- Thursday, May 03, 2007

His Arms; Her Cries

The room was rat-infested, and fleas hopped about in joy, as long as there was food and blood to taste. It was rather chilled with moist floating around, waiting to enter its prey's lungs and destroy every red cell and shatter the air sags. But this wasn't all. Darkness pressed against the surface of and the four walls of the room. It wasn't haunting; there were no ghosts, silly you. Nor was it depressing; nobody was crying.

Yet, at a small corner sat a young lady, in her twenties, mildly shivering. Her eyes were black, and if you looked closely enough, you'll see words in her eyes, the whirlpool of emotions spinning hurricane-like, and out of the repetitive motions came a humming tune none has heard. It sounded like a woman's cry, with passion and pain; and at the hearing of it, one can cry, and cry, and cry, yet not knowing why. It wasn't a curse nor was it a blessing simply because this same cry had no category to fall into, just like a self-pollinating flower. Is it male or female, since it has both parts? This melodious hum crescendo-ed gradually, hitting notes at frequencies powerful enough to trigger one's heartbeat to skip few beats, and drive one insane if not careful.

Her hair was black, slightly curled, like waves of the sea, so incomprehensible, so tender, so rough, so loving, so horrifying, so beautiful, so dangerous. Wet were her hair, hanging onto her scalp like helpless souls falling into hell. If one should think that fondling with her hair could arouse oneself, let me show you the truth, it will scare one away, because like snakes that spit poison, it curls so vainly that at the slightest touch of it one will rot away with screams and howls another couldn't comprehend.

Her nose were broken due to her past that haunts her like a phantom stomping the ground, producing fearful shakes and violent earthquakes; like an irritating hum of the fly, constantly nearing the ear, whispering the terrorizing events that amplified within her mind; like a series of unfortunate events, looping on and on, on and on, nonstop, never ending, until she becomes deranged, and yells in pain and pulls out all her hair, or bite her tongue so hard she drinks blood like gobbling water, or scratches her skin with her fingernails and lick the shaky blood like a cursed dog, or tears her chest wide open and expose her inner heart still beating, and then gorge out her heart and stare at it until the very, very, very, very last beat, and then puff, life gone.

This isn't all, if it is scaring you. Her skin was of perfection, white and silky, wonderful enough to fool a ghost, making it to think that it's its friend. And still the pigments, so wonderfully fixed as if they were a complicated puzzle yet so cleverly jumbled well, they fitted so magnificently well on top of her bones and muscles, masking the ugly surfaces of the inner real her. Tear open her skin, oh, do it will you, and discover a whole lot of treasures until fleeing is not possible. But before you think of contentment, it has swallowed you, and never again will you be found on the face of the earth. Magnificently spendid, isn't it, the beauty of skin?

She carefully nudged her lips, sucking the little stain of blood. The taste of red seasoned wine mixed with her saliva and suicided into her esophagus. Pleasure it was, but never could it ever bring a forced curve onto her angel-like face anymore. Love it was, of hatred, of course, aggressive enough to shatter a glass meters away. Like burning fire, it consumed her, but she was strong. She held on to her hatred. It wasn't her fault, you see, it wasn't her fault. She did not choose to be who she was, she couldn't. And she knew to blame the god she believed in was insolence, and that same god, maybe, made a mistake in placing her on earth when the original decision was to make her an angel to stand beside the chorusing angels in heaven. But now, all she was, she thought, was a dark angel, perhaps of the devil. And all she could do was to drink in hatred like never before and then unleash her wrath on those who threaten her. But it wasn't time yet.

Her hand fondled a beautiful vase, of ten years, of clay, of captivating images. Her fingers traced the curves of the images, slowly. How they turned in circles, then squared, then circled again. Oh, even in the dark, the whole picture became visible to her. She touched, followed and followed. She sighed heavily.

But then she couldn't stand it anymore, she hugged it, brought it to her chest and pressed it against her heart. She wanted so much for the edges to press against her skin and let blood run freely, but it didn't happen. She pressed harder, and harder. It still didn't happen. Her eyes saw darkness.

She wanted to cry so much, so bad. But the tears had dried up, and the remaining ones, if there were, refused to discover the atmosphere. They wanted to stay in their comfort zone, bathe in each other's presence and share love with their friends once they were produced. All she could do now was just sigh shakily, knowing that love was never meant to be hers, life was never meant to be hers. She knew, deep down inside, that she was on earth to serve a purpose: to be a doormat on others. And somehow, all these years, living for so long, she had learnt the lesson well: not to show herself too much to others, or else the heart within her will crack again, never to be healed again.

She stood, her eyes unweary. Her mind was still by now. No more voices, no more shouts, no more whispers. Everything was silenced. Wasn't it once love she desired? Wasn't it once recognition she wanted? Had she ever had a drop of moment of her desires?

No.

But was she at fault?

Yes.

She was simply not meant to be on earth. Hence, everything was her fault. Everything happened because she existed.

She raised the vase in her hands slowly, her hands firm at grip. Her eyes welled with tears, but she knew they wouldn't want their suicide plunge so early. So she blinked them in again. I will save you for future use, my lovely tears, she thought.

Then her mouth opened, an incomprehended force dashed out of her opening with a sharp scream. Her eyes roared with rage and unforgiveness. Her hands shook with utter anger, indecipherable even to the best scholars on earth.

It wasn't her tears that had the suicide plunge, the vase instead took the honor to suicide. It turned so splendidly in the air, turning and twisting like a graceful ballet dancer. Down, and down, and down it went, pulled by the beautiful gravity that thirsted to embrace the vase, and caress it nonstop. Finally, touching the skin of the earth, it kissed. Ah, what a flirtatious kiss. And in every direction, it cracked, and broke, sending a trillion waves throughout the air, curling so fantastically choruses upon choruses of angels shrieked a deadly song. The remains flew so splendidly as they spun and spun and spun, and finally landing on the ground.

