Fiction
By Aaron Adams
“Text me when you're home.”
You would always send me that after we said our goodbyes. Even before you reached your apartment, you would send that little message of concern, of love. I always thought it was cute. It made me a little more wary on the drive home. She’s waiting for my text; I have to be safe.
A world of care packed within those five words: please let me know you have returned safely, so I can stop worrying. The roads are empty with the world asleep at these hours, but you may be tired, what if you doze off halfway? What if you get distracted? You always get distracted. Much can happen and I need you to be safe. Tell me, so I can be rest assured. I can only go to sleep in peace knowing you too, can retire to sleep in peace. You are important to me, I need you to be safe, to be well. Tell me you're okay.
The last time I saw you, I left your house at 4am. I remember wiping the tears off your face and telling you it will be okay. I told you I wanted to dance with you, but you said you didn’t know how. But that isn’t true. We both know how to dance, to sway with the cosmos as lovers intertwined. What else is dancing but the eternal mimicry of the heavenly order? And how different is that from two souls so desperately in love? So we wrapped each other in our arms and swayed under the night sky, stars shining with heavy sighs, knowing that separation looms closer with every tick of moonlight.
As I walked you back to your apartment, holding your little hand tighter than ever, trying futilely to somehow keep us together, I still didn’t feel as if I could possibly lose you. We didn’t have much time left together, and with every step Death’s scythe came closer and closer, until I can feel her breath under my neck, blood dripping down my back. But I didn’t notice; you were still looking at me with those eyes. The eyes that speak a thousand terribly wonderful things, things never to see the light of day, not for sin but for purity, too much purity. But I know what those eyes said: stay. Perhaps you knew, knew that if you said those words, I would never ever leave you. You knew nothing meant so much to me in this fallen world as you, nothing could ever satisfy me as much as the affirmation of your love, which you had, but hidden for higher purposes. You knew I would give up all my dreams for you, throw them into fiery valleys because none could ever compare to the girl standing in front of me. You knew the world would be deprived of whatever I had to offer, and instead, you would receive all of it. You knew I saw the world in your eyes—perhaps you didn’t think you deserved it, so you sacrificed yourself, cut us apart with the bloody knife of fate, letting the pain wreathe you in until there is nothing but emptiness, where finally you will once again be filled by the love of He. And so you didn’t utter those words of solidarity, the call to fight; you gave it up, you let me go. With no resistance all I could turn to was solitude, the familiar brother of those who loved too much.
We stepped in the elevator and I kissed you hard; one last time, I thought, before pulling you in for a final hug. A hug: an action convinced was the true purpose of the creation of arms. To hold another, to melt into one another, to burst and return into the embrace of a loved one, so tenderly vulnerable. We were one, as Eve was to Adam, as Adam belonged to Eve. The simplest of acts, the closest of hearts—with arms wrapped around each other the world became within grasp, calling to bear all that we had into the arena of love.
Then the door opened. I had to go, as we promised. I kissed your forehead one last time—be safe, my love—and disappeared into the carpark, our hands gently grazing until it no longer touched, the distance growing wider and wider ever since. I didn’t dare turn to look at you one last time while the elevator closed; I was horrified at what I might see—your tearful face, so pretty and broken, as are all things young and beautiful. How can things ever be beautiful if unbroken, how can things be worth anything if never wounded? What I was most afraid was upon a glance, I would crumble in will and return to you, begging to stay, saying how we can and will fight all the demons together. I would, a thousand times, but then I came to learn the demon was I, so I took myself apart, as a final, feeble attempt to love you. Yes, the final act of love was pulling myself away from you; I, to death, for you to live. I stumbled back to my car carelessly, futilely grasping how much I have just lost. You sent me the last few pictures we took: my arms wrapped around you from behind, a foreshadowing of what is to come. That’s it. No “text me when you're home”, no “get home safe”, no “drive safely okay?”. Nothing.
As I drove out of your carpark, I was plunged into a paroxysm of apathy. It was late. I'm tired. I need to quickly get home. I smashed the accelerator, going way over the speed limit in too narrow roads, desperately crawling home as if going faster would somehow make sense of everything, as if getting a fine for speeding would somehow bring you back. No, it wasn’t that. I felt nothing. Or maybe I felt too much and wanted to feel nothing.
