《Four times I've died, the fifth was intentional》
1.1 The First Death,
Mary became aware of the flaws of mankind the day her father sat her on his lap and told her to beware of strangers on the streets. He stressed about safety, to never follow men or women alike if Mary did not know them. No matter the sweets they offered, and especially chicken nuggets- for Mary loved them- ¡°Listen to me, baby. Don¡¯t follow strangers, okay? Ask them for the secret password before anything. It will be: Love conquers, love prevails.¡± The six-year-old child with sparkling forest-green eyes and luxurious chocolate hair nodded; her mother wiped breadcrumbs off her face with a handkerchief the scent of fresh lavender.
The nodding child grew with time, her stunning smiles framed the walls famously in pictures in their living room. Mary went to sleep with a full stomach and fuller memories everyday of what she¡¯d seen, smelt, touched, heard, and saw throughout the day. The warnings her father religiously repeated every other day whisper gently at the shallow corners of her mind unforgotten, yet Mary never feared men. She never came to be twitchingly paranoid of adults that passed her by on her way to school; like any other child, she thought she was safe.
She arguably was, whereas others weren¡¯t.
Her sense of security never bloomed to be questioned. It was not her fault as she hadn¡¯t known better. Mary thought herself old enough to know the difference between a suspicious person ready to kidnap her and to all the unforgivable imagined. (by her parents, not her)
The six-year-old grew to twelve without a hitch. She became aware of world poverty; the girl would continue to eat till she was full. The television reports news about child molestation! Terrorism from around the world led by a single religion Mary would now become just an inch more suspicious of. But life would proceed on anyway, the news came to be stored into another box, in another corner of her mind.
Mary wasn¡¯t concerned of anything just yet. She hadn¡¯t the need to work as she had an education to complete. The brunette¡¯s grades were average, she had boy crushes every now and then. A girl confessed to Mary once, the girl would leave scarlet in her cheeks as Mary accepted the request of a kiss on her cheek from the blue-eyed senior to be rejected (and remembered) by.
Mary would, in years to come, remember the warmth that lingered on her lips as they touched the girl¡¯s cheek. Both were equally boiling scarlet afterwards, Mary came out as bi-sexual six months later after some serious self-exploration.
The blue-eyed, persuasively alluring senior¡¯s name was Samantha, she was a year older than Mary and confident in her love for girls and the way iced-lemon tea tasted. Samantha¡¯s hobby was star-gazing and she had a pet stray cat named after one of the eighty-eight constellations. Samantha was also with circular burn scars from cigarette butts on both her forearms; Mary not once asked how, or why nor had she questioned Samantha¡¯s reluctance to return home on a common basis.
Mary¡¯s journey to 15 was butter-smooth, no strangers dropped by with promises of honey sweets and chicken nuggets. Her parents were fine about the early self-discovery. But they wanted a grandchild, her mother had said. The brunette then smiled ironically to herself after the apparent ¡®acceptance¡¯.
Days quickly progressed to years and when Mary was 18, she finally experienced lovely humanity in the most common, but ugliest form: bullying; it had taken place among her college mates.
There was a guy named Jack in their year, Mary witnessed first-hand when the mocking jeers turned for worse and guys Jack¡¯s age shoved him around the college¡¯s more desolated corridors. The brunette watched on while she learns to disdain those that look down, even act against the weak; yet not a single finger was lifted for Mary knew fear and it was unfamiliar but natural response. Self-loathing left a bitter aftertaste, Mary learnt.
Cold sweat would run down her back as she saw Jack¡¯s long sleeves lift to reveal cuts that¡¯d decorated the young adult¡¯s pale wrist. Based on the light in his eyes, Mary read, Jack¡¯s intention wasn¡¯t to die. Not yet, at least. And for any other reason than that, Mary could only imagine in guilty silence.
There came one day, despite everything, as Jack entered the class with dimming hope in his eyes for a better experience throughout his year, ¡®Maybe they¡¯ll be better off without me.¡¯ He¡¯d think inwardly, only to see a strip of paper with a string of numbers written atop in delicate curves. ¡®Call them¡¯ was written below- like an afterthought. Jack could only smile as the thick fingers to hold the paper trembled.
