(no subject)
Locked-In Syndrome
Andrew breaks the news to me as I am microwaving yesterday's soup. Downstairs, children chase each other gleefully around the neighbourhood playground. The thin solution - square chunks of beef floating like carcasses - trickles into a chipped bowl, and before my fingers can twist the dial in place, he begins to speak.
He tells me her name. She is a year younger, studying to be a dietician; he met her in church, and they once led a youth group together. She is a nice person. The microwave hums deeply, glowing a lurid orange. His eyes dart back and forth, eventually attaching themselves to the floor.
I'm sorry, he says, his long frame leaning awkwardly against the refrigerator. I nearly part my lips, as if I have lines to recite, cues to follow, but instead I bend to scratch a mosquito bite on my knee. It's the beginning of June, boiling in the day, balmy at twilight, and they are already flying rampant.
I'm sorry, Andrew repeats. He is speaking slowly and emphatically, enunciating every letter. I know I can't make it up to you, but let's behave like adults. He is wearing that green polo shirt, the colour of dull moss; wire-rimmed glasses perched on his crooked nose. I can't bear to look at him any longer. Karen - he pleads as I stalk away, slamming the door behind me. Without thinking, my thumb makes contact with the lock - it falls smoothly into place with a resounding click. Easy.
Andrew begins to call out with increasing urgency as I give myself the obligatory once-over, tossing my keys and cheap lipstick into my bag. Let me out. Look, we can talk this through. For God's sake, Karen, let me out. I notice his phone - a battered Nokia - resting on the windowsill, and obeying my impulses for the second time, swiftly pocket it.
In the stairwell, a single lightbulb casting flickering shadows, I continue to hear muffled yelling and arrhythmic thumping. I badly want a drink - maybe I'll join potbellied, ruddy-faced men by coffee-shop televisions, swigging gulps of Tiger Beer and arguing inarticulately about football. The sense of looming possibility, crippling indecision, stalls me temporarily and I freeze mid-step; till I abruptly remember, swearing under my breath, that I have an afternoon class to attend.
I usually walk to university, traversing vandalised pavements, climbing overhead bridges blooming with purple bougainvillea. Even when it rains. Today the traffic seems to roar louder than usual; sedans compete for space, and arrogant motorcyclists speed along with denim-clad paramours.
Till now, I don't have much company. Stephanie, my best friend of ten years, left for London. Because I constantly eat at the same cafe - a cold egg sandwich with salad on the side - the barista knows my name, and asks me how I am. Once in a while he pours me a complimentary cup of expresso. There's also a large-breasted exchange student I sit with sometimes, but we rarely meet outside class. Mostly I plug my ears with pulsing music, blocking out the excitable voices around me.
My professor is Dr. Lee, who gives lectures on the development of religion. As I strain to concentrate, willing my hand to write, all I can think of is my first time in a church. It wasn't a pristine chapel like I always imagined, but a musty hall with numbered plastic chairs. Faces stared as I took my seat beside Andrew, my hand clutching his. As an electric guitar strummed unfamiliar melodies, the crowd sang, chanted and stamped their feet. I chewed mints and periodically nodded off.
Meeting people was the worst part. You must be Karen - the girlfriend who doesn't believe? Is this your first time in church? I've heard from Andrew that you don't believe. Vainly, I searched their faces for a hint of irony. By the end I wanted to shout, believe in what? So what if I don't believe in anything?
I told Andrew, with guilty resolve, that I wasn't ever going back. We were under the covers, my face pressed against his back - I liked the smell of his old shirts, a combination of ageing cotton and gentle detergent. His body trembled in response.
Andrew's phone buzzes against my hip, and I realise, with a jolt, that the other students are leaving. While I adjust my clothes and sling my bag over one shoulder, Dr. Lee, gathering papers, catches my eye and smiles. My heart leaps involuntarily; instantly, I hear my mother's voice in my head. Stay away from married men, she warns. I visualise her literally climbing out of her grave, strong and sprightly as ever, forming a human barrier between me and the unsuspecting professor. Despite myself, I nearly begin to chuckle.
He's handsome, even if he's pushing forty. He probably has a wife and children who live in a comfortable terrace house and romp with two golden retrievers, while their maid dutifully polishes the silverware. That isn't an obstacle. I could see him in his office during lunch, between lessons. In between kisses he could stroke my sides and teach me all about history. The sudden longing hits me like an unexpected punch, and I exit hurriedly.