Deathly scenes conjured by the harrowed mind bubbled ceaselessly to the surface, interrupted only by the horns of other cars who were unfortunate enough to meet a driver with no one to report to. No, I wasn’t suicidal, of course not. It was just a girl. Who meant the world to me. What’s the matter with losing the world? I've been here before. It’s for the best. It’ll be okay. It’s not okay. I just lost the only person who really saw me and loved me. For what? For her. Yea. Will I see her again? No, never. She’ll get over you soon buddy, you know that. She was the one crying tonight but check back 3 months later and she’ll be fine. You on the other hand, would be crying harder. You know why? Shut up. Shut up, please.
I jammed the accelerator at a turn, and without the instinctive tensing of my body and support of my right arm, inertia would have flung me to the right window. Made desperate by the knock of indifference, cognisance of lost became so palpable I imagined other drivers suspected my intoxication, but I have never been more sober.
I so badly desired to be in an accident. Please let some drunken fool continue at a red light and crash into me. The only concern I had was the cost of car repair. Despite recklessness taking the wheel, misfortune besieged and denied me liberation, ensnaring me into a catacomb of safety. I had no right to be safe. What for? For whom?
By the time the familiar sketches of my neighbourhood revealed themselves, it was 5.15am. A new day has begun for some. As the green light faded to red, a public bus passed by with the words “On test” plastered on the front.
A woman with a clipboard in her hand, standing beside the conductor, determining the course of his life with the stroke of her ballpoint pen. They were gone too quickly and their faces a blur, but gaps of reality were filled by the imaginations of a lonely mind.
Sabrina, the mother of 4. A senior bus conductor of 28 years, she woke up early to assess a promising new bus driver. She already had half the mind to pass him anyway, given his performance in driving school. She kissed her children, who were still soundly asleep, gently on the forehead before she left. All things done to see them cheerily describe a typical school day later that evening.
Alex, single father of a 5-year-old. Jasmine, his precious daughter, woke up a year ago to a house without a mother. Left without a word, only a note: I can’t continue this. Take care of jasmine. Too young to understand, the ritualistic question of “when will mummy return” ceased only a few months ago. Behind the eyes of concentration and cold beads of nervous sweat, only one thing propelled Alex to move forward. He picked himself up after a week of the departure, piecing his life back piece by piece. Not for himself, never for himself. He always played the villain to his own story, but now he was trying to be someone else’s hero. He need only drive this route he had driven before a thousand times with perfection once more, then paradise would come nearer, however much further that still may be. A step is a step, Alex knows.
Sonder.
I read that somewhere before. The sudden realisation everyone was living a life as complex as your own. The lifeless casher who had just been reprimanded for being late to work, not having the chance to explain how his grandmother fell in the bathroom this morning. The haughty office worker who grew up overshadowed by his talented older sister, leaving marks of insecurity overcompensated by arrogance till today. The uncle perpetually drinking coffee at that specific table in the hawker centre, who uses coffee to rid himself of the alcohol addiction after getting depression from his wife’s passing to cancer. They are all heroes of their lives, playing the villains simultaneously. How the world sees us hang on how the eternal fight between hero and villain goes. But no one ever really knows what goes on behind the smile, the tears, the nonchalance cut across our faces. Behind every smile hide years of sorrow and every tear is borne from years of love. The cold stranger conceals a tender heart scarred from being betrayed, the kind soul once lost control and hurt his loved one.
Maybe we barely even know ourselves. What baggage are we all carrying from time immemorial? Has it been so long you have forgotten how heavy it is? It doesn’t get much lighter, doesn’t it? We just got stronger.
As the light turned green, I tried my hardest to not look back as I drove past it, heading instead toward the coming dawn.
Drive safe, Alex. Someone’s waiting for you.
Aaron Adams is a self-proclaimed expert on the Roman empire. He likes to read obscure ancient texts and thrives at trivia night. He writes in his free time because he has a story to tell.