He recognised teardrops when he saw one (and maybe a bucket more), they stained the fragility of the hotline. Jack recognised the cowardly, yet brave act of simple kindness. He wept soundlessly as he could afford it, a soft ¡®thank you¡¯ rested gratefully upon his lips. Being the earliest to class had its perks.
At the age of twenty-five, Mary happened to turn unwell financially. It was unfortunate, for her company came out bankrupt for the entire world to know and in a week¡¯s time, the brunette found herself to be quite panicked. Job hunting was on top of her list, but alas, life wouldn¡¯t have it that way and Mary had her breath taken away by a seemingly charming man in her apparent vulnerability.This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
My mother lived alone before me; she had rented an apartment in a decent neighbourhood as her job had paid well before its downfall. Justin was brown-eyed and eloquent; a bartender with dimples sunk in his cheeks as he smiled a boyish grin that had Mary head-over-heels in her drunken state.
They slept a night together, a sunset passion; mother had been quick to assume a life together in the few hours of intimacy she had with Justin. The father I¡¯d never come to meet left her in cold sheets and a child too young to understand. Jobless, upset, and haunted with wretched morning sickness, Mary turned to her parents in tears and she lived under their roof once more.
Mary¡¯s mother had comforted Mary in ways only a mother could, she brushed the existence of the bunch of cells as ¡®an early grandchild.¡¯ With sadness to sink ever so subtly at the corners of her wrinkled eyes. Mary would forever come to recall the soft embrace of her mother that smelled of fresh lavenders. The daughter¡¯s own face against the fabric that was wet with tears, the choking sobs that sounded unfamiliar even to her own ears.
Helplessness became an unwelcomed, but ever-visiting guest by Mary¡¯s side. Her own father had found it difficult to look in her eyes for weeks to come. But for love existed, Mary was kept warm and full, clean and as happy as can be. Six months into the pregnancy, and my Mother¡¯s parents passed away from a building fire at the Mall they shopped baby clothes.
Mary lacked time.
She hadn¡¯t a minute to breathe, or grief for a loss so great. There were properties to settle, and an income to maintain and a foetus to nurture. The funeral- God, the funeral. She hadn¡¯t even the heart to witness the final forms of the people she held so achingly dear. The scent of lavender faded slowly from the house- home no more-, the entirety of particles escaped with every swing of the door or window. Like wild pigeons that leave their cages to fly and fly and fly. Never to return.
I was less than amused with the idea of family when I grew to be four years old under the care of my distant relatives. I mean the word literally in both a familial and emotional sense; my uncle and aunt have tried so hard to be tolerant, but the coiling disdain readied to spring at any moment could not be hidden before the sensitivity of a child so young. With the abundance of mirror neurons, I remembered relating the twitch of muscle underneath my uncle¡¯s eyes to a stick to my upper arms.
The lines of blush reminded me of the framed bamboo painting I¡¯d see hanging at the narrow house¡¯s corridor; only one was in ink and drawn with adoration, while my arms spoke stories of a jealousy failed to be kept hidden underneath the family¡¯s creaking bridge.
¡°Quiet!¡± He¡¯d yell, ¡°Keep making that godforsaken noise and they¡¯ll be no dinner for you, boy.¡±
To be starved ever so often wasn¡¯t an easy task to get by; to remember the reason why was an even more difficult feat. It was soon I¡¯d learnt to never speak unless asked, or act unless told to. Relief yourself without a noise, drink your water in small sips to minimise the slightest leak from the plastic cup- Uncle detests noise; he loved to drink himself stupid in peace and silence.
The kindergarten I attended was compulsory for the most minimal of education. The load on my bad felt weightless in comparison to the weight I¡¯d been forced to carry to ¡®burn the excess energy.¡¯ My steps were light, always soundless. My eyes were often glassy and they never made direct contact with any others- I learnt the hard way that eyes provoked fights you never needed.
