Lost in Limbo

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This one I wrote back in 2002, when my mind was in a dark place. It’s one of my most honest, pretense-free pieces, and among the most powerful to me. Even some of my readers looked at me worriedly when they read this. It may not be the best piece ever, and it may not even be good enough to be published, but it’s something I’d like to share.

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The light from the lamppost flickered in its feeble attempt to keep a vigilant watch on the lonely street below. Just when the light got steady again, the bulb gave up on life and darkness took over. Rain poured relentlessly since some hours ago, enveloping the city in its gloomy blanket. Even the dogs in the back alley were too miserable to bark at passing cars. Inside the unlit room, the only sounds heard were the constant pitter-patter of raindrops drumming the glass panel window and the grumbling of a century-old heater.

Alicia had been concentrating on the imaginary patterns made by droplets lingering on the window, trying hard not to dwell on her decision lest she change her mind. Now that the light from outside had expired, she could no longer make out the live painting on the window. With that, her mind was free once more for a heated debate. Trying to get that off her mind, Alicia felt her way through the small doorway into the bathroom – or whatever they call the small, cramped, insect-infested hellhole. She groped in the dark for the tap and turned it, standing silently as water churned in the ancient piping and filled the bathtub in a noisy, erratic jet. She had stumbled a few times in the desolate darkness, yet she refused to turn on the light. Alicia feared her own reflection more than anything at that moment, and she would not risk even an accidental glance at any mirror; not that there were many: one on the wall that supported the sink in the toilet, and one on the dressing table opposite the moth-ridden bed. Both were so cloudy one could barely make out one’s own features, but even that was more than enough for Alicia to handle. Outside, the rain showed no signs of calming down. Just beyond the sound of tap water was the pitter-patter on the window.

The heater in the room suddenly made a lurching noise and died down. Within minutes the faint warmth dissipated, leaving Alicia even lonelier and more desolate than she already was. The melancholy was overwhelming, and all the willpower she mustered was not enough to stop her from falling down to her knees. If she was brave enough to look at her own reflection, Alicia would have been disgusted to see the cheap mascara she wore making twisted, uneven lines on her face, one on each cheek. She forced herself to stop crying, to gather whatever dignity she had left, but the emptiness inside was much too much. Leaning against the cold bathtub, she wept in pitiful sobs, a multitude of unchecked emotions surfacing in a raw, powerful torrent. In the dark of the night, Alicia folded her knees close to her heaving chest and wrapped her arms around them. She rested her chin on the groove between her knees and rocked herself back and forth as she cried.

Her parents would blanch if they saw her in this condition, rendered helpless and pitiful by circumstances she had never asked for in the first place. They were always too busy with work to notice their only child even when she retaliated by getting intimately acquainted with numerous men, some her age, some older than her father. They hardly even noticed when she ran away from home. If they had cared, they would have found her by now. They would have saved her and made everything okay again. This was partly their fault. If only they cared….

Wiping back tears with the back of her right arm, Alicia felt for the lidded top of the toilet bowl. It should be there somewhere. She had left it there when she first entered the hotel room. Behind her icy water was already seeping out the brim of the tub, falling onto the moldy tiled floor in a weak cascade. The cold now seeped deep into her bone marrow, and she shivered involuntarily, but soon it would all be over. If she was lucky enough, she would no longer be bothered by the biting cold and the dark emptiness ever again. Ah, there it was. Its smooth metal surface refused to warm in her shivering grasp. Soon now, this will all be over. She just had to summon the strength she had found in making this decision.

A pang of consciousness halted her tears, but not the wrecking hiccups that accompanied them. Was she making the right decision? According to her mother, she was incapable of making one. But her mother had never been in this situation. Surely there was some way out? If she did this, would anyone care? Her parents had not even bothered to look for her, her boyfriend had left her for another girl, and her ‘friends’ had abandoned her to be eaten by ruthless vultures that bit at her chunk by chunk, leaving her nothing for herself. She had been wild, and her lifestyle would surely humiliate her parents if they deigned to take any notice, but surely she did not deserve this fate. She had never asked for this…thing inside her to coalesce. The act that brought this predicament about her was not even of her own volition! Five men had taken turn violating her, and she was almost torn apart because of that. But they left her with more than a burning ache and destroyed dignity. No, there was no other way out.

Alicia bit her lower lip and slid the sharp end of the blade across her cold wrist, deep enough to cause warm liquid to escape the cut. For the first time in what seemed like ages, she actually felt warmth. She felt it seeping down her palm and fingers. She reveled in the comfort it offered. Alicia lay down on the floor, ignoring the deepening puddle in the bathroom, and cupped her wounded hand with the other. She felt her strength ebbing, but she no longer felt the cold. That was enough.

As consciousness threatened to leave her, Alicia found herself reminiscing on her past. The only fond memory Alicia had of her parents was the time when her grandmother passed away. Her mother had placed Alicia on her lap and told her in a warm, comforting voice that an angel had come to take her grandmother away to someplace where she would be happier, a warm place filled with peace and happiness. Alicia smiled as she waited to be in the arms of the angel.

Spend all your time waiting

for that second chance

for a break that would make it okay

there’s always some reason

to feel not good enough

and it’s hard at the end of the day

I need some distraction

oh beautiful release

memories seep from my veins

let me be empty

oh and weightless and maybe

I’ll find some peace tonight

In the arms of the angel

fly away from here

from this dark cold hotel room

and the endlessness that you fear

you are pulled from the wreckage

of your silent reverie

you’re in the arms of the angel

may you find some comfort here

So tired of the straight line

and everywhere you turn

there’s vultures and thieves at your back

and the storm keeps on twisting

you keep on building the lie

that you make up for all that you lack

it don’t make no difference

escaping one last time

it’s easier to believe in this sweet madness oh

this glorious sadness that brings me to my knees

In the arms of the angel

fly away from here

from this dark cold hotel room

and the endlessness that you fear

you are pulled from the wreckage

of your silent reverie

you’re in the arms of the angel

may you find some comfort there

you’re in the arms of the angel

may you find some comfort here

- Sarah Mclachlan

Lol. I can’t seem to stop thinking about the movie.

So I’ve been browsing around for reviews and such. And there are a lot of haters out there!

