Fraz's Blog, page 5

THE SMILE

The sirens of the ambulance blared as it whizzed past the traffic. I was just glad that unlike the popular belief, the white vehicle with a big red cross made it in time. In fact, it broke the pizza delivery’s record. As I sat in the cramped up space looking down on the old man strapped onto the stretcher, I couldn’t help but recall the few moments when I interacted with him.

“Excuse me Sir? Will you spare a coin?”

With ragged clothes and only a blanket on his old shoulders, the old man looked up at me and asked. I saw him daily while I closed my shop. Usually he stayed in the alley next to my shop and never disturbed me as I walked to my home. So I was curious.

“Why?”

I shivered as I asked him the question. The mid December chill was really getting to me. Even though I knew sparing a coin would not break my financial balance, I didn’t feel like parting with my hard earned coin without at least knowing where it was going to be used.

“I’m a coin short and this pup needs some food kind sir.”

He said giving me a glimpse of a very frail pup he was hiding inside his blanket. He covered it up quick and continued.

“I know it’s dying Sir but I would love to give it a last meal before he succumbs to the cold.”

I didn’t understand why this beggar would want to feed a stray pup that he knew would die anyway. My rational mind pondered over it again and again. Even as I tossed the coin in front of the old man and walked on, I couldn’t shake the thought out.

The next day, as I walked out, I inquired the old man about the dog.

“It’s dead Sir.”

He said. There was a strangeness in the tone of his voice. It was sad and happy at the same time. It was the most intriguing moment of my life. I realized that I was very curious about the life of this old man.

Over the next couple of weeks, I would stop every day and talk to that old man. I made a deal with him. In exchange for his story, I would provide him with a coin. And so every day, the old man told me a little about himself.

He used to be a farmer and on his small farm, he used to live happily with his family. A family of three – Him, his wife and his only daughter. He would work hard to keep his family well fed and the family lived happily, satisfied with what little they had. One day as he was driving to the market, his daughter and wife with him, a drunk truck driver swerved into him. The wife died immediately and the daughter was taken to intensive care. He survived without a scratch.

“There hasn’t been a day that I haven’t cursed fate.”

His eyes welling up with tears as he uttered those words. I could feel the corners of my own dampening at the same time. He had to sell his farm and everything else he had in order to pay for his daughter’s treatment, though it turned out to be futile.

“Sometimes life has other plans for you.”

He said as soon as he finished telling me about his daughter’s demise. That day I couldn’t sleep the whole night. Though a strong man, I couldn’t help the tears from flowing through my eyes. I started to visit the old man every day. I still gave him a coin but we no longer talked of the past. Instead we talked of the present.

“The times have changed,” he said sighing. “Modern medicine is a blessing wouldn’t you say?”

He looked up at me as he asked with the brightest smile I’ve ever seen.

As the doctors rushed him to the intensive care unit, I could see the flashes of the old man falling to his side right after he asked me that question. And then, as if it happened all over again, I could remember the ride in the ambulance.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to meet my family.”

The old man said smiling as he held my hands in his. As I sat there holding his hands he muttered one last word.

“You’re Welcome.”

I read it on his lips and that’s when I understood. He wasn’t helping the pup. He was helping himself. For those few moments he spent with the pup, he felt needed, felt he existed. And I realized, that for a brief but certain moment of my life, I was given the same luxury.

As the doors of the intensive care unit closed and shut me out, I whispered back to the old man who I knew was on his way to meet his family.

“Thank You.”

04/10/2009

I might’ve caught the writing fever or something because it seems that I just can’t stop writing entries into this diary. Maybe it is due to the strings of my fate being pulled by some unknown power as I mentioned in “The Spectator” or maybe it’s because I don’t really have “A Face of My Own”. Whatever be the reason, I just can’t stop writing.

It’s really addicting. More than the addiction I have to nicotine. Oh right… I never mentioned it before either. I’ve got a bit of a smoking problem. I can’t quit. I’ve tried about a hundred times and failed miserably. I guess the joke “I quit smoking everyday” was made just for me.

It’s not just smoking, I’m also a heavy consumer when it comes to alcohol. Though I might not call myself an alcoholic as I still don’t really feel the need to constantly consume it on a regular basis. Wish I could say the same for a pack of smokes. I need like one every five minutes or so.

