"...I just held her hand tightly. I could not say a word."

She was the love of my life. That sounds cliché, but it is true. The way her eyes sparkled, how her hair always looked perfectly messy. Yes; perfect and messy do go together, because.. well, it’s her. We met in Hong Kong, she was a scholar while I had a noodle business. I am not sure if you can even call it a business – all I owned was a portable cart, which I pushed around selling noodles. The amount of money I made each month was probably equivalent to two weeks worth of her allowance, paid for entirely by her university… yes, we were from two entirely different worlds.

What is that popular saying? Love is blind? I cannot say anything about that, but what I do know is that money and family background cannot stop two people from falling in love – if it is true love. That was not the only obstacle in our relationship; but you will find out later. It was amazing, at the start: we were young, happy, and in love! We finished each others’ sentences, laughed non-stop, the whole package. But all those things can be built over time in a relationship – our problem, however, could not go away even through a period of umpteen years.

The thing was, we could not be ourselves in public. Yes, we could laugh over breakfast in a café, tell each other stories over lunch, enjoy a slightly more expensive dinner once in a while… when I had saved up enough. But every time we sat across each other I ached to stretch my hand out and place it on hers. All I wanted to do, staring at her beautiful face, was caress it. So many simple, loving acts that would be looked at as a sweet gesture, other couples could do but we could not. And that was why we fell apart.

It was not that big a deal – but it put a strain on our relationship. Sure, holding hands was not the essence of our relationship. I did not fall in love with her simply to caress her face. But no matter what, these things still mattered; and because we were already so different to begin with, small issues like these turned into big fights. And so, in her sixth year in Hong Kong, she left – the country, and me.

I am not going to lie. That break up left me heartbroken. But though others may say silly things like “My life is over!” or “Nothing will ever be the same again!”, to me, life just went on. Back to normal. It simply went back to what it was before her – no big deal. The nights spent crying, lonely lunches, selling noodles without any motivation, since I no longer strived to provide her a comfortable life. No big deal for someone like me, who had nothing to lose all my life. I thought to myself, “If I ever had the chance to do it again, I am not even sure if I would. I didn't even love her that much anyway!”

Actually, that was a lie. A friend of mine saw her on the street with a man while she was on holiday in Bangkok – and when I heard about it, I was angry. So very angry because she left me, and went on to date a man! How could she pretend to be someone she was not, just because society deemed it to be normal and right? That was when it did become a big deal. That was when my life did change. Every day from then on, I was furious. Inside, I was helplessly hurt, but I let myself believe all I felt was fury – furious at her for twenty years, for breaking me the way she did.

On what would have been our 26^th anniversary, had we not broken up, I looked up from my boiling noodles and stared right into her eyes. Her face, I felt like caressing, just as much as I wanted to all those years ago. My heart softened immediately, despite all those years plotting my revenge, promising to hurt her back if I ever met her again. But when I finally did, I felt quite the opposite. The way she said my name, apologized, and promised we could work things out this time – even if she had not, I would have forgiven her all the same. “Anne,” she said, “let’s not hide our love anymore. Let’s just be ourselves this time around”. I stretched my hand out towards her. I just held her hand tightly. I could not say a word.

(4/4/14)

"... she smiled and walked away"

            It was a dark winter’s night. I buttoned up my trench and stuffed my icy fingers into the deep pockets of my trousers. Just one more block to go and I would be home sweet home, cuddling on the couch with my wife and a cozy blanket. I had taken-away dessert from her favourite road-side stall – a bowl of red bean soup. The heels of my winter boots clicked against the uneven pavement with a rhythmic pattern. Click, clack! Click, clack! That was the only sound I could hear on that empty street. I shivered, hurrying along, longing to be in the warmth of my apartment.

            Ten steps. I was ten steps away from my apartment building. Ten steps away from home. Ten steps away from safety. I was ten steps away when she ambushed me, wrapping her muscular forearm around my throat, choking me. I gasped for air and wriggled my hands frantically, attempting to escape, as she dragged me into the dark alley. I felt the red bean soup splash against my leg as the container fell to the ground. It was my wife’s favourite; she had been craving it all week. That made me furious, so I flexed every muscle in my body to try and fight her off. I thought I had succeeded when I felt her grip on my neck loosen… but I was wrong. She was turning me around to face her.