First category: Vampire lore enthusiasts. Or purists. They’ve been raving about how Stephenie Meyer is committing blaspheme against true vampire lore. Come on, it’s fiction. She has a right to create characters as she sees fit. So their skin sparkle like diamond when touched by sunlight. It’s an interesting idea, and actually contributes to their being ‘the world’s most dangerous predators’.

Second category: Book enthusiasts. They rave about how Rob Pattinson is wrong as Edward, how Kristen Stewart is not Bella, how they wrongly portray the characters and such. To me, Kristen got Bella spot-on, from her pale skin to her obsession with Edward, and her immediate trust. Rob…1st time I saw the movie, I didn’t think he’d make a convincing Edward (something about the hair maybe…just weird), but when I re-read New Moon, Edward’s face was Rob’s, and Bella’s face was Kristen’s, and as with other characters as well (maybe not Jacob, who’s supposed to be tall but thin, and later on fills up. And he was supposed to have his hair in a ponytail in the 1st book…but then again, I’m just nitpicking). Maybe with the exception of LotR (the book was just draggy and boring for me), movies usually cannot live up to the original book. Filmmakers have to sacrifice and alter parts to make a movie sell. They can’t be re-enacting the whole book from the first word to the end.

Second (point five) category: Those who compare Twilight with Harry Potter movies. Mind you, there are a lot of reviewers out there who compare these two movies. Maybe because Rob acted as Cedric Digory in The Goblet of Fire. Maybe. But these two movies are of different genres! HP is about magic and growing up (fantasy), and Twilight is about teenage love with vampire plot as a side dish (romance/thriller?/horror?). And even if you still want to compare these two, just look at HP: the Philosopher’s Stone. The kids were new at it, and budget wasn’t as big as subsequent movies. You could actually see the stiffness in acting, the insequrity. And as the books progressed, they got longer, but the movies had to sacrifice major and important parts to not make the movies long and boring. Plus, the actors themselves said they were experimenting on how to make the flying/speed to work. I’m guessing they did not have that big a budget to work with to make the movie. Give a chance for Twilight to make Box Office list. There are four books at the moment. If people love Twilight and support it, maybe New Moon can be way better than Twilight, just like HP movies.

Third category: People with overactive imagination (I’m among one of them, but I don’t hate this movie :P). They usually have a set image of how Edward and Bella are supposed to look and act like, and they experienced major disappointment when the movie came out. Maybe their perfect image of those characters were shattered. Hey, just go to www.deviantart.com and type in Edward Cullen or Bella Swan in the search engine. You’d be surprised how many self-portraits there are imagining themselves as the characters.

I don’t know about the rest, but the movie’s grown on me. Sure, it’s far from perfect, and sure some of the actors could’ve been better, but give it a chance. The movie is about teenage romance, that’s somehow mature enough that they wanted it to last forever. And it’s about abstinance, something not many teenagers know about anymore. Edward being a vampire is how Stephenie Meyer gave a different take on teen romance. And being an aspiring novelist myself (don’t know when I’m gonna make that happen), having one’s book turned into a movie and subsequently having a boost on book sales due to the movie is more than an author can dream for.

PS: Rob Pattinson sang 2 songs in the soundtrack, Never Think and Let Me Sign. I loved the songs when I heard them in the movie, and when I browsed for the soundrack, I saw Rob Pattinson as the singer. When I googled the name, look who’s face turned out? Edward’s! (I don’t actually keep track with actor names and such). I still can’t put the face with the singing voice together…Doesn’t seem to match. The songs are powerful, if you can understand what he’s singing. Kristen Stewart can sing as well, but it’s…well, youtube for it yourself and be the judge.

Hmm…a third entry in a very short time.

Twilight must have left an impression on me.

I have to admit, I think I’m obsessed.

I took out the second book, New Moon, to re-read, and instead of random faces and places in my mind, Forks and all the characters have a definitive image now. It’s like I get to imagine a sequel to Twilight.

Which brings me to thinking, how do authors react to their books turning into movies? Of course, those that are portrayed well and make tons of money are definitely rewarding, but what about the characters? I’m very sure when an author writes, the characters are living and breathing for them. That’s what makes a story work and believable. To have a definite face of an actor, is it a letdown or a vision coming true? And storylines sometimes get changed here and there to make a movie sellable. How much does an author accept those changes?

That being said, it’s one of my far-stretching life dreams. To write a novel, and to have it made into a movie. Sure, I’ve written and directed dramas, satire and short features before, and sure, having my vision realized had been rewarding and frustrating at the same time, but we’re talking about a whole feature movie here. I have lots of ideas, and in particular, Adrian and Rina. Even though not living and breathing yet, and with no definite faces, they are a small part of me. There’s nothing to stop me from writing, actually.

Other than myself.

I have a confession to make.

I went to see the movie. Again. Today.

Second time round was WAAAAY better than the first. Partly, there’s no one snoring loudly the same row I was sitting (to think that I paid for Gold Class to avoid all this misery…sigh), and also, I found out the conversations were not clipped because of censorship…the film roll quality just sucked. When I watched it today at Signature, Gardens, the quality was slightly better. Some parts were still clipped though, but not those that got me so frustrated yesterday.

Ah…I’m just a sucker for vampire stories (lol. Pun intended).

And I meant what I said. Stephenie Meyer made the take on vampires refreshing. And the chemistry between Bella and Edward was palpable. Sure, some parts were slightly lacking, like when Bella bled and all the vamps were supposed to be drawn to and tempted by the smell but was not portrayed that well, but surprisingly, they managed to pack everything into a 2-hour plus movie without making it seem rushed. Pace was good, not too fast but not slow. Could’ve delved deeper into the conflict areas, but then again, the story is about the building of a relationship between Bella and Edward, so it’s basically a teenage love story, not gore and all blood.

And the way the vampires did not change when they feed, and no sudden protraction of fangs (even the bite mark was like normal human teeth), are among the things that made this movie different. Hell, the vamps can even expose themselves to sunlight!

All in all, I approve of this movie. Two thumbs up. This is from my point of view. Some people may not like this one so much.

Spoiler alert (Is it even possible, since the movie was based on a novel?).

Just got back from watching Twilight. I got mixed signals from the movie. It’s not like I totally fell in love with it that I have to immediately watch it, but it’s not a letdown either. I actually don’t mind watching it again. And I definitely do not regret paying for that Gold Class seat. Which means a lot.

