Friday, May 12, 2006
Lost
For J. Enjoy. :-) Lost
He drifts around lazily, unconcernedly. Looking up at the sky, he sees that it is not actually blue, like what the adults have always been telling him. It's really different shades of gray, shades of a maximum-security steel prison. He closes his eyes, as if sensing for rain. But he isn't, not now. The sun is too hot and will burn up his corneas like eggs if he does not take great care of them.
With his eyes closed, the memories flood back quicker, an unstoppable torrent. He remembers the hurt that rent and lacerated his heart, caused by a single mortal. He laughs quietly. How ironic that she should be the one--the only one who ever managed to chip a hole in his armor so that a sliver of light shone through. No, not light. It was a shred of darkness--thin, but black enough to frighten her away, sparking the entire tragedy. He shifts his thoughts to other things, less painful, easier to swallow.
A childhood memory passes: he was almost six, still cute enough to have his cheeks pinched by women young or old, widow or spinster, married or divorced. They treated him like nothing more than a warm-blooded cuddly ornament. And he obliged them, displaying nothing of his acute knowledge and sharp senses. One day, as the school bus neared his house, a bunch of boys thought it would be fun to push him off the bus while it was still moving. If he had not instinctively grasped the metal bars on the side, he would have fallen off and struck his head on the hard pavement. From that day on, he swore that he would protect himself at all costs. Hence, the karate classes.
"Hello, you seem a little lost." A pleasant voice sounds, waking him from his reverie. He opens his eyes and sees an old man on a raft, bobbing next to him. His white hair shines golden in the sun. In his hand is a staff with an unusually ornamented head, seemingly religious in style. Marc is sure of these things. Even the old man's posture is slightly imposing, like that of an earnest evangelist, though softened with friendliness.
"I'm not really lost," Marc replies, smiling. He decides to try a friendly but cool tack. "I'm just not sure where I want to go at this point."
"Ah yes...that's what they all say," the old man answers, benignly. "I can help you. After all, you don't want to be floating around all day, no?"
"Actually, I wouldn't mind," Marc answered brightly. "Better than landing somewhere and finding out that it's the wrong place."
"Yes, yes," the old man nods understandingly. "I can help you. I know right place. Guaranteed." He winks, heartfelt and sincere.
"What place is this?" Marc asks, though he knows the answer already. "And how do you know it's right?"
The old man taps the head of his staff and mutters something as he does so. A small book appears in his left hand, its color changing as different motes of light strike it. The old man holds it with caution, as if he is handling a brand new book in a bookstore, afraid to soil it in case he might be forced to buy it.
"This," the old man taps the book, smiling. "Is the answer."
"Answer to what?" Marc asks politely. He is beginning to get bored. He knows where this is heading, what the old man will say, and how he will respond. He also knows how it will end, and longs for the ending to arrive quickly.
"This book tell you where you need to go. What happens when you reach there--glorious things. Beautiful things. Peace. No more drifting around like got nowhere to go. No more feel uncertain of wrong things. Only truth left." The old man smiles at Marc, a smile of expectation.
The corner of Marc's mouth twitches. He would have to break that smile, unfortunately. "Only truth?" he echoes.
"Yes, yes," the old man replies, almost exultant. "Only truth."
"Well, then, why don't you tell me what the truth is?" Marc says.
A shadow of doubt passes the old man's face. "Tell you what?"
"The truth. What your book says."
The old man hesitates. "Truth...the book says," he begins, uncertainly. "Well, actually...don't read book much." A sheepish grin curves his mouth.
"But I know it's the truth!" he adds in tones of extreme certainty. "Trust me." He blasts a full smile of wisdom and sincerity upon Marc, inviting him to discover a place of refuge, of peace and tranquility. A stop to a tiring search. For a moment, Marc is tempted. Then, he remembers a promise he made to himself; to never tire of his search, even if it seemed to be eternal. Truth is a gem; you would not expect to find it so easily in a common market of stones.
"No, thank you," Marc replies, politely. The old man looks perplexed for a moment. Then, he lowers the staff into the water, and begins rowing away, never looking back at Marc.
Marc goes back to lie upon his wooden raft. He closes his eyes, feels the movement of the waves, carrying him with gentle arms. He recalls another memory; this one glides like silk through his mind. He was seventeen, barely an adult. Yet, he was already thinking like one, though he didn't act it, or so he thought. He realizes how arrogant he was when he was young, and smiles at the memory. How it must have infuriated other boys, who worked hard to gain the affections of girls, while girls naturally flocked to him, attracted by his charm and intelligence.