What started off as an innocent beginning to a bad habit, has turned into an addiction. I just can’t get enough of it. I still remember the first time I had a cigarette. I coughed and coughed like a man possessed. Basically, I believe I took up smoking in order to fill the void of self-harm I’ve been feeling as of late. I’ve kicked the habit of cutting and bruising myself so I guess it had to be replaced by something.

I know all about the consequences of smoking too. From getting high blood pressure levels, jammed arteries, bronchitis, and all the way to mouth and lung cancer, I’m well aware of them all. However, it still doesn’t help me in kicking the habit. I wonder if I’ll be ever free of this cancer stick.

I’ve gotten bored of it many a times but when the withdrawal symptoms kick in, I feel myself reaching for a cigarette once again. So yeah, I’ve been smoking like crazy for the past few months. I’m almost at 2 packs a day. I’m so glad that I’ve got a part time job as a veterinary assistant or else I’d never be able to support my smoking habit.

Anyway, I should really get to bed now before I end up a walking talking zombie due to all the fatigue I’m facing due to my smoking. It gets worse during the times I’m having a financial crunch and have to cut my expenditure. And since I don’t get my pay till next week, I really need to get my shit in check.

Maybe this time I’ll also get my long bangs of straight, messy brown hair, dropping down to my eyes, cut from the pay I get. I’m sure that’ll really surprise Mom and make her happy. She’d be glad her son doesn’t look like a junkie from a boy band. It doesn’t help that I’ve grown my facial hair a bit too. The next pay and I’ll be like “Barber shop, here I come.”

A FACE OF MY OWN

On the first week of fall

Down one night at the world’s ball

There was a boy who sat far from the rest

Near the lake he made his nest

While everyone else were being merry

He sat below the lonesome cherry

Looking down at the lake’s water

Like clay is looked at by a potter

He saw his face in the natural tank

And to its depths his heart sank

Because in the water he saw his face

But there was nothing to see except the base

Turning around he looked at the others

At his father, mother, sister and brothers

He saw them all with smiling faces

But something was awkward on further gazes

He saw each one’s face was just a mask

Which they’d worn to accomplish a mere task

The task of being in sync with the others

Like infants are with their mothers

Then the rain began to fall

The drops creating ripples big and small

Somewhere near the wet leaves and blossoms

He found his own lying in its bosoms

Wearing it he was happy again

Merry like the others dancing in the rain

But deep inside it was well known

That he didn’t have a face of his own

THE SPECTATOR

Life’s stage is set

Get in line, take a number

It’s your choice to make

Play the game or enjoy the slumber

As the acts change one by one

Feel the whip of fear lash out

Feel that cold sweat, drop down the spine

As you forget the line you were to shout

It’s nothing less than a miracle

Or an unfortunate cruelty of theatre

Even when an actor falters

The play moves on for its arcane spectator

27/09/2009

Wow… Can’t believe myself at the awesome job I’ve done. I’ve managed to write two tragic flash stories with a tenderness connected to them. Both I dedicate to all those cancer patients out there! It sure feels good to do something nice for others. Unfortunately, this won’t be doing much good I guess since it’ll be either locked up in my locker or in the drawer of my study table at home.

Anyway, it was really hectic last week. With me being elected as the student body president for the cultural fest that our school decided to host, the whole of my week was pretty much a drive down the fast lane. It’s a surprise I even got any time to work on those short stories. And just when I thought that my life couldn’t suck any more, something worse just happened.

Well, what happened is that I got a new locker. Well, getting a new locker isn’t really bad but in my case, it’s right next to the ladies’ restroom. Okay, I know guys would kill to have a locker there but I sure as hell didn’t like it one bit. Not only is it bad enough that I get weird glances when I’m taking out the books from my locker, but some girls hang back to chat.

I’ve been a victim of so many spontaneous chats recently that I guess I should place a restraining order or something on all girls going to that restroom in school. But then again, that would be a pretty cruel thing to do and not really practical. Yes, I admit it, if it were practical… I’d have definitely done it!

So not only is my life like really messed up with all of my bipolar suicidal emotions, hectic schedules, fake popularity, and a locker next to the ladies’ restroom, I’ve got to deal with the fact that I forget my locker code from time to time. 9374, how hard is that supposed to be to remember? Somehow I can never remember it!