It’s rated PG13, and for crying out loud, did they have to cut off EVERYTHING that may suggest something, or anything? Conversations were clipped away, jarring the whole experience.

That out of the way, I actually fell in love with the book by Stephenie Meyer. Can’t remember exactly when I bought it, but it must’ve been earlier this year. I was looking for a vampire-based novel, and Anne Rice’s books were…well…Victorian. The author’s interpretation of vampires is totally different from the typical vampire lore. Their skin turns glittery like a diamond when touched by sunlight instead of them turning into dust. Among other things. No coffins. No religious mumbo jumbo. There are a lot of haters out there, who want their vampires to be vampires. But I find Ms Meyer’s take refreshing. In short, I love the story.

And like all good storybooks that are made into fullscale movies, I love the movie. I’m not being vain, but my imagination is strong and realistic. That’s why I love reading fantasy novels. I usually don’t feel like I’m reading. Instead, I actually live the book. And I lived these particular books. So when I see them as a movie, it strengthens the images, giving the characters actual faces. Kinda like this Harry Potter business.

OK, so the movie can actually pass as a typical teenage coming to age story, minus the singing and dancing. It’s a bit on the serious and dark side, but not exactly the slasher kind. It’s about the powerful relationship between Bella and Edward. And the chemistry the actors showed…

Well then. I don’t even know what I’m getting at. Just felt like writing after seeing the movie. Wouldn’t write it if I didn’t get any impression from it, now, would I?

So, whether to promote others to watch it or not…. It’s a definite must-watch, even if only to get a refreshing view on vampires, but I’m not quite sure about Malaysian cinemas…too much censorship over nothing. It’s PG13. Girls get pregnant at this age!

“You are indeed amusing, human.”

Even with one eye blinded by flowing blood, Voltar could see the great monster smiling. The double rows of sharp fangs it revealed only made the beast look more terribly malicious. Shaking off his fear, Voltar held the sword in a firm grip with one good arm, the other hanging limp and useless. He could feel his strength ebbing, his life force draining away with blood that flowed from many a gaping wound. Twenty of his order had braved into this abysmal place, mighty knights on a noble quest, but only he alone was left standing. At this point, giving up was simple, less painful.

In the span of a moment, Voltar saw much of his life flashing before his tired eyes: his parents admonishing his younger siblings to behave and emulate their eldest brother, Knight of the Crown, defender of the Realm; his sovereign liege resting the shining blade of the sword Might on each of his shoulders, knighting young Voltar into the order of the Crown; and Amber, making sweet, gentle love with him on a grassy hill wrapped in a blanket of bejeweled stars. Sweet, loving Amber. She had promised to wait for his return. She had said she would be the first to greet him as he walked past the borderguard towers, triumphant in battling the daemon Shardukar.

Voltar thrust the tip of his sword into the ground. With the upright blade supporting his weight, he stood straighter, every bit the proud, noble knight that he was. He had made a promise, and he intended to see it fulfilled. He had to live, so he could return to his wife and their unborn child.

The one pleasure he could derive from this ordeal was reading the surprise on the daemon’s face. Confident after all the wounds it had inflicted, the monster had expected the knight to fall where he stood like the rest of his brethren. Shardukar registered the gleam in his one good eye, and regarded the puny human from a different perspective. Here at last was a human worthy to be called adversary. The daemon assumed a fighting stance, prepared for another attack. With a battle cry that reached the very heart of high heaven, Voltar lifted the sword high and rushed without holding back. The blade sang in anticipation, cleaving the heavy sulphurous air as it neared its target.

If previous attacks had not even marred the gleaming scales of the daemon, this single blow chipped the tough hide of the clawed hand that answered Voltar’s challenge. The sharp blade buried itself deep within the monster’s flesh. As dark, putrid slime blossomed from the wound, Shardukar was introduced to pain for the very first time. Outraged, the daemon jerked his hand away, and in the process broke the sword into two. The broken tip had embedded itself too deep to be dislodged so easily. Mad with anger and pain, Shardukar grabbed the knight’s head and lifted him off the ground. Voltar was tall among his people, easily standing a full head taller than most men. Yet even with his feet dangling a few feet away from the dark, blood-stained earth, the knight still had to strain to look up to meet the monster’s fiery eyes. He had no strength left; not to fight, not to even struggle to free himself from the monster’s grasp. As he willingly surrendered himself to fate, one thought dominated his mind.

Humans. Even in the face of death you think about ridiculous things.

Voltar shuddered as a cold, ethereal voice boomed inside his head. The beast was in his mind as well. With a movement that resembled a human shrug, Shardukar tossed the knight to the ground. Out loud, the daemon uttered a guttural word of command in a language unknown to Voltar. A vertical line appeared beside the knight, quickly widening and slicing through air and space, leaving a black void in its wake. Out the lightless spatial doorway came a figure clad in a robe the color of dried blood. In stupefied amazement Voltar watched the lithe, supple form walk toward him. All hope fled his dying body as the beautiful woman picked up his broken sword and pointed it at his open, vulnerable throat, lips curved in a wicked smile that imitated Shardukar’s.

His heart gave up on him even before his head rolled onto the ground.

Amber licked hot blood from the sword. The taste was not unlike the sacrificed child, bitter but thick and savory. Like father like son. Shardukar’s laughter rumbled throughout the enclosed valley.

Riley flexed and stretched tired fingers and rubbed the back of his neck. His muscles were sore from sitting in the same position for almost a full day, and his vision had started to blur whenever he looked at the same spot for more than ten seconds. He had not had proper sleep for more than a week now, enraptured with ideas and plots that had taken over his conscious mind. He could now get that long-overdue rest without worrying about that mouse of an editor plaguing his voice message box. After a bit of refining he would call that little pest and tell him he could start arrangements with the publisher. Riley got up, leaving a deep indentation on the cushioned seat. He did not want to stop working, but he was in sore need of a caffeine boost. He was beginning to see double, and the room, messy as it already was, looked like a hellhole straight out of one of his stories.