The adults known as teachers always smiled. They taught of alphabets and numbers, shapes and stories I quickly became fascinated by. My attention was undivided during classes, even if my name was never called due to my small stature and hunched back among the many other bigger, brighter kids.
There was never really anyone by my side and it didn¡¯t bother me. Uncle disliked it when I spoke of company anyway- I did once, before my first day of kindergarten- he¡¯d lashed out, most probably because he had none of his own. I knew then of dislike; of hate and I hated. Hated. Hated. But not really.
Aunt had been voiceless, spineless, as she always were. It was difficult not to categorise her as a disdained individual in my head. I learnt to despise my aunt because I could; yet I was afraid to hate my uncle for he would¡¯ve somehow known, and if he did, pain would soon follow.
Things changed when I made it just before high school. I was fifteen and angry with the world without my words. I was too young to work and Uncle had made sure I knew it. Often, if not daily when he remembered. His fists would connect with my jaw as he demanded for cash I could not give. I was growing tired with every bruise or cut I sported. It was growing tedious to tolerate the pain. Uncle¡¯s drinking habit had visibly escalated and I grew to detest the tang of alcohol anywhere near my lips or nose.
Hopelessness became a familiar friend and I knew things about it better than I knew my own parents. The teenage hormones weren¡¯t helping the rapid swings of moods that sometimes flared up within me, I could be drowning in melancholy at one moment and drenched with an ice cold ¡®what¡¯s the point even,¡¯ at the very next. Intrusive thoughts of murder came knocking once upon a time; uncle was asleep, snoring away the cheap booze. No one would¡¯ve known. Plus, we lived in the outskirts where forestry was rich and the earth soft and the community ignorant.
And so, I did what I had to do; what I could and did.
Even after he was gone, aunt remained as quiet as always. She hadn¡¯t wept by his gravestone, the crease between her eyebrows merely deepened. Disdain and regret continued to mount her with new streaks if grey hair every day.
Then came a woman before the door one day, she introduced herself as Mary, mother of mine, I knew then whose eyes I took after.
Her hair was a beautiful shade of brown, equivalent to the colour of the dirt I buried my uncle under, within drifting leaves, beneath the watchful setting sun; it should be cool in there, I only took his head and nothing more. Dug out his eyes with my own blistered fingers as I laughed hysterically, ¡°See? See! Do you see? The leaves of bamboo falling is beautiful.¡±
1.2 Painted Red
Stunned wouldn¡¯t be the word I¡¯d use upon the presence of my proclaimed ¡®mother¡¯. I was weary, and unsurprisingly so. Her face was unfamiliar, unrecognizable. Mary¡¯s voice was cheerful in its own right, she offered her hand and fluttered her lashes expectantly as she called my name.
¡°Michael,¡± She smiled, ¡°You¡¯ve grown so big, my son.¡±
There hadn¡¯t been an apology. Okay, no apologies. But I wasn¡¯t disappointed. Disappointment required expectation and I currently had none. Mary and I started to live together in an old house filled heavily with the scent of lavenders. ¡°What should I make for dinner, Mikey? Is there anything you¡¯d like?¡±
My mother¡¯s voice was sickly sweet, with a quipped and quick ¡°Cook whatever you want.¡± I excused myself from the first floor and moved to the second where I was introduced to as my new room. Like the rest of the house, it was filled with the thick scent of lavender. There was no bed, only a simple desk and chair accompanied by a wooden wardrobe.
The wardrobe had some blankets inside which I laid on the floor for comfort. Mary came up to call myself for dinner several hours later. It was a simple meal; I thought nothing of it.
I adapted to the new life, the new housemate, and new school without difficulty. Life wasn¡¯t much different from the other, I still walked soundlessly and drank in tiny amounts. Mary had a tendency to ask my opinion for every little bit. She¡¯d make it a point to share the same room as I; the smile never left her face.
