Journal #1

4/3/2015

12:38 AM

This world is too big and this body is too small. I want a whole lot to swallow, but I only have one mouth. I want to taste everything, to devour and savour what I see in my wake, but I only have one life. And it's limited. And it's short. And I only have one choice, only one time.

I always tell people what I want to become, each different to the other. I have many dreams yet to be granted, but I do not know which I have always most wanted. I am intelligent, sometimes not. I appreciate the aesthetics of life, but I hate irrational thoughts. I might be a genius that is not watered correctly as a seed. I'm incomplete, and I grew to be me. Sometimes I regret it. sometimes I don't. Sometimes I wish I had been pushed to my limit so I can grow to be stronger, like a bald eagle that breaks its own beak and talons against a rock, and plucks its own feathers until they all grow back.

Stronger than before.

Muscles grow back stronger when they are ripped, after all. I become stronger because of pain.

That is the balance of life. That is the black to the white, and the white in the black, and vice versa. That is why there is pain when there is happiness. That is why there is evil when there is good.

I must not complain, must not be afraid. There is a reason to every pain I endure. There is danger lurking in every happiness I get, and peace in every war I go through. There is always an end to everything, and a new beginning when there is an end.

This is life, this is not heaven. This is not hell. This is the balance of both. I get a set, I can't always be happy and I can't always be sad.

I must not be afraid, I must take all the risks. Remember of the danger that lurks, and the happiness that waits. Remember that this world is balance, and that I will not always be happy. But I will not always be sad either.

It all depends on what I do, and what I want to become.

I want it all, but I have to remember. I only have one life, one go, one chance.

I have to be brave, and choose wisely.

Mulling Waters

Ever since he was a little boy, he’s loved the ocean even more than his own safety. Sometimes, he wonders if dying in the water would be more of a blessing to him rather than tragedy, since it always means that you either drown from an accident, or be drowned by someone else or yourself. But really, he would rather die in the ocean than have his death by sickness— withering away on a bed somewhere; or maybe elsewhere and not on a bed at all. That’s even more tragic, to know and count the days until you die, thinking of what ifs and lamenting the days you have left, wishing you could still walk around and have fun. Sudden death is swift, clean and crisp. Having no moment to even think of what ifs, or regret whatever you did to get you in that situation.

It is never a peaceful dying—his grandmother had once said—to die in the ocean, when he came back laughing from being swept away by the waves when surfing.

Maybe not for others, but for him it is. As long as it’s in the ocean, there is nothing to regret. It would be his choice to be in the water if he ever dies in it. He’d be the one to be taking his body there in the first place. If an accident happened, it would be his own choice to be in it, indirectly.

He knows this, knows of the consequence of dying when he gets into the water. Knows it whenever he’s on the surfboard, enjoying the wind in his hair and the salt in the corner of his eyes. Knows it whenever he’s deep under, hands carefully caressing colourful corals and grazing slimy fishes. Knows it whenever he spends hours floating on his back in the dancing waters while gazing at the sky.

“It’s always a sad tragedy, such an unfortunate incident that is, to ever die drowning,” his grandmother had said, tiny and wrinkled eyes gazing out the window, head shaking in a chastising manner. “Don’t ever take the ocean lightly, that place is not your friend, and will never be.”

He’d mulled back then, not knowing how to reply to such statement from an old and paranoid lady, whose husband had drowned in the ocean when they were only newlyweds. He knew then and he knows now, that the ocean truly isn’t a friend, but a home; home to fishes that feed the humans, and home to him that longs to be part of it.

For him, home isn’t a place for safety. It is a place that has a sense of fulfilment when you are inside, and longing once you are outside. It might not be safe, but it makes him feel contented. Safe is never a part of him. Never a part of his life, either.

His house now is the place for an alcoholic to sleep, and a dead brother to haunt anyway. It’s really not that big of a deal for him.

If he doesn’t die in his home in the ocean, it’s likely that he’ll die in his house instead anyway. 

Colours in Your Steps

WARNING: This might be tedious.

People say that those who are born without one of their senses do not know what they miss. They won't even feel like they miss anything, not since they don't even know how it feels like to have that one lost sense in the first place.

Their other senses make up for what they don't have. When you are born blind, you would still know who stood behind you. You’d feel it in the movement of the air, hear it in the differing sounds of footsteps each person make, and remember the ridges and textures of each faces you've touched.

But Danny, he wasn't born blind. He doesn't have enhanced hearing, or deft reflexes. He's just confused for most of the time. He can't make out his surrounding, can barely understand why everyone is always shouting, and him only hearing, only feeling, only knowing.

Without seeing anymore.

He knows of a story he once read when he was still able to, not too long ago. Two Indian children were born blind and received an eye surgery to grant them visual experience, both the age of each 9 and 12. They were able to see for the first time in their life, and it was a huge first step for them into a world full of strange visual sensations.

But the problem is, the experience of seeing came without the knowledge of it. They just stood there when the gauzes were finally taken off, confused and full of wonder by this new sense, not able to make out their new, colourful world just yet. They didn't know that a square has sharp edges, and that a round ball has no sharp edges at all. They thought a mountain was closer to them than the cat in their house, simply because the mountain is bigger. It's almost as if it is reversed. They are blind now that they are able to see. They don't understand the beauty of being able to experience colours and shapes.