The kitchen was no better off. Empty pizza boxes lay in stacks on the kitchen counter, some having been there for a few months. He was also running out of clean mugs; the sink was laden with unwashed ware, the dishwasher broken down and forgotten. The one he was using to fill cold coffee was already crusted with a stain that would not come off so readily. It was all her fault. If she hadn’t left, this place would not have fallen to such a sorry state. The kitchen had been her domain, not his, and she had left it as easily as she had left him –

Riley poured the last of the black, thick liquid and exited the kitchen as quickly as he could, not wanting to linger there lest ghosts of unwanted memories come and haunt him. Already he could feel their silent, hungry fingers grasping at him, pulling him down to a place he had long since forsaken. No, he had to finish his story. He had no time to go back to that awful place. Yes, he had to go back to work. Sick, sadistic readers were hungry for his book. He would rather indulge these tormented souls than face his memories.

Engrossed in his battling thoughts, Riley neglected to notice the box of books lying in his path.

Riley stumbled forward like an eight-month-old trying to run without knowing how to walk, his neck jerking painfully back. He lost his grip on the mug, and its momentum saw it hurtling toward his writing table, sending coffee splashing all about its path. Of all the places it could fall, the mug just had to land on the typewriter. The loud crack of ceramic hitting metal jarred Riley to his senses. He got up to his feet and rushed to the table that occupied half of the living room, but what was done could never be undone. Riley’s heart sank deeper than he thought possible when he saw the typewriter. His typewriter. Pieces of the broken mug lay scattered all about the old equipment, but most were lodged between the keypads. A dark blotch was spreading on his finished manuscript, smearing the ink into an unreadable mess, but he did not even glance at his damaged work.

Riley burned with anger, a strong surge of emotion he thought he had long buried. He lifted the heavy chair and flung it away, partly to vent his anger, but mostly because he did not know how to react to this loss. The sound of breaking glass pierced the night air, but Riley was too numbed to care what he’d hit. He did not even feel the gust of strong wind that invaded the room, sending papers flying madly, wet with the tears he could not cry, and cold as his stone heart that was now covered with ice. The tempest that raged inside of him was by far greater than the midnight storm that found its way into his home through the broken window.

“What do you mean you can’t fix it!”

The question that came out as an enraged snarl mirrored his emotion. This shop was the one place in the whole state that serviced old modeled typewriters, but the little rabbit in front of him was saying he couldn’t do anything. After tearing the phonebook apart looking for options, Riley had nowhere else to go. This mothball-smelling shop in the middle of a town he had never heard of before was his only hope. Now it felt like he was being denied life itself, and after losing so much, he couldn’t handle anymore loss.

“Just name your price.” The rabbit shook with every word that came out of Riley’s mouth.

“I…I can’t. There’s too much damage! And we don’t have the parts –”

“Well get the bloody parts!” He could no longer contain his anger. The rabbit shirked away, cowering as he faced the bigger man’s wrath. His thin, leathery neck almost disappeared into the safety of his neatly pressed striped shirt.

“This model is very old. An antique.” He paused, searching for proper words that wouldn’t offend this large hound dog with fiery hair and smoky eyes. “I have another just like this. You could –”

“If I wanted another one I wouldn’t have come to this stinking rat trap in the first place!”

Riley grabbed the typewriter from the counter and stormed out of the dimly lit shop, leaving behind a shaken but immensely relieved rabbit. Cold autumn wind blasted onto Riley’s face as he yanked the door open, but he ignored the biting draft just as he ignored the pain in his still tender palm. The broken mug had done more than hurt his heart.

Clutching the typewriter tightly till its metal edge bit into his ribs, Riley walked without a particular destination. His steps were uneven, sometimes quickening, sometimes slowing down to almost a crawl. His unclasped long coat whipped about madly, his untucked shirt flapping like a fledgling trying to take flight, deepening its permanent creases.

Riley looked about when the wind no longer bit deep into his bones. His surroundings were unfamiliar; shady trees filled most of the landscape, with brown and golden leaves crowning each broad trunk. Leaves were falling here and there, giving up life to rejoin the earth as autumn gave way to winter. Sunlight glinting off a flat, dark surface just beyond a dense cluster of trees hinted a lake, or a pond at least. Riley had never been to this remote, sleepy town before, but he assumed he was standing on the grounds of a park of sort. Now that his anger was almost spent, Riley felt suddenly tired and empty inside. The emptiness was a familiar companion that was almost welcome. By feeling empty he could crawl back to the impenetrable fort he had built almost two years ago. But his legs ached too much for him to walk any further. Riley paced to a bench facing the lake and sat down feeling much older than his twenty-six years. Under the shade of a large oak, he stared at the lake without seeing its still waters. Instead, he was seeing something deeper, further back within his past.

Riley stroked the typewriter resting on his lap, feeling its familiar indents and elevations. The surface of some of the buttons was smooth with wear. Right then he felt like throwing the bloody thing away into the river, but his body refused to budge an inch. He felt betrayed. Why must the typewriter break down, leaving him just as she had? Why had she betrayed him in the first place? She had promised to always be there, but she had lied!

Without thinking, Riley stroked his chin. A few weeks’ growth of beard sliced into his inflamed palm, but he invited the pain willingly. She had hated facial hair, but wasn’t here anymore. Why should he care?

No, he was not ready to return to that place. Riley then diverted his thoughts to the irony in his life. Once he had been so confident that with money he could do anything. Apparently he couldn’t be more wrong. Money could not repair his typewriter, and it certainly hadn’t stopped her from leaving him –

“What are you looking at, Mister?”

Riley snapped back to the present. The source of the voice that had so rudely jarred him back was an imp with a crown of golden hair. Riley looked around. The sun was already casting long shadows. Which stupid circus owner had let loose this wide-eyed beast? Trying not to be obvious, he gave this newcomer a closer look. Bright blue eyes were studying him back without a hint of fear. The white gown she was wearing looked new; surely someone was having a birthday party nearby. But upon closer look Riley spotted something wrong. The base was dripping wet, as if she had been playing in the lake. He had not heard splashing noises to betray her presence. Odd.

“Mister?” She tilted her head to show her curiosity.

“What?” His sharp reply startled the little imp, but he had never been good with children. Riley sighed. She did not show any signs of running away. Instead, she clambered up the bench and seated herself beside him without being invited. Her proximity unnerved him, not from the coldness of her skin, but from the shock of human contact. He had long ago given up on other people, seeing them as less than human, barricading himself deep within his emptiness.

“Is that yours?”

Her little fingers neared the typewriter, but Riley jerked it away. Broken as it was, no one could touch his typewriter, especially a shameless imp!

She touched her chin in a contemplative manner.

“Hmm. You love it very much, huh? Had something like that once, you know.” She did not sound like a curious six-year-old.

