, I couldn’t even handle my college schedule. So I had to ask him somehow—perhaps he could share tips in strengthening one’s willpower to overcome such a boring schedule. So one time I did.
“Two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.” He answered.
“What does that supposed to mean?” A magic number, perhaps? Or maybe a philosophy based on symbolism.
“It’s the number of dots on my room’s ceiling.”
I paused for a bit, not sure if I heard him right. “I’m sorry, but can you repeat that again please?”
“It’s the number of dots on my room’s ceiling.” He repeated verbatim and with a tone that was eerily the same as his first answer.
It turns out that in the gap in between 5:15 AM and 6 AM, he counted the number of dots on his ceiling. Every day. For the past two years. I doubted him at first but he kept a straight face. He explained to me that this was the only way that would force him to keep up with the routine—he would wake up, turn on the lights and stare at the ceiling, counting the number of dots.
“Well, are they like constellations where you see images and stuff?” I queried.
“No. It’s just dots.” His reply was firm. “Why would I think of that?”
I tried it once after he mentioned his odd hobby. It didn’t really work out too well. I woke up to the sound of his alarm and this signaled me to count the dots on my room’s ceiling, hoping to see routine in the way he sees it.
1… 2… 3…
Around 150 or so, I lost count.
Actually, I fell asleep.
There was one day, however, where my peculiar roommate stayed in his room later than 6 AM. This obviously made me worried and curious. He never broke routine. Not even once. So I knocked on his room, only to find out that the door was cracked open. I peered in and saw him lying, staring at ceiling.
“Hey, it’s almost 6:30. You’re going to be late for work.”
No answer.
“Is there something wrong?”
He lifted a finger at me, as if he asking me to wait for a second. His lips moved, whispering and counting at a rapid pace. And then he paused.
“Two thousand, five hundred eighty-eight.” He muttered.
“What?”
“The number of dots. It’s changed.”
“Well, you probably miscounted or something. Or maybe it’s a dot you haven’t noticed before.” These were my futile attempts at reasoning.
“No. It has always been two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.” He sat up, but his head was tilted and still faced the ceiling.
After minutes of bantering, I somehow convinced my roommate to get changed and get to work because he was sincerely planning on staying home and counting those dots over and over the entire day. It was hard and it took a lot of yelling but he eventually gave in. Something was wrong with him before he left. He was paler than usual and he twitched slightly. Sometimes his fingers would give out spasms, which I noticed as he waved goodbye. Perhaps it was about the dots on his ceiling, or perhaps it was a bit more.
I never knew the exact reason why he counted the dots on his ceiling and I suppose no one will ever know why.
You see, he died in a car accident on that day where he found it strange and alarming that the dots had one more among them.
It was strange.
He drove the same car that he drove for two years. He took the same route that he rode for two years. He followed the same routine that he followed for two, long, monotonous years. Perhaps, he sensed the difference in today.
Before I could leave for my class, a police officer knocked on my door and asked if this was the residence of my roommate. Afterwards, he informed me of his demise in the mesh of steel, on that stretch of concrete. He had no contacts to his family; all the ones that he provided for work were dead ends. No one claimed his body and frankly, it was as if he never existed in the first place. All his belongings were useless and no one really knew who he really was. It was as if he died without leaving a single thing, not even a memory. He did leave one thing: two thousand, five hundred eighty-seven.
9/2/2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Receiver
The other line was silent as he chocked over the words he was about to say. Ultimately, dull whimpers came out, and then "Nothing." He wanted to say more, but emotion cluttered the thoughts that rushed through his head and he wasn't able to grasp a coherent idea, thus the nonsensical mumbling.
“I’m,” he chocked out. “I’m very happy to hear your voice.” That was stupid, he thought to himself. Perhaps that was the only coherent thought that was flashing in his head at that moment, and it was flashing in big bold letters.
She laughed over the other line anyway. "Me, too!" was her reply and she said so in earnest regard. "I was worried, so I just wanted to call on you to see if you're doing alright."
She always worried about him, he thought. Ever since they were little she was concerned about something, and this always bugged him because he never fully understood how considerate she can be. She was the constant presence that loomed over his shoulder, loomed over his faults; the strings that pulled him up from his abysmal failures (or sunk him further down, albeit unintentionally). She was always present; she was always persistent, even as they grew up.