She always made the same thing for every meal- breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Mary sat by her mother¡¯s favourite couch, her arms were crossed and her eyes steady. It was late and Michael had yet to return by her side. An irrational fear took Mary by the neck, the creak of the front door was loud, it took less than a minute on foot to ¡®greet¡¯ him.
Time went by in a flurry of seconds, Michael was on the floor- and she sat on top of me. ¡°How could you?!¡± She screeched, her nails scratched my face from a slap uncalled for; I bled. ¡°You were going to leave again, were you?! I won¡¯t allow it. You¡¯ll be with me forever and ever and ever. I don¡¯t have my parents anymore; I don¡¯t have anyone!¡± Mary¡¯s nails grip into the tender flesh of my face. Her eyes widened when my blood hit the floor, she went still.
Mary buried her face into my shoulder and breathed in deeply, burying her face in the nook of my collarbone.
A beat.
¡°You were late, Mikey. What would you like for dinner?¡±
The act wasn¡¯t reserved only to that night. Instead, it¡¯d repeat itself; over and over again before silent apologies that she¡¯d say in replacement as kind- sometimes unsettling- lip service.
¡°Mum didn¡¯t mean it, Mikey. Does it hurt? Come, let me see.¡±
¡°This wouldn¡¯t have happened if you called me. I only want you to be safe. You must understand.¡±
¡°Don¡¯t come back late again, okay? I worry for you.¡±
In a rewind of time, Mary had finally accepted the cruelty that comes with life when she returned for her son long neglected.
She recalled being before her parent¡¯s grave, due in just a few months before she bore the child of a man she barely knew but loved either way. Her father has often told her to keep her heart close and she had. All this while, she had.
But the same father had also told her to love, and never hate. For love was strong, just and it existed in everyone as they all deserved it. Movies built unrealistic expectations, Mary knew. But still, it was her mother to repeat quite often to treasure herself; and when she did give herself to a man, have him treasure her too. For she was so much more, mother¡¯s most beautiful, beautiful, most precious little girl. Many contradictions came by throughout Mary¡¯s life. Whereupon ideals clashed, some didn¡¯t make sense. The blend of illusion and reality started to crack, a shard at a time. It was a pity. Mary doubted. Deep in her heart somewhere, but she¡¯d make sure nobody knew. She promised to hide the doubt, even if it was from herself.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Somehow, she did. And perhaps it was the unknowing fear to have disappointed her mother that Mary became so needy, desperate for stability after life¡¯s rollercoaster drop. All to have her parents worry less to smile a number more.
But-
Ever since that day, Mary couldn¡¯t stand the sight or scent of alcohol. Just like her son- she felt glad then.
Ever since that day, beds did not exist in the fabricated world Mary cooped herself in- she was in denial then.
Ever since the abandonment of Michael, Mary took pills doctors said would help. She was also in no condition to raise a child. She had been more accepting of the advice than her past self would¡¯ve been. A single belief kept Mary patient for an impatient time that ran too fast. ¡®It will be alright,¡¯ her mind would sooth. ¡®You¡¯re doing fine, doing good and everything will be all right. You''re just leaving him for a while. He''ll be fine without you. It''d be hard for Micahel too if you can''t be there for him in every way. ¡¯
It is in the same positive mindset that Mary held on to whenher company crashed; before she met Justin with the boyish grin and charm she still remembered fondly.
Alas, to her defence in the afterlife, the reason she (really) left her son all these while is that she knew herself cowardly. And cowards often ran from their problems, the ones she knew she¡¯d somehow never solve no matter what.
A letter came in when her son- when I turned eighteen. I was prepared. Rather, in preparation for college.
The letter was an invitation meant for my mother. I had lived with her for three years and her tantrums failed to change in its content. Her concern and love only turned more intense as she¡¯d wail before my front door and scratch at the wood like some lost child. Those were the moments her breathing escalated, eyes shut tight as she¡¯d curl into a ball. I¡¯d comfort her, and Mary would smile a smile as bright as a falling star.
I passed the envelop to Mary while she tended to her garden full of Lavenders. ¡°Thank you.¡± She said as I nodded in reply.