“What? A typewriter?”

“No. Miss Cynthia.” Riley forced himself not to be curious.

“She’s my doll.” She had answered his unspoken question.

Despite himself, Riley could not help but ask, “What does that have to do with a typewriter?”

“I loved Miss Cynthia and carried her around. Aunt Eleanor said my mom gave Miss Cynthia to me when I was very little.” At the word ‘mom’ she gave a distant, wistful look. She leaned closer with each passing minute, chatting away as if she had known Riley all her life. Riley edged further but let her speak, not actually hearing her words as he didn’t care for little girls’ dolls. But he decided to cut her off when she was saying something about a boy named Bobby hiding her doll and not returning it.

“What’s your point?”

“I lost Miss Cynthia but I have Jenny and Alice and Bobby and Elsa.” She suddenly came closer and spoke in a lower voice. “Don’t tell anyone. I like Jenny the most but not Alice. She smells funny. I’m Callie.”

Like all children, this one had a tendency to jump from one topic to another, but he did not have to ask her about all those names to know they were her friends. Human friends. Her incessant prattle didn’t hold any meaning for him, but the message her words carried shook his emotional fort to its foundations. He had lived his life much longer than this young brat lived hers, but she had shown so much more wisdom in dealing with life and loss. Riley could no longer hear the little girl talking. In his mind he saw his great fort crumbling to dust, and for the first time, the stone heart encased in ice deep within the solid structure began to pulsate with life. As he absently stroked the typewriter, memories came flooding in, unstoppable now that the gate had broken away. Sarah smiling at him when he woke up every single day. Sarah sleeping within the safety of his arms, their bodies a perfect fit. Sarah watching him as he tried hard to concentrate on his writing. Sarah’s sweet voice floating from the kitchen as she sang while cooking the Italian spaghetti he loved so much. Sarah waiting on the sofa in front of the television when he arrived home late at night, insisting on waiting for him even though he had warned her he would be late. Sarah shaving him with great care, slowly but surely sliding the sharp blade on his jaw. Sarah waiting excitedly as he opened the wrapping that concealed his typewriter.

Then Riley saw Sarah on the hospital bed with an intravenous line attached to each hand. He saw her slipping away, yet he could not do anything for her but watch as the cancer gnawed at her bones and other organs. How many nights had he stayed awake for fear of her going away without saying goodbye? And then he saw the casket lowered into the ground, the finality of the scene always keeping him awake on his empty bed.

Blaming Sarah for leaving him had been the simplest way to deal with her death. By being angry with her, he could forget her suffering and his helplessness. Anger had fueled him, helping him wake up every morning on a bed much too big for him alone, had been his companion that filled the empty void inside. But Riley could no longer blame Sarah, not after what this girl had made him see. Neither could he blame the cancer that had stolen her away from his arms. Now he felt like he was the one betraying her by refusing to face reality.

Added weight on his lap told him the girl was resting her head there. He looked down and saw her sleeping, and he did not know what to do. Sarah would have known.

As Sarah’s face returned, a surge of emotions long buried and forgotten burst from the depths of his soul like an active volcano erupting after a millennia lying dormant. He welcomed these strong feelings as he had never done before, and for the first time since Sarah’s death, Riley embraced life. He looked down. The girl was shivering. Without moving much, Riley took off his coat and blanketed her small frame. She turned and smiled at him.

“Are you a writer Mister? People don’t walk around with type…typewriters.”

Riley smiled. He had forgotten how, having been so used to wearing a permanent glare to mask his loss, driving people away in the process, but this girl’s sleepy voice, so trusting, made him remember.

“Will you read me your story Mister?”

Riley did not have the chance to answer. Little Callie had snuggled deeper and was fast asleep. He smoothed straight, silky hair from her face and leaned back, letting memories of Sarah take over his very being.

Callie was nowhere in sight when Riley woke up. He was comfortably blanketed by his warm coat; she must have had covered him with it while he was sleeping. He had not felt the little girl slipping away, but he assumed she must have gone back home, wherever that was. When Riley stood up to stretch stiff muscles, he found a small shoe at the foot of the bench, its black surface shining in the morning sunlight. Callie must have left it behind.

Riley searched the area for the nearest house. Maybe people around here knew the little girl and would know where she lived. He had to return the shoe; it was the least he could do to return the immense favor she had unknowingly done him.

He was more than hungry when he finally found a big house filled with children running about. A sign at the gate had read ‘Osler Community Orphanage’.

A middle aged woman, her hair tied in a neat bun and her apron stained with brown gravy, answered his polite knocks at the main door. The lines on her face told him she was made to smile. She was not smiling now though, but looked at him with controlled suspicion. Riley unconsciously smoothed his hair. He must have looked like a common crook with unkempt beard and hair and clothes full of creases.

“Sorry. I’m Riley O’Brien, and I’m looking for a little girl named Callie. I’m wondering if you know her?” Those were the most polite words he had uttered since Sarah.

“Sorry, sir. There’s no Callie here.” The slight pause between words revealed that she was not telling the whole truth. It was only natural to protect those under her care from perfect strangers.

“She left this,” he offered, holding out the little shoe.

The woman took out a pair of glasses from her shirt pocket and put them on. She gave the shoe a close inspection.

“Sorry. I’ve not seen this before.” The woman sounded agitated somehow. She made a show of closing the door to end the conversation, but Riley pressed the door against the wall. Her strength was no match to his.

“Wait. She said something about something. A doll. Miss Cynthia?”

Blood drained from the woman’s face.

As Riley sat in front of the computer, eyes fixed on the glaring monitor, he made himself think of the conversation he had had with Mrs. Eleanor Green, the lady from the orphanage. He had reasoned out later that his experience with Callie had only been a dream, a hallucination at best, but everything felt too real to be a mere dream. Her weight, her warmth, even her shiny golden hair had been all too real. But there was no denying what he had gone through was an outright impossibility.

Mrs. Green had brought him to her office and had taken out a piece of newspaper for him to read. It was dated November 19^th, 2001, a good three months back. But the picture of a little girl and the headline that accompanied it had had him taken aback. “Girl found drowned in lake” was the single-line title, written in big, bold letters, but Riley had found himself doubting the printed article. Callie’s smiling portrait had gazed back at him, mocking his senses and sanity. Impossible, his mind had shouted over and over again. Bloody impossible!