That huge first step is just another stomp of finally reaching the hill, and finding out that you're tumbling back down again. The difference is, now you're on the whole different other side of the hill.

Danny didn't understand that story when he first read it. But now, he kind of gets what the writer is trying to tell.

Danny is just like that now. He is now blind, and he sees no beauty in being able to focus more on hearing, touching, tasting, and smelling. He misses reading. More importantly, he misses watching his favourite Sunday cartoon.

He is only eight, but his world feels like it's over.

Danny always wakes up at half past seven in the morning everyday to get ready for school. Nowadays, he is not sure if he still does that or not.

He wakes up just fine, but he can't really tell if it's already half past seven or not, or maybe even already nine. He cries every time he wakes because he thinks that he is late for school. After that, he starts crying even harder because he just remembers that he doesn't go to school anymore. 

It's devastating for him, and he doesn't even know the word yet, so he just cries some more since he barely knows how to convey what he is feeling in words.

Life is like a dream for him now. He feels like he is asleep when he is not since everything is endlessly black. He can't tell if he is already sleeping or still awake because there really is no difference for him between both.

But he does know one thing, though. If he sees colours, that means he is currently dreaming.

"Daniel, eat your food."

Danny looks up to the voice, but drops his head down again. He is sitting on a chair, having dinner or breakfast he is still not sure, but breakfast seems to be the case from the way his skin feels slightly warm from the sunlight. Or perhaps it's just the lamp or the fireplace, even though he can't hear any crackling.

"Danny, sweetie, you need to eat. Can't you just hold your sandwich and not drop it again on anywhere but your plate..." his aunt sighs and he hears the scraping of her chair, the pit-a-pat of her soft feet on the floor. "Let me help you eat."

"Alicia, no," Uncle Jerry speaks out. "Let him be. He needs to start learning how to take care of himself. Better sooner than later." He takes a spoonful of his oatmeal, chews, and swallows. "Daniel, your aunt is going to give you another sandwich. Don't drop it again this time."

Danny just swings his legs under the table. He blinks and looks up to Uncle Jerry's voice, resting his head to one side of his shoulder. He blinks again, and he knows that Uncle Jerry is just slightly disturbed by that from the grunt he lets out. Danny knows that his eyes now look... milky, he guesses. 

At least that's what he knows from the last time he saw someone blind on the telly.

"Jerry, would you just please stop. He needs a little help every once in a while. Danny, what do you want to eat other than sandwich?" 

Uncle Jerry gives an exasperated sigh and rubs his temple, dropping his spoon with a clang inside his bowl. Danny hears that, but pretends not to. "Ice cream," he says simply.

"You know you are not allowed to have one in the morning, dear."  Aunt Alicia frowns.

"Oh, so it's morning right now?" Danny quips back.

Uncle Jerry gives a huge groan and snaps. "Stop it your with stupid comebacks. You bloody well know it's the bloody morning, I can see it in your eyes."

Aunt Alicia gasps at that, and stares in a horrific fashion at her husband. 

"I can't see anything." Danny shrugs and rolls his head around his shoulders, then slumps forward to the table. 

Uncle Jerry gives another grunt and Danny hears him picking up his spoon again, shovelling mouthfuls of oatmeal. "I'm done here. See you both later."  He picks up his truck’s key, swipes his hat on, and Danny hears his heavy footsteps stomping towards what he thinks might be the front door. He hears the creaking of wood, and a slam not too long after.

Aunt Alicia sighs again and starts cleaning up the table, taking her plate and Uncle Jerry's bowl, clink-clank-clink, and walks away. To where, might be the kitchen, might be the bedroom, but Danny bets that it must be the kitchen. Simple logic.

"Do you want some fruit instead, Danny? Or maybe oatmeal? I can help you eat, dear."

Danny rests his cheek and glances over to where he thinks Aunt Alicia might be standing at the moment. "I want ice cream." He answers.

He could be talking to the wall, but he really doesn't care anymore. Aunt Alicia shifts the ceramics she's holding, and Danny hears, but can't see.

"It's only nine, Danny, you could have a stomach ache."

Danny blinks and blinks, the sunlight shining upon his baby-fat cheek. 

"It's always night now," was his only answer.

Danny wants to know how he looks like right now. Aunt Alicia took him to the barber right after breakfast was over. He had oatmeal in the end, with Aunt Alicia spoon-feeding him while talking about trivial things, such as the new neighbour that just moved in yesterday, Uncle Jerry's laundry that she hasn't done... Danny asked about the continuation of his cartoon to her, but Aunt Alicia just stops talking altogether. Danny thinks she might have frowned at that. He doesn't even think she even knows which cartoon he meant.

Perhaps Aunt Alicia could be his eyes. She could watch his cartoons for him and tell about what happened in the newest episode.

Or probably not. Hearing about that would only make him want to watch it all the more, and he can't anymore.

It's only been a week that he's been blind, but it feels like forever. At least, a week is what Aunt Alicia told him. It could be more, could be less.

He touches his newly-cut hair, trying to make up an image in his mind about how he looks right now. Does it look stupid like last time? He massages his scalp, scratches it, wondering if it's a bowl cut because it feels like one. He hopes it's not because it's stupid, he feels like a mushroom the last time he had one. 