By now it's five in the evening, and the sun is still gleaming so fiercely I think my bare arms are beginning to burn. Andrew has probably given up rattling the door and slamming chairs against it. There's an off chance he's managed to break it down, and is coming to enact revenge on me. He knows my timetable. What will I do if he tries to hit me? If he's still inside - the beef soup in his belly rapidly processed into violent, terse energy - maybe I should stab him with a knife. Smother him with the chequered tea-towel.
I think about the crime novels I read as a child. We collected them in volumes; the more heinous, the better. I learned about Long Island Lolitas shooting innocent wives; jealous lesbians torturing a twelve-year-old to death. It's always infidelity that makes people snap. My mother proclaimed loudly, your father's so lucky I didn't try to kill him. That woman too. Frightened, I clung to her midsection and begged her not to, while she laughed.
The truth is I'm so tired I couldn't murder Andrew if I wanted. Murder. The word is ugly, difficult. I just want expensive food and a shoulder to rest on. Shielding my eyes with one hand, I manage to flag a taxi and direct the driver to the first decent bar I can think of. He converses with me in Chinese, and experiencing a wave of growing irritation, I respond in halting sentences. I am twenty-two this year. I am still studying, but I don't know what I want to be.
No, I don't have a boyfriend.
My wife died last year, he confides. He states it like a brute fact, without euphemism. I am very lonely, and when I'm lonely, I drive for hours. I pick up many passengers, but they don't want to chat. I watch his face in the smeared mirror; his thin ivory hair and wrinkled jowls, a row of yellowing, misshapen teeth. You seem different. And as an afterthought - you are very pretty, miss.
I can't stop myself from crying. I cover my face so he doesn't see me, but my shoulders shake and I utter a series of harsh, jarring sobs. He offers me a square tissue box with an outdated petrol logo. I want to tell him that my mother died too, leaving me nothing but a flat full of old clothes and books, and my boyfriend is leaving me for a soon-to-be dietician who leads worship sessions, but I'm too embarrassed. We spend the rest of the journey in silence.
The bar is crowded with noisy patrons. I blow my nose hard and order a plate of spaghetti bolognese. The waiter is young, and noticing my reddened eyes, he observes me with the air of an experienced voyeur. I wonder how many other girls he has seen morose and tearful, drunk and undignified - if he's slept with any of them. When the pasta arrives, piping hot, I shovel piles into my mouth, the sauce gathering on my chin, specks of red decorating my dress. It's a blue shift I bought in a crowded shopping centre, replete with screaming babies and overpriced boutiques.
What was I wearing when I met Andrew? Nothing special. He was Stephanie's acquaintance, invited to the same party. Stephanie told me he was the sort of boy everyone's parents approved of. Mild, unassuming, slightly dull. The recent recipient of a chemistry degree; heavily involved in church activities.
We started talking at the end of the night, alone in the garden. He claimed I looked familiar, a line I wasn't buying. We had a few movies in common, and we both preferred dogs. Inexplicably I began to tell him about my mother. It happened so recently; I don't know what I'm doing at this party. I don't know what I'm doing. Gently, he took me by the shoulders. Jesus can help you, he said, with the air of a solemn televangelist. So can I. Will you let us?
Suddenly I remember the message on Andrew's phone. To my surprise, there are four - I must've been too distracted to notice. Predictably, they read How was your day, Want to meet later?, and Where are you? As I squint at the screen, yet another vibrates in my palm - Are you OK? Where are you? Are you angry? Please reply. The barely-concealed affection - her tone of imploring hopefulness - make me queasily uncomfortable.
Determined to quell the sensation, I order some chocolate torte and two more glasses of claret. Gulping down the dark liquid, I scroll through his photographs. There's me, of course, blowing out birthday candles; my profile vaguely distorted. Us on a beach holiday in Thailand. And then - there's her. Bespectacled like Andrew, short bobbed hair. Her smile is pleasant and mousey, like a salesgirl's.
The crackling speakers begin to play Frank Sinatra's I Wish You Love; I wish you shelter from the storm, a cozy fire to keep you warm. My wallet is empty save for a scattering of copper coins, dog-eared grocery receipts, and a terminated credit card. I notice the waiter is talking to an attractive customer. While she giggles appreciatively, I quietly creep out of my seat, past the unattended counter.