At her feet, the scattered sharp pieces laid. Lovely lovely pieces. She stared at them as if they had eyes.

And stared.

And she continued to stare.

And stare.

Suddenly waves of insecurity flushed towards her, beating her chest violently, pushing her against the coarse shore of hard rocks and rough sands. She curled and began to sob. Within her mind sprung questions and questions, mostly beginning with why. She couldn't understand every past events that whirlpooled inside her mind. And as each event flashed like photographs slide-showing, she couldn't help but continue asking why, why, and why.

For an hour or two she cried, until she felt all her tears had dried up within her. Her breath shook, her lips shivered. Why was she like this? She didn't know. Could she list down the reasons of such behaviors - insecurity, unsure of many things, fear, rejection, dejection, and melancholic despondence? Even years upon years wouldn't suffice what she wanted to speak. And it was the very reason her thoughts, like a mixed dough, was so confusing she couldn't even differentiate which was which. She could, yes, tell why was the dough yellow, why was it rising, why could it be baked, what were the main ingredients; but how many times she stirred the ingredients, how long she took to prepare to do mix, how much strength exerted, how long her thoughts (ingredients) intermingled and finally turned into a dough, fit to be baked to be a cake. And in her terms - death.

Yet, despite these thoughts, these confusing thoughts, she recalled a loving voice that used to hum within her heart. So soft, so tender, so kind was the voice. The words it spoke, the song it sang, all remembered at the back of her mind. Though she couldn't make it sure that the voice was her or something else, she knew that it was for her good.

It was time. She cast aside the thought of the voice. She stood. She had planned this so magnificently and even the most magnanimous man in the neighborhood would screech in horror. At her glorious moment. At her majestic death. Ah, yes. It was time.

She looked at the ground where the pieces were. The pieces can't fit anymore. They can't be joined again to make the vase whole. Never.

Bells rang, they canon-ed melodiously. Hallelujah, hallelujah they sang. What a joyous moment. It was her opportunity to triumph and trample on all rejection she had. It was her moment to drive away all the despondent thoughts she had. Yes! She could and will do it! To prove to the world that she deserved love. She deserved attention. She deserved everything others had. Yes!

She jumped, like diving into a pool from a height immeasurable. Down she went and plunged into the beautiful pieces and scrapped her skin. Ah. Wonderful. She felt beautiful after all. She felt like an angel. She knew that life was now perfect for her. The riches of the earth couldn't buy her anymore. The smiles of flirty men wouldn't bring her to seven heavens anymore. She was glorious. She was powerful. She was all that it seemed to be. She was everything.

She laid there, the pieces poked into her skin. She smelt blood. She didn't move. A slow death it will be. A nice death it will be. She didn't worry about burial; she wanted to rot in this very densed room to scare those who enter and rip their lungs out of their bodies and make them her slaves. She had the right. She made the chioce. This was it. No turning back.

Ah. Her first victim appeared. Just when life was about to be sucked out of her. A figure pushed open the door - somebody she had never seen before. She couldn't recognize the smell of the scent, but she knew it was a man. She shrugged. She hadn't die yet, she still couldn't scare anybody like a phantom yet. No. Go away. Go away.

But he emerged in. And stood beside her with eyes looking at her. She couldn't comprehend him. She was amazed and confused. What was going on? Her tear-dried tired eyes stared into his face though she couldn't see him clearly and vision was failing.

Tensed, she blinked and continued staring into the man. A drop of water fell onto her face, she blinked again. What was going on? Who was this man, and what was he doing? Had the roof leaked water? But it was not raining! Another drop of water fell onto her face again, she blinked. Now her thoughts rose and flooded her mind. She had more questions and more questions. What was going on?

Finally she understood. Tears.

He bent down and his strong firm arms grabbed her tight. And for the first time, she felt warmth. He carried her petite body up, out of the pool of sharp-edged vase-pieces and pulled her to his chest. He smelt her hair, and despite her warm blood dripping onto his hands and staining his clothes, he pulled her nearer to him, to his body heat, to his breath.

Was it ten minutes they remained unmoved? Or was it an hour? Nobody could be sure. Because this was the moment. This was the time warmth unvelied. Love unveiled. And she couldn't understand even a hint of it, simply because it was her first time, her first true hug, her first hearing.

Of the whispers of...

I. Love. You.

She broke down and buried her face into his broad chest. She sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. She couldn't make up a reason why she had to lose her sanity in front of a complete stranger. He might have meant to hurt her, said her rational side. But in her heart she knew this warmth, never known to her, was now exposed and perhaps the reason to live was better than the one to die.

    When love came down,
    Lost hope turned found,
    Strength regained,
    Troubles disappear away.


When love came down, care arose with power strong enough to make all dissatisfactions, all fear, all arguments vanish at the snap of fingers. And that was the breaking point of pain. And at this course of route, she realized another path, one that leads to better life and true smiles than the old one that led to pain, anxiety, condemnation, and eventually, death.

That was the breaking point. The point of breakthrough. The point of breaking away from the past. The point of knowing that whatever lies ahead might be tougher, but when the going gets tough, the tough gets going. And now, perhaps words that previously depicted her dark furious anger now mellowed into a beautiful silky feel, something so vast so deep so strange. She couldn't completely understand or describe. A powerful drive, a majestic feeling, a non-confusing thought - love.

Love. And love. And love.

Hence, when love came down, all pasts disappear, all present cleansed, all future assured. When love came down, when love came down, when love came down.

Or perhaps, it would be better to say, when love came close. Not with-out grasp, but within touch.

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