Danny sighs and flops down on his bottom on the carpeted floor. The living room is the only room that has carpet in it, and he's manoeuvred himself from the front door to here by lightly touching his fingers on the walls and the stair's railing. He knew that Aunt Alicia was watching, somehow, so he was not that worried that he'd get lost or fall down somewhere.

He touches his eyes, feeling the skin there, wondering just what had gone wrong on his face that makes him unable to see. He huffs out a sigh, and feels his hair moves. It's probably afternoon, so his cartoon should be starting soon.

It's Sunday, and he knows that much since Uncle Jerry always goes out with his truck on Sundays, his motorcycle on the other days. He’s heard the jingling of the truck's key this morning. It's certainly different from the motorcycle’s, the sound heavier and noisier because Uncle Jerry has attached so many other keys along with it. 

He hears nothing at the moment. It's silent, and even Aunt Alicia is silent, sitting somewhere in the living room, quietly reading her book. He relaxes and tries to imagine certain shapes and colours, in case he forgets. What does blue look like again? How does one describe how blue look like? Does it smell of something? Is it sharp? Is it melodic in tune or screeching in nature?

"Danny, can you get me that magazine over there, dear? It's right next to you on the table."

Danny snorts and flops himself on the carpet. He feels so lazy, and very, very annoyed. What does Aunt Alicia want by asking him that? He can't see, and he doesn't want to care. He should be the one asking for things to be taken for him, not the other way around.

"Danny... Did you hear me, darling?" Aunt Alicia tests, lowering her book down, frowning at the lump that is Danny on the floor. "It’s right next to you, can you feel around to find it? I'll help you with direction."

"No. I didn't hear you." Danny rubs his eyes and buries his head under both arms. "I don't hear anything."

He just doesn't want to do anything. He is so done.

Aunt Alicia stands, Danny hears it, but pretends again to not to. Her feet drags on the carpet, the sound soft, and Danny finds himself concentrating on it, trying to figure out what she's going to do. She takes something, the magazine perhaps, sighs, and drops it next to him. Plop. Then she sits, and he can feel her eyes watching him.

"Danny, you have to stop moping. Use your ears, your imagination. I'm sure you can go around by yourself in no time if you just focus and concentrate. You can even learn how to read again and go back to school. Don't you want to play again with your friends?"

Danny tries to glare, looking over to where Aunt Alicia's voice comes from. "I want to watch Mighty Jack-Jack. I don’t want to do anything else," he grounds out.

“Danny, you know you can’t do that anymore. You have to understand. You should be grateful you can still hear m—”

“I don’t want to. I don’t care.”

Aunt Alicia’s grip on her own forearm tightens. “Danny, you know—“

“NO I DON’T KNOW!” Danny screams. Aunt Alicia jumps a bit at that, and Danny... he starts taking a lungful of breath, and just screams.

“I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW I DON’T KNOW AND I DON’T CARE!” he screeches out, he chokes, gulps down his saliva, and cries.  “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

He rolls around on the carpet and screams and screams and Aunt Alicia starts panicking herself. Danny heaves himself up on both arms, starts swinging his fists around, trying to take hold of something, anything, but he can’t see, he can’t see, can’t see. “I HATE EVERYTHING! I HATE YOU! I WANT TO DIE!”

“Danny! Stop it! Stop it right now! Danny!” Aunt Alicia panics, holding out her hands, momentarily forgetting that Danny can’t see the gesture.

“NO YOU DON’T KNOW! YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING AND I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING! DON’T TELL ME LIKE I KNOW, I DON’T KNOW!”

“Danny!”

Danny screams again and he feels like his throat is being ripped apart by that.

“I AM NOT ME! I AM NOT ME I AM DREAMING!”

He cries painfully, and his voice is hoarse, but it’s not as bad as the fact that he can’t even see where he has screamed to. He realizes that he could be screaming at the wall instead of Aunt Alicia. He feels so stupid.

“I WANT TO DIE! I HATE YOU, OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!”

His heart is constricted by god knows what, it hurts so much and he hurts so much. He can feel tears, and he even briefly wonders that if his eyes still work up tears, how come they can’t see?

“IT’S NOT FAIR, OH MY GOD! WHY—” and there he chokes again, grips his hair, and cries pitifully.

Why can’t the evil kids in his class be the ones blind instead?

“Danny! Why what? Danny, please don’t cry, I’m over here, here.”

“NOOO! I CAN’T SEE! DON’T TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE I CAN’T S—“

“WHAT ON EARTH IS HAPPENING HERE?”

And that, is Uncle Jerry barging into the room.

He takes hold of Danny’s shoulders and shakes him until he is silent, hot tears still fresh on his cheeks.

It's week one of him becoming blind, and he hears Aunt Alicia and Uncle Jerry arguing downstairs. He's in his room, locked, and is currently pressing his ears on the wooden floor, trying to hear his aunt and uncle. He's locked because he’s thrown a tantrum, screaming bloody murder on the top of his lungs when Uncle Jerry came. He's so stressed. 

"That kid is a burden if you keep this up, that's what he is! Stop babying him all the time, Alicia! Do you want him to be a FUCKING cripple for the rest of his life?"

He hears the stomps of Uncle Jerry's foot, blam-blam-blam, and Aunt Alicia's indignant reply.

