Lately my short story, "Get Down", made it to Taylor's Book Project, "As Life Found Me," an anthology on people who are a little different from most of us.
People with Down syndrome, for example.
(as you might have guessed from the title of my short story.)
I couldn't make it to the book launch and first reading session. That itself was depressing. To make matters worse, I really felt terrible of the story I wrote.
It was not good enough, Shin. It wasn't. The pace wasn't right, you dragged too much, you lacked elaboration, and what kind of narration was that?
But look, Joe said to me,
if it was chosen, surely it has to be reasonably good, right?
But I just.
You need to be happy, Fahirul said.
I'm talking about genuine happiness. Not the conspicuous one that you are good at showing the world.
I doubt if I know what genuine happiness is. I doubt if any creative souls actually find genuine happiness attainable.
Writing is mein kampf. My struggle.
On a complete unrelated note, here's a story I wrote quite a long time ago. Because at one point or another, we all want to give up, even though we shouldn't.
And because someone once told me courage is admirable.
*
He was so sweet. Every time we got together he would touch my face gently, showering me with fly kisses cheekily and whenever we took pictures together his arms would always be on my shoulder.
We were so close to each other - the way we stared into each other’s eyes, the way we held each other’s hand firmly, the way he had me on his back, the way I had him on my lap, the way he kissed my forehead, the way he touched my face ever so gently yet never losing his manliness… I couldn’t help it, I fell in love with him.
I got excited when I received text messages from him, my heart did a summersault when he replied my Facebook comments.
He posted a 9gag picture which said “Always walk a girl to her car seat… And use the time walking back to the driver seat to fart.”
<Now I’m wondering when can a girl fart> That was my comment.
<Girls fart?>
<Girls are homo sapiens too>
<Some might beg to differ>
<Gender discrimination>
<Tsk tsk>
<Don’t make me slap you> - That was one of my lines. I could not resist the temptation to use my lines in real life.
<You can’t, we’re on Internet, duh>
<You’re forgetting we’re meeting up at 2pm, duh>
Nothing romantic but the fact that he rarely replied other people’s comments excited me.
Also, we did not converse normally. We were always bickering, arguing, fighting, talking about something disgusting. Which was probably why I was attracted to him. He was not one of the guys who would walk me to my car. He was not one of the guys who would talk to me politely.
He was direct; he was honest. He was different from other guys.
He had the sexiest voice I swear and I loved the way he laughed, it was so infectious; his broad shoulders made me felt so secure, his palms were always warm and that gave me a fuzzy feeling when he held my hand.
“You keep tearing that dress you’ll end up with nothing. Not complaining,” he recited his line in his sexy voice, with his signature naughtiness. I blushed.
He wasn’t that tall – around my height, and he was surprisingly thin for a guy. He was actually around my weight, and I was underweight even for female’s standard.
Maybe because of rigorous training and rehearsals, he was surprisingly strong for a guy of his weight.
We had to wrestle each other while reading our lines out loud during one of our rehearsal sessions, and I was almost out of breath by the end of the session. I had to put up a real fight so he wouldn’t have the chance to press me to the floor; although secretly I was hoping for that to happen.
Well I guess I shouldn’t be greedy. I was in seventh heaven to hug him so tightly; to have my abs pressed firmly against his six packs; to be leaning on his strong shoulders.
I loved bullying him. Getting him angry and challenging his limitations were so entertaining.
He brought three T-shirts for our dress rehearsal, none of it was ironed.
“You’re planning to wear pajamas on stage?” I asked, and lifting my hands to cover my face at the same time, knowing that he would try to punch me because I had attempted to punch him countless times before. It was part of our performance – for me to attempt to punch him.
He became exceptionally skilled at dodging my punches.
He also became exceptionally good at kissing me. It was difficult for him initially as he had to lie on my lap when kissing my forehead. It was not easy to bring his upper body up all the way from the ground to my head. There were many occasions when he couldn’t reach my forehead.