Hey, you! Get back here!, he shouts, and all at once I am running - past tourists in sun-hats, cigarette-chewing businessmen, a heavily made-up bevy of women. My shoes hinder me and the straps cut mercilessly into my flesh, so I pull them off. The pavement scorches my feet and my lungs are straining desperately, but I think of Andrew, trapped with plates and tin cans, dreaming of freedom as the seconds tick by. Gasping in hot oxygen, I serpentine towards the distant sunset. A trite ending, except it's just me, urgent, perspiring, overwhelmed.
What shall I do if they call the police? I will be meek and co-operative. If they attempt to incarcerate me, I'll say, sorry, I need to get home and release Andrew. I shut him in my kitchen.
Finally convinced the coast is clear, I rest by the riverside, idly combing my hair with my fingers. Bumboats drift lazily away, rising and falling with the tide. Raucous teenagers are drinking nearby, cackling and chattering. Stephanie and I used to come here in the evenings. We complained about classmates we hated, teachers who picked on us. And as we grew older, boys we agonised over, our plans for the future. In her absence, I tried showing Andrew our favourite spot, but he had a strong preference for restaurants.
The Nokia shudders again, this time insistently. I depress its largest button and listen to the tinny voice emanating from the earpiece. Andy? Can you hear me? Hello? Hello? Where are you? Who is this? Hello? She sounds genuinely frightened. With all my remaining might, I lob the phone into the water; it lands with a comical splash, crystal droplets springing victoriously upwards. I wish I could watch it sink like a brick, permanently lost in those murky depths. I pull mine out of my bag. Nobody calls me except Andrew, so what's the point? I fling it after its long-time companion.
The sky has darkened visibly in the last hour, and my conscience is getting the better of me. I fasten my shoes, wincing as I accidentally brush the beginnings of a blister. Bobbing on the waves, a little girl, constrained by her mother's arms, waves frantically in my direction - I return the acknowledgment.
When I finally open the door, Andrew is not the wild, hysterical visage I feared. Instead he is fast asleep, curled like a thin baby on the dirty linoleum. Beside him is a broken chair, and freshly gnawed bread-crusts adorn the table. He stirs faintly as I stoop down for the last time; his exhausted face is almost beautiful. Wake up, I whisper. It's time for you to go.
*
Wrote this last week. It's certainly not my best, but I'm satisfied with it. At this point I feel like my writing is getting too repetitive, so the next I manage to complete should be quite different.
Andrew breaks the news to me as I am microwaving yesterday's soup. Downstairs, children chase each other gleefully around the neighbourhood playground. The thin solution - square chunks of beef floating like carcasses - trickles into a chipped bowl, and before my fingers can twist the dial in place, he begins to speak.
He tells me her name. She is a year younger, studying to be a dietician; he met her in church, and they once led a youth group together. She is a nice person. The microwave hums deeply, glowing a lurid orange. His eyes dart back and forth, eventually attaching themselves to the floor.
I'm sorry, he says, his long frame leaning awkwardly against the refrigerator. I nearly part my lips, as if I have lines to recite, cues to follow, but instead I bend to scratch a mosquito bite on my knee. It's the beginning of June, boiling in the day, balmy at twilight, and they are already flying rampant.
I'm sorry, Andrew repeats. He is speaking slowly and emphatically, enunciating every letter. I know I can't make it up to you, but let's behave like adults. He is wearing that green polo shirt, the colour of dull moss; wire-rimmed glasses perched on his crooked nose. I can't bear to look at him any longer. Karen - he pleads as I stalk away, slamming the door behind me. Without thinking, my thumb makes contact with the lock - it falls smoothly into place with a resounding click. Easy.
Andrew begins to call out with increasing urgency as I give myself the obligatory once-over, tossing my keys and cheap lipstick into my bag. Let me out. Look, we can talk this through. For God's sake, Karen, let me out. I notice his phone - a battered Nokia - resting on the windowsill, and obeying my impulses for the second time, swiftly pocket it.
In the stairwell, a single lightbulb casting flickering shadows, I continue to hear muffled yelling and arrhythmic thumping. I badly want a drink - maybe I'll join potbellied, ruddy-faced men by coffee-shop televisions, swigging gulps of Tiger Beer and arguing inarticulately about football. The sense of looming possibility, crippling indecision, stalls me temporarily and I freeze mid-step; till I abruptly remember, swearing under my breath, that I have an afternoon class to attend.
I usually walk to university, traversing vandalised pavements, climbing overhead bridges blooming with purple bougainvillea. Even when it rains. Today the traffic seems to roar louder than usual; sedans compete for space, and arrogant motorcyclists speed along with denim-clad paramours.