I¡¯d passed the teenage phase full of melancholy and anger. I now felt calm and no more stable.
Mary opened her envelope containing a single invitation to a funeral and another blank, but folded piece of thick paper. She flicked the first folded paper open, ¡®For Mary¡¯ The front read. The cr¨¨me coloured paper reminded me of the complexion of an uncle I¡¯d long buried. Mother bit her lip till it stained a cherry red; I watched her as she grits her teeth; and blinked as I saw tears travel down her face in the speed of a carousel I saw once on television.
¡®To Mary,
Thanks for the kiss, I¡¯ve remembered it always.
Yours truly,
Samantha.''
Mother slumped to her knees.
I read the other piece of folded paper in the envelope. Samantha- a name I did not recognise- died by suicide it seemed. Via hanging, ¡®she hung from the roof, a limp and cut-off marionette. Cuts on her wrist suggested self-harm etc.¡¯
Some people were disturbedthese days.
We were left a will by Mother¡¯s- I¡¯d assume¨C friend. She left a single property, alongside money. She had little, but her existence seemed to mean a lot for my mother.
It was that night I heard the unsual sound of solid footsteps come up to my room. The door creaked open, a ray of light from the corridor shined in. The slender figure I¡¯ve come to love in my own peculiar way had a thick, rough rope curled around her arms and wrist. My mother mumbled an eternal string of ¡°IMSORRYIMSORRYIMSORRYIMSOSORRYMIKEY¡¡± as she tightened the rope around my neck almost tenderly.
I couldn¡¯t breathe, my arms reached for Death itself as it amplified in a torturous speed and pressure. I tug at it but the oxygen was quick into leaving my lungs as my brain flickered in and out of consciousness. My lungs bloomed with an indescribable burn. My mouth was wide upon as Mary forced down a scented pill down my throat. It tasted of decaying flowers; Mary lifted her arms, face full of sorrowful tears- always crying, always so selfish and needy till the very end, my only family.
Mother forced a final smile- it was a broken thing- a gun she managed to flick to her wrist. It was pointed to her head, ¡°We¡¯ll be together forever, okay Justin? I¡¯ll even let you meet my parents¡ and your son too.¡± It is in a voice-cracking whisper as her free hand¡¯s nails imbeds themselves into my face a final time. The scratch was deep. Full of hate and sadness.
Had she killed Justin like this, too?
A resounding ¡®bang¡¯ had the neighbours startled.
Thus, my death and hers and Samantha¡¯s were painted acrimson red. And what about Justin? Jack? I learnt that they were only God in a skilful disguise.
2.1 The Second Death,
Purgatory was neither hot nor cold. Human beings often had that one misconception of the afterlife in its everlasting glory. Purgatory turned out to be room temperature; many souls weren¡¯t shocked to have their assumptions shattered based on this minor discovery. On the contrary, they barely looked conscious enough to perform such a reaction at all.
The souls were in lines; each were arranged neatly into a countless number of endless rows. The floating spheres of light that possessed an array of different shades and hues of colours. Before the background of an abyssal darkness, it was a grand scenery of a billion blooming flowers.
I knew not where I was or how I got here or why; my mind was barely alive during the entire process.
I only seemed to know of Order. Rebirth. Redemption. Hope.
The obsession even came in that particular order. I could think of nothing else.
Order. Rebirth. Redemption. Hope. Nothing more.
I wasn¡¯t abled an access to memories at the time. There was an ache in my (seemingly non-existent) head that chanted words in my voice, but certainly not by me as it kept echoing. And it was mechanical in its tone, almost bored. It was an exact image I¡¯d have for people stuck in a mental hospital from the movies. Whereupon in an extended therapy, as you sit alone in a cell and forced to heal a sickness you can¡¯t be rid of like late-staged cancer; in the background would be a voice like this- cold and robotic, yet the voice would help me survive. It was the only source of reality I¡¯d get.
Funnily enough, if the entire world had only been this still, life would have been much more peaceful. It would¡¯ve been much pleasant for anyone else that mysteriously only had insuppressibly urges to harm another with their body or words.