            I was shocked. She had a disfigured face, the wounds on her face accentuated in the moonlight. She had dark hair and looked somewhat familiar – but if I knew someone with a face as disfigured as hers, I would be able to remember her. No. I definitely did not know her. So what was it she wanted from me? Money? As she pushed me against the brick wall, thoughts ran through my mind. “She’s not going to harm me, is she?” I wondered. “Oh man, my wife must be worried sick,” She pressed her right elbow against me to prevent me from escaping, her left hand tracing my face, pulling my chin towards her. I stared at her disfigured face. What an eerie face she had.

            “Wilson,” she sneered. “Long time no see,” she hissed into my ears. Chills ran down my spine. She knew my name. Who was she? Her voice sounded so familiar but I could not wrap my mind around it. Impossible. I had never met this lady before. She pulled a knife out from her back pocket and it glistened. I gulped. She chuckled. Clearly, she was enjoying it. Did I owe this woman something? It sure felt like she wanted revenge. I could see the reflection of her face on the shiny knife. Extremely sharp. It could easily kill me. I pondered over the possibility of me dying that night – what would my wife do? How would she find out? My heart raced as I prayed this woman was not as crazy as she looked.

            “Remember me, Wilson?” she whispered, her cold breath on my cheek. Disgusted by her, I felt like throwing up. But that voice… where had I heard it before? The young girl working at the bakery across my workplace? Or was it that nerdy music teacher at my sister’s school? I simply could not match those pretty faces to this ugly, disfigured woman. It was boggling my mind. Who was she?! “Of course you don’t remember me… look at me now!” she growled, grabbing my face and forcing me to look at her. “Look… at what… I’ve become…” she said through gritted teeth. My knees went weak. I was afraid. Very, very afraid. This woman was insane.

            She kicked me in the groin and I moaned in pain. Knowing I would not be able to escape, she let go of me and I collapsed to the ground. She turned, her back now facing me. “Wilson…” she said, and I could tell by her voice, she was holding back tears. And suddenly, it came back to me – memories started flooding my mind. Her long, black hair I loved to run my hands through. Those watery eyes she had. The way she sounded whenever she was sad. The way she said my name, holding back tears, ten years ago. The way she had just said my name.

            “Jenny?” I gasped. “Is it you?” I stood up and reached my hand towards her. She turned to face me, growling furiously, tears streaming down her scarred face. “Now you remember me, Wilson? Remember this girl you left all those years ago? Except, it’s not me anymore! I’m ugly! Nobody wants to look at me! Look what you’ve done!” she spat at me. She pushed me to the ground and I lay there helplessly, still in shock. “This is for ruining my life, Wilson,” she screamed as she pierced the knife in her hand through my heaving chest. It got harder and harder to breathe. “Why, Jenny? Why?” I managed to croak. “Just returning the favour, sweetie,” she said. She smiled and walked away.

(22/5/14)

Memories

                What are memories? Little thoughts fluttering around in your mind, reminding you of things that happened in the past; be it mistakes you had made, or accomplishments from your glory days. Every day that passes becomes a new memory; how do our minds store thousands and millions of such memories? Surely we are bound to forget some, or even most of the things that happened – how can one store every single memory for years and decades? Based on my memory alone, I cannot even recall what I had for dinner last week. I have seen on a television show that our thoughts, knowledge, memories, etc. are all filed neatly in our head. Imagine them arranged by date, in metal drawers, just like in a secretary’s filing room. If it were true what they said, that people’s minds work that way, I must be one-of-a-kind. My memories are constantly scattered everywhere in my brain – messy, quite like my bedroom. That is, if they are even in my brain at all.

                That does not mean I have completely no clue about my memories from the past, though; when I was nine, I read a book about a girl and her best friend who stored bits and pieces of their lives in a metal tin and buried it in their backyards. Time capsule, they called it. I believe my eyes must have lit up very brightly when I discovered this idea of a “time capsule” – I fell in love with the thought that I could keep track of every single memory and never forget my past, forever.

                And so it began – I wrote down every little detail about anything and everything, 365 days a year without fail. Do not get me wrong, it was not like a keeping a diary, writing thoughts and feelings; I was keeping track of my life. Desperately clinging on to every passing moment. It was every single detail, important or not, exactly how it happened; that was what I kept in my time capsule. Over the years, I had filled hundreds and hundreds of time capsules! I occupied my days taking down every detail, trying to be sure not to miss a single moment. Teachers would catch me writing notes in class for the capsule and they would tell me off, but they never understood how much it meant to me, recording with pen and paper what every moment was like.