Riley smiled softly at the memory. Miss Cynthia returned his gaze from beside the computer. It looked as if it had seen better days, an eye sewn back to its original place, and both arms crudely sewn back at their shoulder joints. The doll was smiling back at him, its wide eyes staring, never blinking, and never living. It had taken much persuasion on his part to get the lady to part with it, as the doll was something of personal value to her, but he had to have it for his latest project. Riley gave the doll a secret little smile. The sound tapping of buttons on the keyboard, fast and constant, filled the silent night.

Riley stood still in front of the tombstone, suspended in a moment of silence as he bowed in reverence to the gentle serenity that floated all about the hilltop cemetery. A cool breeze caressed his smooth face and made gentle waves on his neatly pressed blue shirt. The event that had transpired at the lake still made him question his sanity of that moment, but he believed now things happen for a reason, just like what Sarah used to tell him as she lay helpless on her deathbed.

“Hey, kiddo. It’s me, Riley.” He felt more comfortable talking out loud even though he knew no one would be listening. “I brought you Miss Cynthia. Remember her?” Riley took out the doll, looking much more decent now after having it cleaned up thoroughly and repaired by professional hands. With deeper reverence than he would normally give an inanimate object, Riley settled the doll against the gray stone tombstone. He spent a moment looking at the doll in silence, wanting to say much more, but unable to say anything appropriate. “And remember you asked me to read you a story? Well, I’ve written a new one, and it’s already on sale. My editor said it’s the best I’ve ever written, and it’s totally different from my previous books. He always says that to keep me writing. So I want you to decide if it’s any good or not. It’s about a man who thought life had given up on him, who had given up on life, and it took a little girl to jolt him back to the real world. I named the story ‘Touched by an Angel’.

“Before I go on, I want to thank you. I don’t believe in ghosts, and I don’t believe in spirits. To me, dead is dead. But my wife Sarah used to believe in angels, and she told me once whenever a child dies, that child becomes an angel. So I guess you are an angel, Callie. And you’ve helped me a lot. You’ve made me see life in a different way, and made me believe that things really do happen for a reason.” Riley’s eyes gazed everywhere but at the tombstone. Unshed tears were starting to pool behind his lashes. “The shoe they never found, it’s intended for me, wasn’t it? I hope it was.”

Riley sat cross-legged on the grassy ground in front of Callie’s resting place on the hill overlooking a vista of newly sprouted green leaves and grass and a silver line of the river sparkling in the soft afternoon sun. As he opened his book and read the first chapter, he envisioned a little blue-eyed angel looking down at him, smiling as she held Sarah’s hand and guided her to the place where she belonged.

"What are you trying to say, Doctor?"
I had done this many times, far too many to be healthy, and I was supposed to pull this off easily. That was what I kept telling myself. But it never got easier. If it was possible, I would have looked anywhere but at her eyes. They expressed her fear, her anguish, but worst of all, a glimmer of hope. Hope that I had to crush with what I had to say.
"There is nothing much we can do. His organs are failing and he may not have much time left."
The snuffed hope was more than I could bear. I shifted my eyes from the lady in front of me, her shoulders already shaking with sobs she was failing to repress, to the subject of our conversation. The man was lying on the last bed in the ICU, immobile except for the regular rise and fall of his chest, in time with the sound of the ventilator attached to him via an endotracheal tube. Twelve breaths per minute, if I counted, just as the setting on the machine. He no longer could breathe on his own. The left half of his shaved head was swollen, the skin over it glistening with tension. The sutures holding the surgical wound were crusted with dried blood. Beneath the swollen skin surrounded by the sutures, was his edematous brain, covered only in a piece of cloth-like tissue. That part of the skull had been removed to enable the edema to expand without compromising the rest of the brain.
But the craniectomy performed three days earlier only helped in prolonging his life for a few more days. The impact from his accident had caused a massive intracranial bleed, and with that much dead brain tissue, he would be paralyzed for life even if he did survive. Even with his face swollen and bruised, the patient looked young, in his late thirtees. Much too young to die.
And his family surrounding his bed agreed with my unspoken thought. Although they were vocal about it. They were conversing rapidly in Cantonese, and even though I could not understand the words, I could grasp its meaning. They were angry, and anguished, and could not accept this revelation.
The lady in front of me made a small sound that snapped my attention back at her.
"But…but he was doing so well after the operation. His eyes moved when I called his name. He even moved his fingers…" The patient’s wife was having a difficult time holding back her tears.
In truth, even my nurses would attest that the patient had not moved one bit post-operatively. Even with extreme pain stimuli that would have had other peoply jumping, cursing with agony, we could not elicit a response from him. But people needed to cling to hope so badly they were willing to see anything, believe anything.
A man who had slight resemblance to the patient’s wife stepped up and steadied her shoulders. He looked at me with a defiance that bordered arrogance. "What about lobectomy? You haven’t tried that. When he gets better we can take him home and my sister can take care of him."
The drawback of Internet. Freely obtained information makes people think they are smarter than others. Frankly, I sympathized with the lady sobbing in front of me, but I would not have myself talked down by someone who didn’t know what he was saying.
"You want us to remove part of the swollen and dead brain," I replied in clipped tones. "Then what? If he survives, Mr Kong will be a vegetable for life." I took out the patient’s CT films from a side compartment of the desk at the foot of his bed and showed the man the bright image occupying most of the front part of the patient’s left brain, extending to the back, which signified the extent of the bleed prior to operation. "He’s right-handed. Which means his left brain is dominant. If we remove that part of his brain, and he survives, he won’t be able to talk, think, or even function."
Realizing I was starting to raise my voice, I took a deep breath to steady myself. And I studied the man’s expression. It wasn’t arrogance; it was the last remnants of hope trying to set foot. And with hope crushed to abruptly, the man just looked older, and tired.
My voice was softer when I continued, my tone kinder. "I’ve talked with your sister earlier. She is a housewife and she has three children to take care of. If, if your brother-in-law survives, he will be lying on a bed for the rest of his life."
"But we can visit them every day and help out," a lady who could have been another sister interrupted.
I looked at her, compassion in my face as well as my voice. "Yes, but for how long? Whatever we do, his brain has already stopped functioning. If I take out that tube in his mouth, he will stop breathing."
A collective gasp. More rapid Cantonese that I couldn’t understand but could comprehend the meaning.
"You can’t do that! It’s illegal!" The brother who was supporting Mrs Kong stood straighter with anger.
"Yes it is," I agreed. "Unless if Mrs Kong, and only Mrs Kong requested for it." I had to emphasize the importance of the decision, even when I could see it was killing her. I shifted my gaze to the sister who spoke to me.
"And if he survives, he will have to depend on a machine like this to breathe. Mrs Kong has three small children to think about at home, and you’re asking her to take care of Mr Kong and at the same time find a way to make money to support her family. You may come and visit, but she has to live with this the rest of Mr Kong’s life."
I knew it was harsh, even if my voice was anything but, yet I had to show them the reality and the gravity of the situation.
"I came here to tell you that his heart is also failing. You see the small tubes connected to his arm? He’s on two inotropic agents to help his heart pump, but even those are not working. His heartbeat is slower, and his blood pressure is dropping." I showed the whole family the readings on the patient’s cardiac monitor.
Mrs Kong cleared her throat to get my attention. She looked so much older than she was supposed to be; dark lines circled her tired eyes, which are red from all the tears, and her face was gaunt with fatigue. She was also wearing the same clothes I saw her wearing the day before.
"How long?"
She did not have to elaborate. I was expecting this question.
"I’m not God. I can’t tell you hor much longer he has. But he may not last the night."
And if saying it did not break my heart enough, I had to watch the lady before me crumple and wail loudly, a keening, high-pitched sound that would likely haunt me for years to come.
I kneeled in front of her and whispered. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry."