The line moved; changes were subtle but definitely there. I waited as I chanted religiously.
Order. Rebirth. Redemption. Hope.
I knew nothing else.
They said with every second that passes, Death turns to Life as Life turns to Death.
The queue I was in started to quicken in its pace. Souls disappeared at the front line while more piled behind; the ratio was consistent. I was at the further back, so I knew not of where the others went. No sense of anticipation rose. Fear became something to be forgotten.
There was the field of flowers, the chant, and an eternity more to wait before anything happened.
When the end of the line came close, I saw angels- wingless and without a halo, they were beautiful. Before my first death, Earth had known humans to be created after the image of God. They were wrong somewhat, because I turned bias and concluded that we were created after angels first, and God would appear as nothingness for they are, and aren¡¯t.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
I drifted to the middle of a circle written in an archaic language. My mind was in between flickers of consciousness still; the circle glowed. My dazed state felt a tug beneath. A mysterious force started to pull itself apart and I felt as though I was drowning.
The memory was vague, but I exchanged breaths with water once. My young self was¡ running, I recalled. I left the place I lived and rode on a dull coloured bus with a mind that desired freedom and escape. I remembered I stood before a line that separated sand and sea; where salt left the air thick and I was free. The sky was a sorrowful grey, pale in its hue- it was early morning, couldn¡¯t be more than half past five. The sun had yet to rise but I was already awake and running.
I¡¯d trembled as the water reached my feet. Or was it me that reached it first¡? I walked, jogged, ran; a step at a time- deeper. Further into the sea where it was colder as well. The sound of waves blended with a sharp cries of water birds. ¡®away,¡¯ I¡¯d screamed. ¡®Away, where they¡¯ll never know.¡¯
There was guilt.
Fear.
No order, nor hope. I desired a healthy loneliness where rebirth and redemption would take me¡ away.
I remembered taking the life of someone away. A life I believed belonged to me; I had every right. I was righteous, but guilty. Why?
The pieces wouldn¡¯t click. Everything turned into a blur. Bamboo, blood, rope, the sea. Salt, water, birds, clouds, morning. There was earth, I think? Then lavender. Yes, lavender. It also seemed to be the memory that tugged at the roots of my heart the hardest.
As the water hit my nose, my head tilted up in instinct. I was afloat and drifting quite a distance away from shore while shirtless. I tasted salt in its absolute state of rawness; my eyes burned as I sluggishly fought to keep them blinking and not just shut tight from the onslaught of seawater going into mine eyes. My legs had kicked even though I tried to keep them still.
I wanted to sink, then drown and get it over with- but unlike the common movies, my body refused to sink; I couldn¡¯t drown and it was a devastating set of news to behold. I hated pain and helplessness; and that was the state I simply left myself in. I wanted to die. The need overpowered every other ounce of emotion within the flash of memory. I wanted to my life to come to a reasonable finality but all the more similarly, I found it difficult to recall why.
I choked, and tried to scream. My eyes fluttered, as dark curls of hair stuck to my forehead. My skin was cold; my eyeballs burnt. My legs tired and so did my flailing arms. The breeze¡¯s scent was thick with salt and life.
I awake to a sleep I hadn¡¯t remembered falling to. Before me was a building in the midst of construction. I felt confused by the array of events. The slight knock of bricks gradually brought pieces of my attention back. Floating clay piled on top each other purposefully. The building built itself; every detail upon its walls and floors came into picture not after. There wasn¡¯t wind.
I was soon in a familiar church; the one Uncle held his fortunate farewells in.
An echoing voice boomed. Neither male nor female. It simply was. A voice meant for the sole purpose of convenient communication.
¡°Tis your turning point, this one.¡±
What¡?
¡°Tis your start as well, this one.¡±
¡°Tis a calm to your sorrows, thus covet not another tomorrow child o¡¯ mine. Tis all yours, this one is. For We allow it; for tis Our Will.¡±
Who are you?
¡°We are not. We are. For tis Our Will; for We allow it.¡±