“He might only need a shrink, Jerry! Trauma care and such! I don’t know what’s it called but he needs that, and we can’t just—“

“A bloody fucking shrink?! You want a bloody shrink? You’re making him into a fucking wimp! He is not weak, Alicia, he should never be treated like he is some delicate flower!”

“Jerry! He needs help!”

“Alicia, by God I swear what he needs is some faith in himself and a fucking determination to want to see what he can do now! He is not a baby! He is eight! He has a working brain and a pair of perfect ears! My bloody brother was blind at 13 and he functions just fine!”

Danny blinks and feels the crust in his eyes from the tears earlier.

“You have to know, Alicia. God might have taken his sight, but I believe He has given Daniel something else! Losing his sight does not mean that he is useless, or that he needs babying! He gains so much more as well, he has us now! Thank God he is not with his skunk of a parent that is his bloody mother! Imagine if he were blind then when he was still in her care! God knows what that twat will do!

“He only needs to realize that he is blessed! With ears, his bloody endless imagination that we can see from whatever things he’s built with the damn cereal boxes, and all of his remaining senses! He only needs to realize that he has to take that first step into this new world of his!”

He sighs and closes his eyes. He hears the both of them yelling, and he imagines.

Uncle Jerry is moving around downstairs. His feet are huge, and his steps huger. Whenever he stomps, Danny sees red popping out at the back of his mind. Huge blots of blurry reds, blinking lights and blaring alarms.

Aunt Alicia has the steps of a rabbit’s. He imagines her feet, soft and small, pit-a-patting on the floor, fluffy white cotton and winter clouds. The floor creaks, and chocolate brown and yellow fireworks spark behind his eyelids. He sees her, moving back and forth, to the left, to the right, stopping right in front of Uncle Jerry, the colours following everywhere every time he moves his eyes.

“Alright... I’ll... Danny... and...“ her voice drifts off.

There are small footsteps coming up the stairs. Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, cotton white lights blinking up in his dark, dark world, and Danny knows that it’s Aunt Alicia. She’ll be here in, 3, 2, 1...

“Danny. Let’s go downstairs, dear. We need to talk with you.”

Danny sees her. He sees her in front of the door. He can’t see her dress or her hair, but he can see her white footsteps coming closer to him. She is on his right, face full of worry, and he knows.

“Okay...”

He knows that he can still see, and that he can see even more than just footsteps in no time.

But then again, if he sees colours, that means he is dreaming.

Is he dreaming now, then?

END

SHORT STORY

Ratu Annisaa Suryasumirat

Start: 21 March 2016 | Finish: 25 March 2016
Honestly, this story is rushed. I only had 4 days to finish, and the word limit was 3,000 words. I don't like word limit, but I made it. It's exactly 3,000 words, including the title. It's not great, but I'm quite proud with how it came out. I quite like it even though the ending is rushed like hell.

Wilting Jasmine

WARNING: This is a horribly sappy story with questionable grammar since it was written three years ago.

I am thirty-two and happily married to a great wife with three great children of my own.

My whole life has always been full of smiles, and I don’t think I’ve ever been overly depressed over anything. I love my wife, I think my kids are the greatest kids alive, and I very much love my job, which has a lot to do with numbers and counting money.

But there is one thing I will always get miserable about whenever it passes me, whether I was washing the dishes at the time, reading story books to my youngest son, or even kissing my wife.

You know those wise sayings about how our first love would never be forgotten? Linda wasn’t my first love even though I love her as much and as good as one. No, she wasn’t. I met Linda when I was in college, struggling through to get my degree with espressos to keep me up all night, and bickering with the lecturers.

My first love was when I was in high school, with a girl that I had known since elementary, but never got around befriending. I was too shy to talk to her. I was even too shy to greet her in the morning or offering to bring her books to class.

My first love was with a girl with hair as brown as chestnut, and eyes as warm as chocolate milk. I remember gazing into those eyes and had hoped that they would gaze back at me with adoration shining in them. But that never happened, not like it would ever anyway.

I was in the first grade of elementary school when I first met her. I wore stupid square glasses that made my eyes look big, and my clothes were one size bigger than me. My father bought my jumpers, and he was really bad at remembering my correct size.

I remember that she sat next to my desk, chatting amiably with her friend. Her hair was pulled up into a cute ponytail, and her sweater was green with rose pattern on it. It was love at first sight. I fell right then and there when I heard her laugh and saw the lines her nose made when she smiled, and how her eyes would disappear into two little lines. She had a dimple on the left side of her cheek whenever she twitched her face. She was beautiful to me, she always was.

She wasn’t popular. She only had a few friends with her. She had this best friend that was the loser of the class, a girl that was very skinny, with hair very straight and dark, morose looking in overall. My first love always stood up for her best friend and it awed me that she could be so loyal. It’s not a quality that many people have.

Her name was the most important thing at one point in my life where it stood first whenever I woke up, and lingered last before going to sleep. Her name was the name of a flower that my mother loves very much, flower so white and so pure, just like her heart, with scent as sweet as her kindness.

Her name was Jasmine. Everybody called her Jazz for short, but I’ve never liked that nickname. It sullied the charm of her name.

She could have been popular back then, but she never really cared much. She befriended everybody, she was well-liked, but her best friend made her stood wavering on a line between popularity and being merely acknowledged. At least everybody knew her as the nice girl, the one who helped everyone, and always had a good laugh in everything.