Till now, I don't have much company. Stephanie, my best friend of ten years, left for London. Because I constantly eat at the same cafe - a cold egg sandwich with salad on the side - the barista knows my name, and asks me how I am. Once in a while he pours me a complimentary cup of expresso. There's also a large-breasted exchange student I sit with sometimes, but we rarely meet outside class. Mostly I plug my ears with pulsing music, blocking out the excitable voices around me.
My professor is Dr. Lee, who gives lectures on the development of religion. As I strain to concentrate, willing my hand to write, all I can think of is my first time in a church. It wasn't a pristine chapel like I always imagined, but a musty hall with numbered plastic chairs. Faces stared as I took my seat beside Andrew, my hand clutching his. As an electric guitar strummed unfamiliar melodies, the crowd sang, chanted and stamped their feet. I chewed mints and periodically nodded off.
Meeting people was the worst part. You must be Karen - the girlfriend who doesn't believe? Is this your first time in church? I've heard from Andrew that you don't believe. Vainly, I searched their faces for a hint of irony. By the end I wanted to shout, believe in what? So what if I don't believe in anything?
I told Andrew, with guilty resolve, that I wasn't ever going back. We were under the covers, my face pressed against his back - I liked the smell of his old shirts, a combination of ageing cotton and gentle detergent. His body trembled in response.
Andrew's phone buzzes against my hip, and I realise, with a jolt, that the other students are leaving. While I adjust my clothes and sling my bag over one shoulder, Dr. Lee, gathering papers, catches my eye and smiles. My heart leaps involuntarily; instantly, I hear my mother's voice in my head. Stay away from married men, she warns. I visualise her literally climbing out of her grave, strong and sprightly as ever, forming a human barrier between me and the unsuspecting professor. Despite myself, I nearly begin to chuckle.
He's handsome, even if he's pushing forty. He probably has a wife and children who live in a comfortable terrace house and romp with two golden retrievers, while their maid dutifully polishes the silverware. That isn't an obstacle. I could see him in his office during lunch, between lessons. In between kisses he could stroke my sides and teach me all about history. The sudden longing hits me like an unexpected punch, and I exit hurriedly.
By now it's five in the evening, and the sun is still gleaming so fiercely I think my bare arms are beginning to burn. Andrew has probably given up rattling the door and slamming chairs against it. There's an off chance he's managed to break it down, and is coming to enact revenge on me. He knows my timetable. What will I do if he tries to hit me? If he's still inside - the beef soup in his belly rapidly processed into violent, terse energy - maybe I should stab him with a knife. Smother him with the chequered tea-towel.
I think about the crime novels I read as a child. We collected them in volumes; the more heinous, the better. I learned about Long Island Lolitas shooting innocent wives; jealous lesbians torturing a twelve-year-old to death. It's always infidelity that makes people snap. My mother proclaimed loudly, your father's so lucky I didn't try to kill him. That woman too. Frightened, I clung to her midsection and begged her not to, while she laughed.
The truth is I'm so tired I couldn't murder Andrew if I wanted. Murder. The word is ugly, difficult. I just want expensive food and a shoulder to rest on. Shielding my eyes with one hand, I manage to flag a taxi and direct the driver to the first decent bar I can think of. He converses with me in Chinese, and experiencing a wave of growing irritation, I respond in halting sentences. I am twenty-two this year. I am still studying, but I don't know what I want to be.
No, I don't have a boyfriend.
My wife died last year, he confides. He states it like a brute fact, without euphemism. I am very lonely, and when I'm lonely, I drive for hours. I pick up many passengers, but they don't want to chat. I watch his face in the smeared mirror; his thin ivory hair and wrinkled jowls, a row of yellowing, misshapen teeth. You seem different. And as an afterthought - you are very pretty, miss.
I can't stop myself from crying. I cover my face so he doesn't see me, but my shoulders shake and I utter a series of harsh, jarring sobs. He offers me a square tissue box with an outdated petrol logo. I want to tell him that my mother died too, leaving me nothing but a flat full of old clothes and books, and my boyfriend is leaving me for a soon-to-be dietician who leads worship sessions, but I'm too embarrassed. We spend the rest of the journey in silence.
