inkfilledmind

It was heartbreaking in its sincerity and overwhelmingly fragile: a scene so perfect it was repulsive, calculated and manipulative, yet impossible to turn away from; the momentary lull of a crafted symphony, cascading flourishes and frenzied strings giving way to silence before being returned in full force to stun the audience with loud beauty.

Those were the thoughts floating across Samuel’s disintegrating mind as he watched his daughter cross the tarmac to greet him, her hands intertwined with his son-in-law, jacket cords and hair flying and swirling in the same furious wind which muted the crack of the gun that delivered the bullet which pierced his side and sent a slow spray of crimson into the air.

He watched them from the tarmac, crossing the tarmac, he had stumbled and collapsed on the cold black surface and his face was upturned, still gazing at his daughter who had unhooked her arm and started running towards him, husband confused and slow with panic breaking across his face.

Desperation seized Samuel’s failing thoughts, tried to reroute his neurons and form meaning, provide a last handful of intellectual insights as if the criminal surgeon will cut open his skull and peel back the layers of his brain to explore reversed experiences and declare, yes! this man was not a complete dullard, see the philosophical implications within his final moments!

Instead his mind delighted in the caricature of human movement exhibited by the people around him, they were jumping and skipping like cheap high school stop-motion animation, tears formed and fell to the ground and men and women crowded in suspended, paralysing alarm.

His eyes shut briefly and when they opened again he was in a world of pain, so complete that it pushed aside the momentary confusion of lying on blood-sticky leaf-covered dirt surrounded by dense vegetation and foreign figures with impassive faces staring at him, and it eclipsed the realisation that he was not on the home runway, hadn’t been for weeks and never would be again, his daughter and son-in-law would see his name printed in the paper or flashed on the evening news and wonder how they would cope and what was the point of the war and if they would get help with the funeral and if fuel prices would go up now because money only went so far and there are so many things to buy.

We leave the hostel together, hands tight and legs swinging with abandon, skin brushed by hot wind swirling down skyscraper corridors.

“Who do you think will die first?” I mock with a smile.

Living with fear, deep, dehabilitating fear, for so many years… it made it breathing, palpable. It attached to our lives like an obsequious friend who greeted us without fail the moment we stepped outside. He stared into our eyes with tender concern and took our hands, hands which shook with suppressed, helpless loathing.

She laughs, slaps my arm lightly. “We’re dead without each other, right? We’re past that now.”

“You’re right. Do you remember…” I hesitated.

“Remember what?”

“Two weeks ago, we ordered delivery from that Thai place, over the phone–”

We had taken savage pleasure in herding him up flights of stairs; smooth black tape covering his mouth and arms pulled hard behind his back. Through the top hatch into bright sunlight on the rooftop, a hasty shove over the edge to the streets below.

“–Thai Time–”

“–Thai Time, but when the doorbell rang, and we went up the hall, we were too scared to open it–”

“–we sat down, huddled on the cold tiles and waited for the ringing, waited for the ringing to stop and the shadow outside to leave, and we went to bed hungry–”

It had taken months of perseverence. It was exhilarating to confront him. It was dizzying, like dangling our feet over the ledge and watching him curve in final grace, plummet down and down.

“Let’s eat there tonight.”

Mrs. Busy is married to Mr. Busy. They have two point five children and live in a tidy house in a tidy suburb. Mrs. Busy is a very busy woman, with a full-time job and full-time family and full-time social commitments; dinner tonight at a nice restaurant, catch up with the girls tomorrow afternoon, wedding from twelve to five the next day (and make some important calls in between champagne and cream cake).

She woke up and turned to her side but Mr. Busy is a very busy man and had already quietly left for work, so she sighed, and smiled sadly at their sorry situation. Her mind quickly flicked those thoughts away, re-engaged, ready for her prepared day. Soon she was in the kitchen having breakfast.

“Morning, sweetie!” she greeted her young daughter, who was letting her yawns lead her out of her room.

“It’s Monday again. I hate school!”

Further such conversation was stalled by children’s programs. Mrs. Busy spared herself a moment to stare wistfully at the dark browns and greens of a mountain landscape hanging lonely on their whitewashed dining room wall as her daughter sat in front of a bright rectangle and let psychedelic colours stream around plastic smiles and fresh-faced dancers and into her eyes.

So ends this depressing vignette of a not-so-distant home.

Her mouth opened and shut, slowly, as the koi lazing through warm water proffer their silent observations to delighted children on a bridge above. Like she was repeating something on the phone, or giving solemn news that she could hardly believe herself. He tried to guess what she was saying.

“–yes, collapsed, crazy I know! Everyone was incredulous, couldn’t understand why–”

A lot of hard consonants. Yet so fragile, so fragile. Her cheeks were flushed with rose, a gorgeous tinge that together with her leaping arms completed his image of a child enjoying the sunshine.

Oh, her brilliant blue eyes were stretched wide in curiosity right at him. He smiled and couldn’t help staring back as she moved around excitedly. But all so slowly. It was like he was watching her in slow motion. Slowly watching her grow more agitated. He thought she was just being silly now, trying to get his attention.

He glanced around. They were in a park. He was sitting on a bench, with the morning paper. The girl was kneeling on a tartan spread, about ten metres away, where she was having a picnic. Her friend had run to find the nearest toilet, and no one else was in sight.

So, yes, she was definitely making motions towards him. She tried to stand up but fell back on her knees; how clumsy. Now time seemed to be speeding up, she seemed to be aging and things were happening faster. The delicate pink cheeks turned to mottled red and purple, her movements were jerkier, spasmodic.

Ridiculous, the old man thought, offended by her uncouth behaviour. Why was she causing such a fuss? He collected the hearing aids from his lap, folded his paper in half to hide the half-finished sudoku, stood up and walked determinedly away.

Salty blooded lips, veins charged with adrenalin, ears ringing and hounds on her heels. This is how Eli raced across the cobblestones, raced ahead of accusatory cries and yowls and rushed towards her imagined destiny, the future being divined by threads torn from tapestries of the past and from the walls of sleeping merchant manors.

Another child was moving in the opposite direction, a boy named Yuri with wind streaming through his long dirty brown hair, cloth package clutched to chest, feet rubbed raw and running, running from what he no longer considered home in an attempt to find somewhere, anywhere, a place of appreciation and love.

Of course, they collided.

“You idiot!” fumed Eli as she scrambled around to pick up the fresh fruit spilt from her hands. Seeing the boy still lying in the dirt, fresh tears forming rivulets down his dust-caked face, she grew exasperated, pulled him to his feet and towards an alleyway safe from pursuers.

Under the sudden darkness of surrounding buildings and stretched canvas ceiling, leaning back against a cold wall, tense muscles relaxing and pulse slowing, there came about a sudden reversal. After getting angry at Yuri, she was now engulfed by misery; throat clenched and tight eyes and broken sobbing. In the corner of her vision, black dogs raced past the hiding place entrance, making the dazzling sunlight flicker as when hands pass before a candle.

“Hey, girl,” Yuri whispered. “Why, what’s wrong? You scared o’ the mutts?”

“No! Nothing like that,” she managed to blurt. Eli struggled to keep her thoughts to herself; the thoughts of being pathetic, forlorn and without hope, worthless, and to meet somebody the same, oh, so pitiable and wretched, what was wrong with this world – and then a wide naive smile flowed over Yuri’s ruddy face, wiping her pain and damming the damning feelings, setting her heart alight.

Live for the moment.