I want to laugh remembering how I urged my dad to get me to school early. I wanted to sit on that desk next to her again, just to be able to overhear her conversations or watch her pretty little fingers write down notes.

But apparently, she sat in a different desk at the back instead with her emo-looking friend when she finally arrived an hour after I did. I was quite devastated because I couldn’t steal glances behind without getting noticed. Why would anybody keep looking at the back of the class? The others would put two and two together, conclude four, and then spread a rumour about me having a crush. And it was only the second day at school.

So the next day, I urged my dad again to come early. I sat at the back of the class, but she wasn’t there yet. When she arrived, she didn’t put her bag down. She went back out again and came back inside after some while with her emo friend in tow. Then she let the emo girl choose the seat. I really hated my luck.

When Miss Bree came in, she noticed the seats have changed yet again. My teacher decided that the seats we had at the moment should be our permanent ones for the whole year. Jasmine sat at the right, in front of me. I got to see her ponytail swaying whenever she talked.

It continued to be like that for years. I only snooped around my friends asking for her hobby, her favourite colour, the name of her pet, but never really had a decent conversation with the person herself. I tried writing love letters, but I always threw them away after reading how sappy they sounded. I wish I had given those letters to her. It would have probably changed everything.

Jasmine went into the same junior high as me. We were placed in the same class again and I was very happy, thinking that perhaps this time everything would be different and I would finally have the courage to talk to her. Her emo best friend didn’t go to the same junior high as us, so nobody latched onto her arm like some parasite anymore. There were only four of us that entered the same school. Jasmine, me, my friend Adam, and another boy named Houston.

Houston took the chance to sit next to Jasmine and they became friends instantly. Again, I hated my luck and my indecision to start talking to her. Jasmine had gotten taller, and she was even an inch or two taller than me at the time. The height difference probably became an obstacle for me too.

I used to mope whenever Houston would give her friendly hugs, or jokes, or teasing, or praises, or probably everything he did with Jasmine made me want to mope. Adam knew I liked her, but he’d never commented. He said I was just a stupid fool— sad and undeserving of her in the least because I didn’t even try anything to get her. That should have shaken me from my stupor-like attitude towards Jasmine, but it didn’t. So I only watched her getting even friendlier with Houston from afar.

Jasmine started dating Houston not long after that, and it made me regret my lack of action. They kissed occasionally, but nothing serious. Still, it made me ran around in circles whenever they kissed, confused and unsure about what I should do to reverse this predicament.

I was ecstatic when they broke up three months after being in a relationship. Houston flirted with other girls and Jasmine hated it. I should have befriended her back then.

I still didn’t.

I would only say my hellos in the morning to her, or ask for her help in several subjects, and eavesdropped on others about her.

Not really eavesdropping, actually, I just happened to be near them and they just happened to be talking about her.

I knew almost everything about Jasmine from all the information gathering I did. I knew that she liked the colour red. Almost every single hair ties she had were red. Jasmine had a cat named Kimberly, and a small Brazilian turtle named Odon. She had a little brother named Dean who was always on top of the class. Jasmine’s grades were good, but she wasn’t at the top. She was always in the middle. She didn’t care about grades from what I heard. She never studied, never listened to the teachers, but she always managed to pass through with decent grades for someone who didn’t study.

Jasmine mostly spent her time drawing in her book or writing poems.

Her drawings were indecipherable. I mean, they were beautiful looking, but they had too many lines in them. She used lots of scratches and lines to make the shapes and shading. The way she drew flowers perplexed me at first. Most people made a circle in the middle with other half circles around it to create a flower. Jasmine did these scratches, and the flowers she made looked like thorns instead, but you knew they were flowers when you looked at them.

I once took her discarded drawing and brought it home, treasured it inside my drawer. I didn’t know why she crumpled away that one drawing, I thought it was beautiful. It was a sketch (scratches) of herself, wearing black clothes and black lipstick. I knew it was her even though the face looked similar to any other of her drawing. I knew, because the hair was tied up into her usual ponytail, and the end of it curled, exactly like her hair. Maybe that emo girl she befriended back in elementary influenced her much more than I thought.

I wondered if she were still friends with her. Perhaps not, that emo girl moved to another town in our first year of junior high.

Jasmine started to withdraw from other people when we hit high school. Again, we went to the same school, but I wasn’t placed in the same class as her this time. I had to find new ways to keep track of her doing, so I befriended several people from her class, just so that I would have a reason to drop by in someone else’s class without looking like a weird outsider. I was best buddy with this one boy named Rick; he reminded me a lot of Adam. Adam moved to another state.

Jasmine’s hair got darker during the summer, much darker from what I remembered. She didn’t put them up into a ponytail anymore. She let it loose, pooling around her shoulders and going past her waist. I recently noticed that her hair was a bit wavy, the ends curling like coils. Her eyes were still as warm as chocolate milk though, thank God for that.

Rick told me that he had a crush on Jasmine and I could say nothing about it. So I didn’t say anything about it at all, I even supported him to talk to Jasmine. But he only frowned when I told him so.

“No way man, she’s like, untouchable.”

“What do you mean?” I was puzzled when he said that. I couldn’t fathom why anybody would say that Jasmine was untouchable. I mean, okay, literally, she wouldn’t like it when people grope at her, even I wouldn’t like it. I mean, in the other meaning of it. Metaphorically.