I want to be able to write again!

Goddamnit, I used to write stories, translating the ideas, and scenes going on in my head, into coherent words that make up actual stories! I even used to write stories for the sake of writing. Of course, those kind of work just end up down the drain…
But the point is, I want to write!

To me, every person has to leave a mark, a legacy, before they die, lest they be forgotten. Parents have children to continue their line, painters have their masterpieces admired even after hundreds of years go by. I, personally, want to leave my mark through an actual novel. Not just a mere novel, but one that actually matters. One that has meaning and measure, that touches at least one life.

Enter the nightmare of getting an English novel published in Malaysia. I have asked around. Most Asian-based English literature are actually translated into English, from their native languages. And it is not easy to penetrate Malaysian market with an English literature as it does not sell well. Not many publishers are willing to take the risk.

Then comes the permanent writer’s block (or so I keep telling myself). All this while, my stories are Americanized, when I don’t write fantasy. My characters were mainly Caucasians, as it was difficult for me to comprehend Malaysians conversing and thinking fully in English. It was just weird for me. So during high school, my entries did not win anything. It may be because my writing sucked, but all winning entries involved Malaysian characters. The judges wanted (and still want) stories that are steep in Malaysian flavor. I even tried submitting my works to Silverfish Books, a Malaysian-based publication house that produces an annual anthology called Silverfish New Writing. Again, all stories have their own local flavor, and with the really good ones, I could actually feel like I was in Singapore, or Vietnam, or even here in KL while reading them. And these stories were originally written in English!

A particular story used to reside in my head, and I kept developing my characters, as well as the plot, and storyline. But my teachers and mentors had always advised me to write about things that I know well, things that I can describe without having to tax my imagination, for me to be able to write well. And that had me thinking. I have been living a comfortable, if sheltered life. I have no stories of war and conflict to express, neither have I any experience of poverty or difficulty growing up. I have had fond affection, but never the passion of love and lust (although, surprisingly, people seem to like my love stories…). But what I do have, I have taken for granted. I have always scorned TV series about doctors and the medical profession. Some are really good show, but they invariably paint a picture prettier than reality. This is my field; I know it well. I could really write something meaningful that can leave an impact.

And indeed I do have a complete story brewing in my mind. Written correctly, it could impress a powerful message. But it would mean honest study and research, and none of this instinct-only stuff. Cringe!

Come to think of it, I still remember vividly an event that occurred when I was in Standard 5. I have forgotten my English teacher’s name (I stink when it comes to names), but I still remember what she looked like. Tall (well I was really short at that time!), skinny, with long, curly ebony hair that she wore loose. She wore these big spectacles, and she had an-almost buck teeth. She was quite dark, even for an Indian. Anyway, back to the point. One day she was teaching us past tense, and it was something about woodland animals (sigh, these silly workbooks). So she asked us to choose which one was right, to complete the sentence: (something) to ______ (pick, picked, picking). And I answered ‘pick’. And right there, in front of the class, she scoffed at me and said "Wrong. That is present tense." And I was adamant that my answer was correct. When she asked me why, I could only say that it sounded right (bear in mind that at that time, I was in love with Enid Blyton’s books as well as Narnia). And she laughed at me, and naturally, the whole class joined in. However, she called me to her desk the next day, and quietly told me that I was right. ‘To’ is followed by a present tense, as the action has not yet taken place. And I still remember the way she looked at me when she said that. I still hope it looked like frank admiration. Of course, she then informed the whole class, but no one actually cared. But that was not the point.

So. Back to the present. The Story (with capitaled S to emphasise its importance and impact). I’ve given all the excuses. I’m now left with the final hurdle to jump.

Me.

I’ve been having these weird and (to me) disfiguring rashes that started off on my left cheek. That was mid May. Initially I thought they were just zits gone wrong. But the rash got worse. It was itchy as hell!
So I went to a Dermatologist in the hospital I work in (one of the perks of working at a Specialist Hospital). After lots of questioning, she came to a conclusion that it was mostly taenia faciei, which means face fungus in plain English. I was like "WTF?! - don’t tell me it’s from Keeno for sleeping on my bed for so long…"
I was prescribed anti-fungal cream, and when I informed my Head of Department, she went "How is it possible? You’re a young man, not immunocompromised." And i went "I dunno…"