                You see, when I was eight, I had a brain injury that affected my memory severely. It was as if I had no space in my mind for memories; remember those filing cabinets I talked about? In my mind, there was nothing to file anyway. My memory span was about 48 hours at maximum, the doctors said. Every two days or so, my parents would have to reintroduce themselves to me and tell me what my life was like. If I was lucky, I would be able to remember bits and pieces here and there. It must have been frustrating for them, I can imagine… but for me, it was just confusing – it was not like I would remember any of it anyway. Not for more than 48 hours, I guess. But like I said, things changed when I was nine; starting that time capsule gave me a chance to live… to remember… to some extent, at least. I started the time capsule for the fun of it, but if not for the time capsule, I would not only have empty filing cabinets; I would have an empty life.

                The time capsule idea did not solve my memory problems; but it helped. Thanks to those time capsules, I know what happened on the day I quit school because it was too tough for me; what the sky was like on the day Drew proposed, and how I found out I was pregnant with my baby girl (that must have been horrendous for Drew, having to explain to his confused wife that she was pregnant with a baby, fathered by a stranger who was supposedly her husband, and that it was actually fantastic news!). But those memories… do they belong to me? If they do belong to anyone, it would be to yesterday-me, or me from last week, last month, three years ago. Over time, reading through all the previous notes in time capsules would help me “remember” – if you would call it that. In the beginning, it was confusing and ridiculous; but in my notes I always explained my situation and reminded myself the importance of the time capsule and what to do with it. It got easier, I suppose; as if my mind was getting accustomed to re-learning my past, or shall I say, my whole life, every other day… but those notes. It felt like I was just reading a storybook, you know? How would I know if I really did all those things… and how would I know if my tomorrow-self would believe in this insane explanation for the life I lead, and all the stories from my past? Hopefully, she would follow the instructions on my notes, understand, accept my condition, and carry on with the capsule – carry on with a life that doesn’t really belong to me anyway, but seeming belongs to thousands of variations of myself; every day, a different me.

                Today, I am writing this for the capsule, sitting at my husband’s grave. According to a note I had written before my most recent memory loss, he passed away only weeks ago. Had I loved him very much? Was I even able to love him when I had to spend most of my time rediscovering myself? Well, the notes did say that he had helped with the capsules and knew how to deal with it. But how can he deal with me being like this? How can he love me, a woman who can’t even recognize him, until she reads a letter from her past self, assuring her that he is her husband? Wouldn’t my daughter hate having a mother like me? How could I have carried out my motherly duties with such a situation? I am an extremely lucky woman to have even been able to start a family of my own, I suppose; “we” all are… yesterday-me, today-me, tomorrow-me.

                Sixty years, this has been going on; how long more can it continue? If tomorrow-me decides not to believe in this crazy mess, then my life will be gone. Empty filing cabinets. Empty life. Will I get tired of this? I guess that is one good thing about my situation… I will never get sick of this – because every other day is like a rebirth for me. A new life; a fresh start. Perhaps this is God’s way of keeping things interesting for me. Why dwell upon the past all your life, when you can start-over and live a “new life” three times a week, right?

                Until the next two days, that is all for now. To my future self who is reading this: I know, it seems pretty insane to me too.

(19/8/2013)

First and foremost

I've always loved to write. When I was a kid, I wrote books and created magazines, hoping to someday be the youngest published author.. like, ever. I started a blog and turned my writing into typing. And then I realized how silly I sounded blabbering on about daily dilemmas (which weren't even really that big a deal)... so I stopped.

Alas, I am not a published author, nor am I very young anymore... but I'll be leaving school soon and I've recently experienced a push towards choosing a career in writing in the future, so this blog will be a space for me to further explore writing. Plus, in the past two years, school has helped rekindle my love for writing, and I've been pretty pleased that we get to be a lot more creative than before. Most of the stories I'm posting are ones I've written in class/during exams (I retyped the ones I like and corrected the mistakes here and there), hence the name of this blog. Any constructive criticism is very much appreciated!

I take photographs here.