I literally have it saved in my phone and written on a piece of paper I keep in my wallet. It sure doesn’t help the situation because having to look at my locker code most of the time ends up delaying me in getting my books and making me vulnerable to the “glare” and “let’s walk in pair” situations with the girls coming out.

Maybe I should go to Mr. Travis to get my locker changed or something. Though considering the fact that he’s a grouch and a huge pain in the neck, I’m not really hopeful about it. Why the hell do I always get stuck in weird situations like this? Why can’t I have a normal peaceful sad life instead of constant chaos and unpredictability? Maybe, I’ll never truly get the answer to that for I’m not sure such an answer even exists.

REMEMBER ME

It was still dark outside when she woke up. In the darkness of her room she moved her hand the way she did every day. But today there was something different. Today, there wasn’t her husband’s warm, rough, protective hand to hold hers but rather the cold sheets of her bed.

A tear rolled down her cheek, as she realized that the past few days weren’t just a bad dream. “Be strong.” In her mind, she said to herself, because she knew, that no matter how much she cried, he wasn’t coming back.

“Don’t cry.” She begged her heart. But it seemed to have a mind of its own. As the tears started to flow and her chest tightened, she buried her face in a pillow, and cried.

As she finally got out of the bed, she removed the now tear soaked pillow covers, throwing them in the laundry basket, she headed to the bathroom to wash her face. She knew that she had to be strong. The one she could lean on, was there no more, so as she got out of the bathroom and started dressing up, she practiced her fake smile.

“I’m fine. Really. Thank you.” She said to her reflection in the mirror and then smiled her smile. It looked as if she was okay and that was exactly what she wanted the world to believe. She repeated the phrase and smiled one last time before she headed out through the door.

Work was good. It helped occupy her mind and thoughts. She worked as if there was no tomorrow, till the guard asked her to leave. As she looked at the guard locking up while driving her car out of the parking lot, the thought of her now empty house made her want to throw up.

It was almost midnight and she lay awake in bed, scared that if she slept, she would see him once again. Even though the thought of seeing him, was pleasant and sweet, she was scared that once she slept, she won’t be able to bear waking up again.

The doorbell rang and she made her way down the stairs, one part wondering who it was, and part wishing it was him. “Hello Mom.” Said her son as she opened the door. “Dad asked me to give you this.” He continued handing her an envelope. She opened the envelope and took out the letter and her eyes filled with tears again. This time, however, it was not sorrow but joy that made her heart cry.

“Hello Dear.”

The letter started.

“If you’re reading this, I’m long dead. I wish we had more time, but some things we just can’t control. I know you would be sad, thinking you’re all alone, and you’d be confused thinking what you’re going to do. I know it will be hard. It was hard for me too. The thought of leaving your side was more painful for me than the cancer itself. I’m sorry I had to leave early.”

She could feel the tears build up in her eyes as she continued to read.

“I thought I could fight it till today. However, I wish you to be happy, because I live in your memories every day. And instead of the sad parts, I wish you’d remember the happy ones. Because I don’t want to be blamed for your tears ever again. And since I couldn’t come on my own, I’ve sent our son as my messenger, to apologize for all the times I forgot, and to tell you that this time I did not. Love, your husband.”

She looked up from the letter and saw her son holding a diamond ring in his hand.

“Happy 25th Anniversary Mom!”

PARADISE TOMORROW

I opened my eyes to the morning sunshine, the rays pouring in like a waterfall, lighting everything up with its golden glow. Lying in my bed I look up where a lone ceiling fan lies still in the cool of winter. I get up to the chirping of birds and smiled in joy… in joy of being alive.

I still tingle from where the warm water drops touched my body as I get out of the shower. And as I tighten my tie and pick up the keys to my car, I can’t help but smile, for I was alive. The first person I needed to see was my lawyer. The one who took care of me all the way, back from when I was just a child.

A charming man with a cheerful way about him, his eyes always filled up with joy when he saw me. However, today as I started explaining that I was there to leave with him my will, I could see his smile turn upside down. He didn’t look surprised as I started telling him how I wanted all of my belongings to go to charity. After all, he knew I no longer had any family.

It was the second time I’d seen tears in a grown man’s eyes. The first was my father who cried at my mother’s funeral service. And now I see this man of great power and authority shed tears of genuine sadness. I can’t help but smile seeing him this way, for there’s joy in me in knowing he cares and also in the knowledgethat I am still alive.