“She keeps to herself all the time,” Rick shrugged, picking at some cotton on his shirt.

“She does?”

“Yea man, she’s so quite I don’t know what I should talk about without making me look as if I’m annoying her.” Rick shrugged again as he scratched at his hair, “She’s so intimidating sometimes.”

“Really? That’s new,” I muttered thoughtfully. “She was really friendly back then in elementary and junior high.”

“Well, that’s a different thing. I mean, people change,” he said nonchalantly. “Nobody messes with her, it’s just like that. I mean, she doesn’t yell at you or anything, but she’s just… I don’t know, cold I guess.”

“That’s ridiculous. She’s the friendliest person I know,” I defended.

“You don’t get it, you can’t talk to her. You just can’t. She answers with one word of yes or no and she’s never redundant in talking. She’s very terse,” Rick grouched unhappily.

I never knew that Jasmine changed that much. She was always warm and welcoming to everybody, what made her change like that? It was the complete opposite to her usual self. Or maybe it was just me that was delusional, maybe she’s been like this ever since ever, but I just never noticed because I was too enamored with her. Perhaps she’s always been a somber soul underneath.

My new high school was very individual; everybody mostly kept to themselves and donned up mutuality friendships between each other. I’m friends with you because I need you, not I need you because I’m friends with you. It’s a school for geniuses, or so they say. I passed the exam and got accepted immediately.

Jasmine was accepted as well even though later she said that she didn’t answer the tests correctly. She didn’t even study, she just answered by shooting randomly. At least, that’s what I heard from people. Or maybe she just got lucky. But no, Jasmine was smart, I knew it. She’s fundamentally smart; she was just lazy and didn’t have it in her heart to want to become number one.

Jasmine stayed being in the middle, not number last in class but not number first either. Just middle. With most B’s, a bit of A’s and one C for Maths. Jasmine hated Maths. Not because she was stupid, but because she was too lazy to work on any of the equations. At least again, that was what I heard from my friends.

Rick finally got around talking to Jasmine. That’s how I found out that she hated Maths.

“So, how did it go?” I asked him as I bit into my chocolate bar.

Rick opened his soda can and took a hearty swig. “Well, I tried making up something to say, and so I asked if she could help me in Maths.”

“And?” I took another bite, chewing slowly.

“She said she doesn’t like Maths, simple. Just like that.”

“Reason?”

Rick sighed and he swirled his can around and around and around. I followed the movement with my eyes while thinking about hypothetical situations where I really talked to Jasmine and made her like herself again.

“Too lazy, she said.” Rick then threw his half-finished soda away into the bin.

Eleventh grade in high school came and I was faced with the choice to try talking to Jasmine or not. I really wanted to befriend her, but I didn’t want to make myself look stupid, especially since everybody said that she was very cold now.

I came early to school and was ecstatic to find that she was in the same class as me in second grade. This was really my chance to get to know her, finally! I decided that I would say hello to her first thing in the morning.

I chose to sit in the middle row. From what Rick told me, she liked to sit at the left row, where she could lean on the wall and stare out the window.

I remember feeling giddy, waiting for her to enter the classroom with her long brown hair swaying like silken honey, and her eyes looking warm like chocolate milk, her red hair tie circling around her wrist.

I almost didn’t recognize Jasmine when she came in.

Her hair looked like it had been hacked off with a gardening scissor, short and sticking out in odd places, not anymore silky and honey-coloured as it used to be. It was black.

“Jasmine?” I called out bewilderedly, watching as she glided into the class, her two-strap bag dangling on one shoulder. She looked up and I saw her eyes, her beautiful, beautiful milk chocolate eyes, not anymore warm like it used to be. The shape of it didn’t change, the colour didn’t fade away into anything; it was still brown. But it looked colder somehow, more distant.

“Oh, hey,” she smiled at me.

I nodded to her stiffly, staring as she put her bag on the desk to my left. Just like Rick had said, she immediately dropped herself on the seat and leaned against the wall, taking out a sketchbook.

She started doing her sketch (scratching) on the paper with a pen. I was still looking at her when the others came inside. There was a group of girls coming in while laughing and joking, poking fun at each other. They weren’t in the same class as me before, but I knew them. Rick said that sometimes Jasmine would talk to them.

“Did you see Colby’s new hair? It was stupid!” One of them laughed, a hand covering her mouth to cover her giggle. Her obnoxious giggle. I knew her name, her name was Opal. She was degrading to almost everyone.

I didn’t like girls that gossip badly about each other back then, and I still don’t even now. Good thing that Linda is too busy to gossip with anyone, what with her being a doctor and all.

“I know right, she coloured it blonde, it doesn’t match with her skin.” The leader, a girl with creamy knee-length skirt and blue tight sweater said. Her hair was blonde and she had a pink bandanna to push up her fringe, showing her rather large forehead. Angie, if I remembered correctly. “She should have stuck to red; even though it’s very unappealing, at least it didn’t look like as if she was trying too much to look good,” she commented further while picking at her nails.

I heard Jasmine made some kind of an inaudible snort and I looked back to her. She was still drawing, face flat and hair odd.