Yet, for all the seemingly close contact he had with them, he never fully exposed himself. To do that was foolish, as he had learned the hard way before. Too hard...the memories sweep past. Silk of hair, soft lips that whispered hope and beckoned release, the feel of warm flesh in the dark. The euphoria lasted for a week. He should have known it was too good to be true. It was an illusion; but unlike a dream, this one hurt. It was as if she had ripped out his heart, stomped on it with hob-nailed boots, and given it back to him crushed and bloody. He was very careful after that, keeping them at a distance with a smile and pleasant, non-committal replies. Occasionally though, he would reply a little warmer, making them feel as if they were finally getting somewhere. It was much easier to draw confessions out of them, secrets that were close to the heart. He felt powerful then, fully armed and ready to strike back should they ever dare to hurt him.
The sky grows black, occasionally streaked with white bolts of lightning. Marc is not worried, though feels slightly sick being tossed about by the waves. He wishes he would find the place quickly. Though he has no clue where he is, he decides to trust his gut instincts and head north. Picking up the stick, he strikes it through the waves, pushing hard.
But the waves prove too powerful for him. They whip the raft around playfully, exhausting his efforts at moving towards one direction. With a burst of strength, he pushes forth. The waves growl in return, splashing over him in anger. His hands slip, and the stick is gone.
"Fuck."
How on earth could he get to the place now? Already, the rain has started to fall; large cold drops pouring down, soaking him to the bone. The thunder roars with menace, while the lightning flashes threateningly. The waves hit him around like a beach ball, mocking him. For once in his life, he feels lost.
"Come, we've got to get you out of here."
Marc turns, and sees a girl, her long brown hair whipped by the winds. She is on a raft too, but strangely enough, it appears to be unaffected by the rough waves, as if it were on smooth glass. She smiles at him, extending her hand.
"You know where I want to go?" Marc asks.
"There's only one place we all want to go. A place of light. I know how to get there."
"I'm not certain if yours is the right way, or the right place even."
"There is only one way, and it is always right, no matter what they say."
"That's what they all say. How sure can you be?" Marc demands, feeling annoyed. He is soaked to the bone and shivers with the cold. Funnily enough, she seems to be perfectly dry, as if she is wrapped in a protective bubble shield.
She gives him a gentle smile. "When you decide to be certain, nothing else can change it. It's when we start to look elsewhere that the image shakes. Becomes nothing more than a mirage. Do you understand?"
"No," Marc replies bluntly. He begins to feel more than a little annoyed. Patronized is the word, as if he were a five-year-old child being taught about the evils of stealing cookies. "Everyone's so sure that what they believe in is right. They don't really check themselves, check the facts. Check to see if what they believe in is really true or not. They want to believe so much that they don't bother searching for anything that suggests otherwise."
The rain pelts down in heavy sleets, plastering his hair to his cheek. Marc brushes it off impatiently. His eyes flash with anger. The girl looks back at him; her large eyes filled with sadness, and something else (a longing?) that Marc can’t quite comprehend.
"When we see something often enough, we fail to notice it after some time. Instead, we chase the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But when you finally get there, there's nothing."
"There is nothing," she repeats. "Come with me, Marc, please." She extends her hand again, her eyes filled with a desperation that Marc had only seen once before. He remembers the same desperation reflected in a woman's eyes as she sat beside the hospital bed, holding the hand of her dying husband.
The waves rise in tantrum, pushing him further away from her. She is shouting something at him, but he can't hear her; the sound of her voice muffled by the cries of the storm. But he can still see her; oddly enough, she appears to be wet now, drenched by the cold stinging rain. Her shouts grow fainter and fainter; her figure becomes less and less visible as the waves throw them apart, while the thick rain forms a silver screen between them.
"Come out of the storm, Marc." He looks around. There is nothing but violent crashing waves and inky black sky, a canvas against the relentless pelting rain and sharp biting wind. He hears the words though he can't see her. Where is she? A sudden despondency grasps his heart, and he begins to feel cold inside, almost as cold as the bitter winds that scourge his skin.
"I'm through!" he yells, standing to his feet, shaking his fist at the sky. "I'm done! I don't want to do this anymore. I'm tired of searching, all right? Tired..."
Marc slumps to his knees. The storm shows no sign of abating. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and curls up on the hard raft, trying to get some warmth. Soon, he falls asleep.
When he tries to open his eyes, a bright light fills them, forcing him to shut. He squints at the bright sunlight and turns his eyes away. Sand grinds against his body. He gets up, and sees a vast ocean before him. He is no longer on the raft. Looking around, he sees the raft, broken and splintered on the shore.
"Marc."
He turns behind and sees the girl, a beautiful smile curved on her lips. She begins to walk towards him, her brown hair caressed gently by the breeze. Instinctively, Marc's feet move forward till he meets her up close, standing only a few inches apart. She brushes a tendril of wet hair from his cheek tenderly.
"You made it."
Written at 3:10 AM