I decide to walk to the hospital next and leave my car with my lawyer. My assistant had made an appointment beforehand. More often than sometimes I do wonder, what my life would’ve been without her. She, with her warm loving service to me, has definitely been a ray of life. She would really chase me down and kill me if she knew what was happening today. It’d be better that my lawyer breaks the news to her.

As I pass by the small orphanage and the children see me walk by. They sprint towards me laughing and chuckling, as I wave to them asking to join in. As I play with them a little, I can’t help but smile, for having this moment and for having had a good life.

I was ushered into the doctor’s cabin and then transferred to a room of my own. Wearing the weirdly designed hospital clothes I waited for the sedatives to take hold. It’s almost time for my new journey and looking back I have no regrets.

I look at my doctor as he speaks. “We’re sorry that we can’t save you. But what you’re doing now will save many.” And I can’t help but smile as I decide it’s time to put down my pen. Today it’s goodbye to this world and a warm hearty hello tomorrow, maybe to paradise.

13/09/2009

So yeah, I’ve been writing this diary like every week now. It’s rather growing on me. Gives me a place I can call home. I’ve been feeling pretty bipolar lately so I thought I’d write my first Haiku ever. Pseudo haiku to be exact. What? I’m like 17 years old. Aren’t I supposed to write poems a bit more complex than normal rhymes? So there I sat in class writing my first Haiku.

I had studied about it the night before. It sounded a bit hard but I thought it might be fun. Describing human emotions through nature. It sure did take me a while to figure out which aspect of nature I should choose to portray the ever changing polarity of my own emotions and feelings. To be honest, it wasn’t till I looked out of the window I was sitting next to that I figured it out.

The leaves being blown around by the wind sure lead me compare it with my own actions being pushed around by the way I felt. It was quite crazy really. Sometimes, I’d feel really happy for having friends even if they were fake and all. And at other times, I really loathed the fact that I was forever alone even though, I was always surrounded by a crowd.

The feelings really took me places. From time alone at the forbidden roof of the school to walks down empty lanes. I really went places alright. It was getting tiring to be honest. I felt like I’d be going back to “The Crimson Lead” days again pretty soon. But then, the wind would change and I’d be laughing my butt off in front of a crowd at stupid jokes and make some of my own.

Life really is complicated! It just changes polarities the same way as the wind and my emotions do! But then again, when I really think about it… Is life really complicated or are we, the so called superior beings, making it that way? But then again, I’m not really wise enough to theorize life accurately in words.

Well whatever, I really think I should try and write stories more instead of just poems. I’ve been writing a lot of poems lately. Wonder why that is… Alright… It’s decided, the next thing I write in this diary is going to be a flash story. And it would be one with a rather tragic but tender end for sure too. I’ve already got a story lined up.

I was pretty much influenced by my visit to the cancer center last month. Guess I should make the most of the inspiration. I wish the poor and terminally ill people could read it. Maybe they could realize that some of them actually end up dying a hero with or without their knowledge of it.

Maybe this could be a tribute! Something that captures their subtle memories or something! Who am I kidding? This diary is nothing but a key to my heart. And none shall have access to it for I fear they will trample on the shattered pieces.

EVER CHANGING WIND

The wind just changed its course

Without further ado

The surrounding air flows

The tree leaves still sway

The birds still chirp

The breeze has its own way

The air that once was

Never is the same

Dies, and renews as it does

The wind is erratic

Never constant

Unpredictable, sporadic

06/09/2009

It’s sad that I could only find two of my poems from my time as a Goth. I was really looking forward to finding more. Though I must say that the poems I did find were some serious stuff. “At the Rope’s End” was one that I wrote right before I tried ending my life by squeezing the living daylight out of me using a towel.

Yup. A towel! I couldn’t find a rope. I almost thought I could do it too. End my life right then and there at that very delicate moment. I was so tired of all the ridicule I was facing in life, both in school and at home. As I squeezed the towel tighter and tighter around my neck and felt my breath squeeze away, it did feel somewhat good for a while.

I remember even now how tears of joy were flowing out of my eyes as my vision grew blurry. Before I knew it, I had lost my strength and was lying on the bathroom floor gasping for breath. I’ll tell the whole world if I can that I’d never felt as alive as I did in that moment I was gasping for air. Of course I later hated myself for being weak and not being able to go through it completely but I guess it was all for the better.