“Still though, I think she wouldn’t look good either way. Perhaps she should have coloured it black instead. Maybe it’ll compliment her complexion more,” Opal piped up. Two other of the girls— a set of twin, Bianca and Blanca— nodded simultaneously. “Agree,” they chorused and collapsed into fits of giggles.

Angie looked over and waved a hello at me, “Hey, James!”

She knew me because I used to come to her class to meet Rick back in tenth grade. I gave a dimpled smile, “Hey, Angie.”

She smiled sweetly. Opal giggled when she saw Angie eyeing me with a pretty smile, nudging the twins with her elbow. I’ve heard rumours that Angie liked me. Not that I’m leading her on or anything. I was only being polite and nice.

Bianca and Blanca both put their hands on Angie’s shoulders. “Hey Ann, is that Jazz?” I heard them whisper. Well, feigning whisper.

Angie looked to my left. “Oh my, is that you Jasmine?” She feigned a gasp, widening her eyes and covering her gaping mouth with a dainty hand. Opal widened her eyes as well, looking truly shocked when she saw Jasmine. “You’ve changed so much!” Angie continued, walking over towards our desks.

The twins tottered behind her, still having their hands on Angie’s shoulders. Opal followed uncertainly.

“What happened to your lovely hair?” Angie frowned, looking mildly concerned. She reached out and touched the tips of Jasmine’s bizarre hair primly.

“Isn’t it still lovely?” Jasmine teased back, smiling up at them.

“Looks kind of morose to me,” Opal mumbled.

One of the twins smacked her arm. “That’s not very nice, O,” one of them said, but I couldn’t be sure which though. I think it was Bianca, while Blanca nodded to emphasize her twin’s words.

Angie gave a tight-lipped smile, eyes crinkling. “Why did you chop it off this way? It looks like a boy’s hair,” she crossed her arms, leaning her hips on Jasmine’s table.

“Haha, well, I was just bored with having it long,” Jasmine laughed and waved a nonchalant hand. “It’ll grow back by the end of the year anyway,” she shrugged, smiling at Angie.

“Well if that’s the case, then I can’t wait for it to grow back again! I loved combing your hair,” Angie pouted. “It used to look like honey, why did you colour it black?”

“Oh, I was just in the mood. You know, trying new stuffs and all,” Jasmine replied, closing her sketchbook when she saw the twins eyeing it.

“I like your skirt today though,” Opal chimed in, “I think that red looks wonderful on you. The white pullover is cute.”

“Thanks Opal, I like them too.” Jasmine agreed, cocking her head cutely to the side.

I imagined if her hair were still long and pulled up into a ponytail. It would have bounced cutely, her ponytail, when she cocked her hair like that. I remember the end of her hair used to curl prettily.

I didn’t talk to her the way I planned to.

In fact, I didn’t talk much to her, just like I did back in elementary and junior high. I occasionally asked for help in several subjects, never Maths though, and she would help me in understanding them, even though I actually already understood them. I only wanted to have reasons to talk to her.

Twelfth grade came and she became even worse than before. She came in, hair now in black bob with lips dark red and black turtleneck as her uniform for the day. She wore black leggings and black ankle boots. She still smiled to everyone, people in overall still liked her, but they mostly left her alone to her own devices. I still didn’t talk to her, only saying hello, goodbye, and asking for help with my subjects.

She still helped me, except for Maths, because I’ve had never asked too anyway.

It was almost Christmas when everything changed for us all.

Everybody was excited to welcome Christmas, the school’s hallways were decorated with stupid mistletoes and red and green and all those Christmas decorations. Couples kissed wherever there were mistletoes around, and it made me want to puke seeing them showing such blatant public affection like that. I wouldn’t mind kissing Jasmine though, even if it were very unlikely that it would ever happen in any way whatsoever. And anyway, Jasmine had been absent for two days, reporting to the teachers that she was feeling sick.

I’ve had ideas of visiting her house, bringing her strawberry chocolate fondue, her favourite snack (that I knew from stalking), but I never did so. I should have done so. I’ve even had ideas of buying her Led Zeppelin. I knew she liked Stairway to Heaven. Again, I should have done so.

I walked through the hallway to my locker. Rick was already on his, rummaging through his trash of a locker to find his books (that he wouldn’t likely to find anyway since he probably left it in class). I opened mine, quickly skimming through the neat stacks of my neat locker.

“James, man,” Rick called out to me.

“Hm.”

“Did you see my geography notes? Cause I have no idea where I last put it.”

“No, you probably left it again in class,” I shrugged unconcernedly. “So you didn’t make the essay Lou Ann gave then?”

“She gave an essay?” He looked over to me.

“Made mine last night, she’s going to be soooo pissed at you later, believe me,” I sang to him. Rick was always a pile of trouble, I had no intention of helping him that day seeing as this was almost Christmas. No reason for me to shit myself by helping him, no sir.

He gave a somewhat grunt and started trashing his locker even more. I plucked out my books and trailed my eyes over Jasmine’s locker. Hers had no stickers, unlike most of us who at least had a sticker of our favourite band or something equally as unimportant as that. No, her locker was clean, and I bet the inside was neater than the arranged peas on my steak. I hated peas.

“I wonder what her sickness is,” I mumbled to Rick who was still messing with his locker.

“Who?”

“Jasmine.”