"What are you doing now, anyway?" her question attempted to pry him open.
He could never stay shut for too long: "Nothing." his voice was a little somber, a little sober. It cracked and it was hoarse. "I--I lost my job."
"Since when?"
"A week ago." a pause. "Just about..." he added.
She always looked up to him. She believed that there was something more in him. He never liked that. He was a delinquent, anyway, and he never fully understood why she could look up to a delinquent. Mother and Father scholded him through his childhood, through his teenage years, through his early adulthood: "Get a job, make yourself useful for this family!" and she would peer in, always present, always looming over his resentment towards his parents. She should be ashamed of him.
"I see...." she replied after a half minute of silence. "If there's something--"
"No, you don't need to." he interrupted her because he knew what she was thinking. "I just need time to find a new job."
He never understood why she kept doing this, that is, she always tried to help him whenever he gets in trouble. He never understood why she always stuck up to him, no matter what. He remembered at his parents' funeral and everyone whispered terrible things about him, "Not a single emotion, what an evil son." but he ignored them. "Such a tragedy for them to die in an accident and to leave their wretched son in this world." he ignored those, too. He pushed through the whispers and the murmurs and the rumors and the words that pierced through his ears and he sat next to her. She was crying, her face covered with her hands.
"Please let me help you," she persisted from the other line. "It's really hard, I know, but I know you can make it."
Those words sounded so familiar. They were said in a whisper once, and those same words passed through his lips on that day he sat next to her. On the day of the funeral.
"You're the only family I have in this world and I don't want to lose you."
Those words, too. She repeated his words, verbatim. He was silent for the longest time and she called his name. Concern was evident in her voice.
"Ever since Mommy and Daddy died, you've taken care of me. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here right now." That "here" being college. "Please, let me help you." She repeated.
He remembered her wiping her tears with her handkerchief, still sobbing. And then she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her weight bore upon him and he leaned on her shoulder, but he was hesitant to embrace her back. He saw it awkward, out of character, embarassing. Perhaps what the relatives were saying was true after all. She sobbed softly, and he could feel her sobs reverberating through his body, and he could feel her sadness weigh him, but he never found the tears to shed. He thought that he was the weight in her world, the load that she had to carry, her older brother that never showed emotion, shunned by relatives, disregarded by society, a wreck and a failure, but she was always there, always over his shoulders.
"Hey," he said to the receiver. "Stop crying."
She paused, but it was hard to hide her sobs. He heard them from the other line and his hands trembled. His lips twitched and his eyes started burning. He felt the familiar warmth, the familiar weight, the familiar embrace through those sobs, and somehow, he felt her close.
"Just... just talk to me once in a while, okay?" he pleaded over her sobs. "Just call me over the weekends or something. Tell me what's happening over there. That's all I need."
He remembered parting with her. She was off to college somewhere far away to become someone successful, and he's left alone in this town, trying to pay rent and living from paycheck to paycheck. He was miserable but she still looked up to him. Maybe, he thought, maybe because he was there to help her get over her burden. Maybe, he thought, maybe because he represented something more in her life, like she said, the only family she has. Maybe. He began to realize this as he remembered her waving goodbye, possibly the last time he saw her face. He tried to remember her expression, but it was so vague.
"Just be here with me. This is fine right now and I don't mind it. You're all I have."
The call ended a few minutes later with promises of keeping in touch for the coming months, and possibly longer than that. The idea made him feel lighter, as if he felt a release from her embrace, although he was still emotionally exhausted. He made his way to the bathroom and washed his face. He eyed through the dirty-tiled bathroom until his eyes caught the attention of the sleeping pills that he recently bought. He remembered the subtle reactions of the pharmacist when he bought them. He looked right at him with a concerned face, especially at his haggard state. But he simply stared back at them with a stare that would rival a certain Emily Greirson. He fumbled through the pills and opened the cap, bloodshot eyes staring down the tube. He raised it, turned it, and let every single pill drop, unceremoniously, down the toilet.
2/24/2009
“I’m,” he chocked out. “I’m very happy to hear your voice.” That was stupid, he thought to himself. Perhaps that was the only coherent thought that was flashing in his head at that moment, and it was flashing in big bold letters.
She laughed over the other line anyway. "Me, too!" was her reply and she said so in earnest regard. "I was worried, so I just wanted to call on you to see if you're doing alright."