The bar is crowded with noisy patrons. I blow my nose hard and order a plate of spaghetti bolognese. The waiter is young, and noticing my reddened eyes, he observes me with the air of an experienced voyeur. I wonder how many other girls he has seen morose and tearful, drunk and undignified - if he's slept with any of them. When the pasta arrives, piping hot, I shovel piles into my mouth, the sauce gathering on my chin, specks of red decorating my dress. It's a blue shift I bought in a crowded shopping centre, replete with screaming babies and overpriced boutiques.
What was I wearing when I met Andrew? Nothing special. He was Stephanie's acquaintance, invited to the same party. Stephanie told me he was the sort of boy everyone's parents approved of. Mild, unassuming, slightly dull. The recent recipient of a chemistry degree; heavily involved in church activities.
We started talking at the end of the night, alone in the garden. He claimed I looked familiar, a line I wasn't buying. We had a few movies in common, and we both preferred dogs. Inexplicably I began to tell him about my mother. It happened so recently; I don't know what I'm doing at this party. I don't know what I'm doing. Gently, he took me by the shoulders. Jesus can help you, he said, with the air of a solemn televangelist. So can I. Will you let us?
Suddenly I remember the message on Andrew's phone. To my surprise, there are four - I must've been too distracted to notice. Predictably, they read How was your day, Want to meet later?, and Where are you? As I squint at the screen, yet another vibrates in my palm - Are you OK? Where are you? Are you angry? Please reply. The barely-concealed affection - her tone of imploring hopefulness - make me queasily uncomfortable.
Determined to quell the sensation, I order some chocolate torte and two more glasses of claret. Gulping down the dark liquid, I scroll through his photographs. There's me, of course, blowing out birthday candles; my profile vaguely distorted. Us on a beach holiday in Thailand. And then - there's her. Bespectacled like Andrew, short bobbed hair. Her smile is pleasant and mousey, like a salesgirl's.
The crackling speakers begin to play Frank Sinatra's I Wish You Love; I wish you shelter from the storm, a cozy fire to keep you warm. My wallet is empty save for a scattering of copper coins, dog-eared grocery receipts, and a terminated credit card. I notice the waiter is talking to an attractive customer. While she giggles appreciatively, I quietly creep out of my seat, past the unattended counter.
Hey, you! Get back here!, he shouts, and all at once I am running - past tourists in sun-hats, cigarette-chewing businessmen, a heavily made-up bevy of women. My shoes hinder me and the straps cut mercilessly into my flesh, so I pull them off. The pavement scorches my feet and my lungs are straining desperately, but I think of Andrew, trapped with plates and tin cans, dreaming of freedom as the seconds tick by. Gasping in hot oxygen, I serpentine towards the distant sunset. A trite ending, except it's just me, urgent, perspiring, overwhelmed.
What shall I do if they call the police? I will be meek and co-operative. If they attempt to incarcerate me, I'll say, sorry, I need to get home and release Andrew. I shut him in my kitchen.
Finally convinced the coast is clear, I rest by the riverside, idly combing my hair with my fingers. Bumboats drift lazily away, rising and falling with the tide. Raucous teenagers are drinking nearby, cackling and chattering. Stephanie and I used to come here in the evenings. We complained about classmates we hated, teachers who picked on us. And as we grew older, boys we agonised over, our plans for the future. In her absence, I tried showing Andrew our favourite spot, but he had a strong preference for restaurants.
The Nokia shudders again, this time insistently. I depress its largest button and listen to the tinny voice emanating from the earpiece. Andy? Can you hear me? Hello? Hello? Where are you? Who is this? Hello? She sounds genuinely frightened. With all my remaining might, I lob the phone into the water; it lands with a comical splash, crystal droplets springing victoriously upwards. I wish I could watch it sink like a brick, permanently lost in those murky depths. I pull mine out of my bag. Nobody calls me except Andrew, so what's the point? I fling it after its long-time companion.
The sky has darkened visibly in the last hour, and my conscience is getting the better of me. I fasten my shoes, wincing as I accidentally brush the beginnings of a blister. Bobbing on the waves, a little girl, constrained by her mother's arms, waves frantically in my direction - I return the acknowledgment.
When I finally open the door, Andrew is not the wild, hysterical visage I feared. Instead he is fast asleep, curled like a thin baby on the dirty linoleum. Beside him is a broken chair, and freshly gnawed bread-crusts adorn the table. He stirs faintly as I stoop down for the last time; his exhausted face is almost beautiful. Wake up, I whisper. It's time for you to go.
*
Wrote this last week. It's certainly not my best, but I'm satisfied with it. At this point I feel like my writing is getting too repetitive, so the next I manage to complete should be quite different.