For three weeks I applied the cream, almost religiously. We’re talking about my face here, dammit. But nothing happened. And much to my relief, the scraping she took came back as negative. I was fungus-free! But my dermatologist was puzzled. The diagnosis now changed to contact dermatitis; ie I was allergic to something. She had to ask me "Sorry to ask you this, but do you wear makeup?" for which I answered plainly and simply "I don’t even use talc." So maybe the OT mask was the culprit. But I’ve been using the same standard-issue brand for years. Hmm…so the anti-fungal cream was out and in came the steroid cream. Which, for some reason, made it worse. The itchiness was barely tolerable, I kept waking up every two, three hours finding out I was scratching my cheeks, my chin, my ears. I felt like a flea-infested dog.
I went back to my dermatologist after a week. I had stopped applying the cream after a few days, and medicated myself with antihistamines, which made me drowsy almost all the time. Drat. She consulted a senior Dermatologist: it was time for a biopsy to be taken. And since I’m working in Plastic Surgical Department, she suggested that they take my biopsy, since the surgeons achieve a more cosmetically pleasing result. Fair enough. I went straight to Hasnul, my senior registrar. We arranged for a date for biopsy.
And OH MY GOD! I’ve always operated on patients, telling them the local anesthesia injection would hurt, but I had no idea how much. And now I can relate with my patients. Damn that hurt! But I’d rather bite my tongue off than scream like a girl (to hell with being politically correct!). And the scar is barely visible. I’m happy with it.
However, I am not happy with the biopsy report. I can still remember the day I got the result.
It was August the 5th, and I had taken leave cos my face was just plain itchy. My phone rang at about 8:30am, and a lady pathologist informed me that my report was ready. So I asked her: "So what do I have?" Her reply was: "Confirmed. DLE."
Discoid Lupus Erythematosus. The one diagnosis I really dreaded. So I called Farrah-Hani, my registrar and good friend (sorta like a big sister to me), and informed her I was going to take the rest of the week off. She kindly told me to rest and she would sort out the 2 calls I would not be doing. And a few minutes later my Head of Department called me and gave her condolences, and told me to rest and sort this whole thing out.

Before I go further, let me give a bit of light on this DLE thing that has set me off course. Discoid lupus is a form of an auto-immune disease, where my immune system attacks my skin. It is the mildest manifestation of lupus, and only 5-10% of patients would develop Systemic Lupus Erythematosus, SLE, which is a full-blown autoimmune disease that attacks the whole body from the inside. It usually manifests on the face, being the most sun-exposed area. Something about UV light altering the skin’s DNA so that the immune system attacks the skin. It presents as itchy rashes, and if it occurs on a hair-growing patch, that area becomes bald. Meaning, if it occurs on my scalp, I will have bald patches. And this disease recurs and relapses. It may take months to years for an active attack. When the lesions heal, it is by hyperpigmentation or by scarring. The bald patches usually remain bald.

And let me describe a bit about myself. My vanity borders narcissism. I am not good looking, but I would - by reflex - check my own reflection on any surface that gives off a reflection. Those who know me know that I love dressing up. Not using dresses, but smart-casual wear, or sometimes the grunge look, depending on my mood. And I don’t dress up to impress people, but to make me feel good about myself. I am of average height, slightly thin, with no distinguishing features. It is my sister who looks good on all the photographs, and who is popular everywhere she goes. It is my brother who has the height and build, and looks good in anything he wears, even when the clothes are mine. I would always be behind the lens, simply because I don’t look good on camera. Hell, I don’t think I look good, period. But I love the way I carry myself. That, and how under-aged I look. And I would freak out if i even have small zits, much less the major zit breakout when I was sitting for my final exam.

So you can just imagine what my reaction was when I got the diagnosis. This is a lifelong disease, which can only be controlled and not cured. And the lesions may just get worse every time my DLE recurs. My world came crashing down. And I kept on scratching to relieve the itchiness.

My dermatologist asked me: "Are you depressed?" And one of my closest friends, Zay, who suggested that I came to Dermatology in the first place, told me that DLE is almost nothing to worry about. It’s not a systemic disease.

And these are my thoughts, that I’ve been keeping to myself, and cannot bear to tell my mom:

To me I will be disfigured for life, no matter if people say otherwise. I used to check myself in the mirror to make sure my tie was straight, or my hair was in the right place and spikiness, or to adjust my shirt. Now I look in the mirror to check if the lesions are spreading (which they are), or to apply the steroid cream or sunblock. I avoid looking at mirrors whenever I could. When I try new clothes and almost ending up buying them, I inadvertently look at myself, and think "Why bother? I still look bad." And I’m dreading any itchiness on my scalp. I really do not want to get bald. And now I get people’s attention, but for the wrong reason. How would you feel if people give you a funny look and ask you whether your illness is infectious? I wake up lethargic cos I can’t sleep for more than 3 hours without waking up all itchy. And I have to avoid the sun. Me, who love being under the sun, the clear sky, and the beauty of the land with the display of light and shadows! Photography is one of the only things I really have passion for, goddamit!

So do I fell depressed? I sure am on a straight road towards it. I don’t go ranting about "WHY ME?! THIS IS NOT FAIR!" I have lupus, so I have lupus. No use blaming anyone. But I do keep on asking, of all the places, why my face? The lesions are going to get worse with time, and I am positive the full depth of it will finally hit me when i find a bald spot somewhere. Touch wood.
To everyone else, it’s a mild disease; nothing much to worry about. To me, it’s life altering. If there is a reason for my getting it, I may or may not find out. But the full depth of what’s going on in my head, it will break my mom’s heart if she ever finds out.

I lie with my head resting on my folded arm, simply watching her, breathing in her sweet scent. The gently morning sun found its way though the slits of the shutter, illuminating her features with its soft, warm glow. Even asleep, with her hair sticking out at impossible angles, she takes my breath away. She looks so calm, without a single line of worry or doubt on her face.

I reach out with my free hand and smooth her hair from her eyes.

She blinks, lazily, languidly, and smiles.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Watchadoin?" she mumbles.

"Nothing. Just watching you sleep."

She grumbles and pulls the blanket to cover her face.

"I’m ugly like this!"

Smiling, knowing she can’t see my face with hers buried under the down cover, I wait a moment before joining her.

"No matter what time of the day, no matter how you look, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on."

She lifts the blanket enough to peer at my face. She narrows her eyes suspiciously.

"Well…besides Angelina Jolie." Which earns me a hearty punch on the chest.

"Oof! Ouch, that hurts!" And we both laugh.

"Well, I’m thankful you consented to share your life with me. I’m glad I’m able to wake up beside you everyday, and to be able to look at you, watch over you while you sleep."

She smiles deeply at me, her dimple showing clearly even under the shade of the blanket. And we kiss, a long, soft, and gentle kiss.

"Ugh," she mumbles between kisses. "Your breath stinks!"

"Yours too. But I’m not gonna stop kissing you!"