“Oh, well, Angie said that she visited her yesterday and she was actually quite fine.” Rick pursed his lips in deep thought, “Opal said she was only lazy to go because it’s nearing Christmas anyway.”

“Oh.”

The rest of the day that followed was just painfully mundane. I was really bored because I didn’t get to see Jasmine’s mop of black hair from my seat. I wondered if I should visit her after school.

We were in chemistry when someone knocked on the door, which rattled the teacher’s nerves off. Miss Becca was in the middle of explaining something that she apparently tended to forget as well.

“What?” I heard her spat to the person on the other side of the door. She was known to be rude, Miss Becca.

They said something, but I couldn’t hear a single thing because Miss Becca started gasping, and saying “you must be kidding me,” and “no way,” and “oh my God,” and she started sniffling a bit, just stood there and not moving.

“You think her so called fiancé called and asked for a break up?” Rick whispered from across his desk.

“Could be,” I shrugged, and socked his face with my palm. “Get back to your own bubble and work on that so I can copy you. You’ve copied mine yesterday,” I reminded.

Rick snickered but he nodded anyway, getting his face back to his own desk and started scribbling circles and numbers and I didn’t know what was on his mind but were those J+R’s that he wrote? How would that help with chemistry?

Miss Becca closed the door, heaved a deep breath and walked back to the whiteboard. She took the eraser and wiped away the whole thing she’d written. Huh, perhaps Rick was right, it must be her fiancé calling.

Her back was facing us, her frizzy blonde hair swaying when she turned around.

“Class,” She started. Then she stopped, looking unsure, and started to open her mouth again, and stopped again.

“I don’t know how to say this,” she whispered lamely. Rick was grinning like mad and he looked over to me and I looked over to him. Her fiancé all riiiighttt, he mouthed.

I gave a small twitch of amusement, looking back to Miss Becca again. This happened before, Miss Becca got dumped by her boyfriend and she just took her leave, telling that the class was over for the day and we should read page from here to there because tomorrow there would be a quiz. It was her own little misplaced aggression to give us mind-boggling quizzes. The whole class became full of whispers and giggles. Apparently, everybody thought the same thing as us— that her fiancé called, asking for a break up.

“Everybody,” she started again.

Rick and I waited for her announcement that the day was over and we could go home, and I could probably buy that strawberry chocolate fondue and Led Zeppelin for Jasmine.

“Our friend Jasmine Parker—“

What? Jasmine? I think I heard wrong. What does this have to do with her? What’s wrong? What’s—

 “— was found dead in her room this morning.”

“…”

It was the world crashing and burning and cars honking as they drove into trees where it would flame up with everybody inside screaming while they burned and kids falling off their bikes and scraped their knees bad with their mothers yelling at them. Someone started crying, and then two, and then three. And then the whole class broke into a yelling mass of students, some howling in disbelief, girls screaming no, no, no, and some just stayed shock and quiet.

I swear, I swear to all things up there and above and higher and even even more higher, my breath was stopping and my chest felt like it was being… being… I didn’t know what I really felt back then. My heart beats erratically, frantically, that I could literally feel it right under my skin. Rick was gaping next to me and he looked over and he gaped further, and I felt horror rising in the back of my mind but I couldn’t feel it yet, not yet. It was surreal, surreal, surreal that my brain suddenly slowed the world down and it sounded like so real. So real. S-O-R-E-A-L, it spelled to my numb mind but I still, I couldn’t, I—

I was going to buy her strawberry chocolate fondue.

We should have been listening to Led Zeppelin by now after school. I should have sent those love letters from back then in elementary.

I was going to try to talk to her.

Class was cancelled. The teachers went to Jasmine’s house to give their condolences to her family. I was too shocked that when I arrived at home I simply dropped myself to my bed and just… just stayed there.

I remembered her drawing that I treasured in my drawer.

I cried that night. For what had and could have been.

Nobody knew the cause of her death until tomorrow morning when the teachers gathered all of us in the auditorium.

Jasmine died of suicide; she drank bleach and had refused to eat for days.

Her mother found her diary. It was quite hard to decipher the meaning of her writings since her diary was more drawings than writings, but eventually it was concluded that Jasmine had been depressed for long.

I never knew. I didn’t know. I wish I had known. I wish I had befriended her then and maybe this all wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps she would still be alive. I could have told her how important and unique she was, I could have made her feel special, safe, needed. I could have been the person she confided in when feeling depressed.

My hesitation killed her in some ways.

Maybe she didn’t feel special enough. Maybe people didn’t give her attention enough. Maybe she was just essentially disturbed underneath all those pretty layers she’d woven around her personality.

It was all only could have been.

In reality, I didn’t do any of those things and Jasmine ended up dead. Wilting and dying. Like those jasmine flowers when winter advanced. It’s ironic that she died when winter was coming.

And now, being thirty-two of age, I’ve learned to never let hesitation stop me from getting what I want, from cherishing what I love. I met Linda, I had my kids, and I’ve had never, ever, in my last few years of life, hesitated in following what my heart told me.

END

SHORT STORY

Ratu Annisaa Suryasumirat

Start: 31 July 2013 | Finish: 31 December 2013

It's kind of generic, but I wrote it myself and I like it. It has been three years since I wrote this, and my writing style has changed a lot. Still, I like this one story no less than my new ones since I relate a lot to the characters in it somehow.