Anyway, moving on, “The Crimson Lead” is actually my personal favorite. It has a simplicity that just calls to everyone. It’s pretty depressing too. I remember why I wrote this as well. Because I was so sick of being alive. I just wanted to end it all. I felt so bad for my poor foster parents having to deal with my stupid antics day in and day night.

Reading the poem now depresses me again. If only I knew the true power of this poem, I’d have never written it in the first place. It might be a good thing that no one else will ever read this diary but me. Who knows what someone might do if they read all the stuff I write in here? I’m already tired of taking responsibility for my own actions to take responsibility for the actions of a random stranger.

Back to the time when I actually wrote the poem, I don’t know why but I actually wanted to write it in blood. And that’s what I did. Like I mentioned before, I took some toilet paper and a blade. A deep slit into my left arm gave me enough ink to practice my calligraphy on that thin soft paper. All it took was a pencil dipped inside and later all I had to do was just write away. Not one to brag but the crimson of my blood did look spectacularly amazing.

And so, there I was bleeding out in the restroom. It’s rather amusing to note that most of my suicide attempts were made inside the restroom. I wonder if it was some kind of a poetic influence pushing me on to rather wash away my sins or myself. Or maybe it was just the fear of being discovered by my parents and forced into another painful session with a dozen other psychologists and psychiatrists.

Yeah, all those suicide attempts were in a way before I met the poor chap who advised me to write a diary. I guess his name was Paul but I just felt sorry for him for being stuck with me. Turns out, he was a pretty famous shrink. Not that he could get anything out of me really. But then again, I guess he did help me out in a way. He pointed out that I did have a place where I could be myself. Right here.

So yeah, going back down memory lane, I was sitting there on the toilet seat, bleeding myself out and enjoying the pain when all of sudden my Mom shouts for me. Yeah, I was in the toilet for like an hour. Kind of usual routine but then again, I did need to get out. At first I thought I’d just let it bleed out but saner heads prevailed.

I got out once I considered the situation where my folks would be devastated after finding their only adopted child lying dead on the bathroom floor. I did write “The Crimson Lead” in order to portray my agony of living on for my folks. There was no point giving my folks any more agony by trying to escape from the pain only I should bear.

So I did what any child loving his or her parents would do. I wrapped up the open wound with some toilet paper and got out. It didn’t take me long to get away from the eyes of my mother, which was a good thing because I was sure the anemia due to blood loss would kick in soon. And well, it did too.

I could feel myself blacking out. Though I didn’t lose much blood but the effects were there nevertheless. Thank God I was a nerdy kid. I knew just what to do too. Eating sugary stuff and trying to stop the bleeding as soon as possible. Well… More like before anyone at home found out. I was so glad I lived in a family where they gave me personal space.

So I treated the wound I inflicted on myself to the best of my abilities. Blade cuts aren’t really very big so I was fine more or less. It was deep and I did cut through my vein but all I had to do was put pressure and a sterile dressing. And well, keep the arm above heart level. I wonder if it would’ve been the same if I had cut my artery. I hear blood just gushes out.

So I replenished my lost energy in the form of glucose from all the sugary stuff I could get my hands upon and kept adding dressings over the already soaked ones till the blood stopped flowing. The rest just involved changing the dressing and camouflaging it from Mom and Dad. Not really a hard task considering they’re usually so busy with their own stuff to look at me from head to toe, checking for minor changes.

All it took was a good dressing, a shirt with long sleeves, and a jacket on top. Kudos to winter, the only season I love. It’s all dry and cold, the way I am inside. So I strolled out of my room at night after the whole ordeal throughout the day and I could say this with pride that, I did a good job. My folks never suspected a thing!

So yeah, that was my life as a Goth. Inflicting pain on myself and feeling good about it. I might’ve even gone for piercings and the works if my parents weren’t true Catholics. Trust me, no one wants to walk into a church looking like a Goth or God save them, they’re going to die from the sermons they’ll be getting from both the parents and the pastors.

Guess I’m done discussing my Goth life. It was fun while it lasted alright. When I look back, it did teach me a thing or two. It was rather fun to dress up and stuff. And of course I also enjoyed the pain I inflicted on myself. It was rather addicting. I’ve stopped now but there isn’t a day when I want to feel the rush of feeling pain again. Yup, I’m definitely suicidal.