She always worried about him, he thought. Ever since they were little she was concerned about something, and this always bugged him because he never fully understood how considerate she can be. She was the constant presence that loomed over his shoulder, loomed over his faults; the strings that pulled him up from his abysmal failures (or sunk him further down, albeit unintentionally). She was always present; she was always persistent, even as they grew up.
"What are you doing now, anyway?" her question attempted to pry him open.
He could never stay shut for too long: "Nothing." his voice was a little somber, a little sober. It cracked and it was hoarse. "I--I lost my job."
"Since when?"
"A week ago." a pause. "Just about..." he added.
She always looked up to him. She believed that there was something more in him. He never liked that. He was a delinquent, anyway, and he never fully understood why she could look up to a delinquent. Mother and Father scholded him through his childhood, through his teenage years, through his early adulthood: "Get a job, make yourself useful for this family!" and she would peer in, always present, always looming over his resentment towards his parents. She should be ashamed of him.
"I see...." she replied after a half minute of silence. "If there's something--"
"No, you don't need to." he interrupted her because he knew what she was thinking. "I just need time to find a new job."
He never understood why she kept doing this, that is, she always tried to help him whenever he gets in trouble. He never understood why she always stuck up to him, no matter what. He remembered at his parents' funeral and everyone whispered terrible things about him, "Not a single emotion, what an evil son." but he ignored them. "Such a tragedy for them to die in an accident and to leave their wretched son in this world." he ignored those, too. He pushed through the whispers and the murmurs and the rumors and the words that pierced through his ears and he sat next to her. She was crying, her face covered with her hands.
"Please let me help you," she persisted from the other line. "It's really hard, I know, but I know you can make it."
Those words sounded so familiar. They were said in a whisper once, and those same words passed through his lips on that day he sat next to her. On the day of the funeral.
"You're the only family I have in this world and I don't want to lose you."
Those words, too. She repeated his words, verbatim. He was silent for the longest time and she called his name. Concern was evident in her voice.
"Ever since Mommy and Daddy died, you've taken care of me. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be here right now." That "here" being college. "Please, let me help you." She repeated.
He remembered her wiping her tears with her handkerchief, still sobbing. And then she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her weight bore upon him and he leaned on her shoulder, but he was hesitant to embrace her back. He saw it awkward, out of character, embarassing. Perhaps what the relatives were saying was true after all. She sobbed softly, and he could feel her sobs reverberating through his body, and he could feel her sadness weigh him, but he never found the tears to shed. He thought that he was the weight in her world, the load that she had to carry, her older brother that never showed emotion, shunned by relatives, disregarded by society, a wreck and a failure, but she was always there, always over his shoulders.
"Hey," he said to the receiver. "Stop crying."
She paused, but it was hard to hide her sobs. He heard them from the other line and his hands trembled. His lips twitched and his eyes started burning. He felt the familiar warmth, the familiar weight, the familiar embrace through those sobs, and somehow, he felt her close.
"Just... just talk to me once in a while, okay?" he pleaded over her sobs. "Just call me over the weekends or something. Tell me what's happening over there. That's all I need."
He remembered parting with her. She was off to college somewhere far away to become someone successful, and he's left alone in this town, trying to pay rent and living from paycheck to paycheck. He was miserable but she still looked up to him. Maybe, he thought, maybe because he was there to help her get over her burden. Maybe, he thought, maybe because he represented something more in her life, like she said, the only family she has. Maybe. He began to realize this as he remembered her waving goodbye, possibly the last time he saw her face. He tried to remember her expression, but it was so vague.
"Just be here with me. This is fine right now and I don't mind it. You're all I have."
The call ended a few minutes later with promises of keeping in touch for the coming months, and possibly longer than that. The idea made him feel lighter, as if he felt a release from her embrace, although he was still emotionally exhausted. He made his way to the bathroom and washed his face. He eyed through the dirty-tiled bathroom until his eyes caught the attention of the sleeping pills that he recently bought. He remembered the subtle reactions of the pharmacist when he bought them. He looked right at him with a concerned face, especially at his haggard state. But he simply stared back at them with a stare that would rival a certain Emily Greirson. He fumbled through the pills and opened the cap, bloodshot eyes staring down the tube. He raised it, turned it, and let every single pill drop, unceremoniously, down the toilet.
2/24/2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