There were many occasions when he almost kissed my lips instead and I could hear my own heartbeat.
We tried many different positions including me lowering myself down so we could meet halfway but our director thought that would spoil the story. Finally he managed it by placing his hands around my neck so he could lift himself up easier.
Ever since that successful attempt, he became somewhat addicted to kissing me. So much so that even when our director told us to practice our lines without physical contact, he would still kiss and touch my face whenever our director was not watching us.
Or fly kisses when we were being watched. He went “Muacks-muacks-muacks” (complete with puppy eyes and pouted lips) every time he reached the line “What a thing to say,” and I could feel my heart jumping to my throat.
Then, he disappeared from my life. It took him ages to reply my text messages, he stopped watching performances with me, and where was the song cover he promised to do for me?
“Ahha sorreyh - I was busy – I have rehearsals every day,” he said. But I saw, on Facebook, he did song covers for other girls and there were pictures of him watching performances with other girls.
Who was I in his heart? I couldn’t help but to wonder if he did whatever he did with me with every other girl he met.
I thought I meant something to him. I really thought so.
I woke up in the middle of the night and cried. And cried. And cried. And cried.
The best revenge was to live a better life than him, so I moved on, getting myself busy with projects I was passionate about.
I exited his life.
*
She was so cute. So cheerful, so bubbly, and I just loved the way she smiled; it melted my heart. She was daring, she was adventurous, she had a great sense of humor which most other girls I met lacked, she was sarcastic in a fun way. I enjoyed being with her so much – why was it that we were only going to have four rehearsals together? How I wish we had rehearsals every night just so I could spend more time with her.
She was so comfortable in being herself. Not pretentious at all. She did not act demure and ladylike.
She did not sit cross-legged, she ate like a wolf when she was hungry and when she was tired during rehearsals she would just lie on the floor during our one-minute break, which I gladly joined, lying next to her, breathing the same air that she was breathing in.
She was so different from other girls I had met. Other girls were nice to me, they appeared to be very sweet up to a point that it was kind of sickening. She was independent, she helped carry heavy objects during rehearsals.
Independent girls were so rare, so hard to find and so alluring. I also began to suspect that I was masochistic because being bullied by her was so enjoyable. Pretending to be angry of what she said and did became my new hobby because I knew she loved it when I got angry.
I tested the water; like a child I showered her with fly kisses, I braved myself to touch her face.
I tried so hard to fail to kiss her forehead because honestly, I was aiming for the lips.
I looked for excuses to place my arms on her shoulders - the perfect opportunity to do so was when we took pictures – I hated taking pictures but if she was involved I love it, I loved the fact that our performance required me to lie on her lap – how lovely, whoever the script writer was, I could never thank him (or her) enough; and it was incredibly wonderful that for our warm up exercises she had to ride on my back and hold my hand – honestly if a truck hit me I could die in happiness and I wasn’t even exaggerating. I loved to get close to her, both physically and mentally. I loved the way we had to say “I love you” over and over again for purposes of our rehearsals and I genuinely meant what I said, I wasn’t even acting (although I would never admit it). I pretended to forget to return her belongings to her just so I had an excuse to contact her and I made sure I replied her Facebook comments – because her comments were so funny, and because they were written by her.
“Right, babe?” She asked – it was her last line. My eyes were closed but I knew she was staring at my face lovingly, as instructed by our director.
Many times I had peeped during our rehearsals because I love the feeling of her staring at me with love in her eyes.
I knew what would happen next and that made my heartbeat raced.
She lowered herself to hug me and I could feel her perky bosom on the tip of my nose.
That was more than enough to make any young healthy man nosebleed. I stopped breathing for a moment.
“You hugged me too soon,” I complained after our show was over. “You were supposed to stare at me longer.”
(And you were supposed to place your breasts on my face longer. Like, forever. I thought in my heart)
“Are you serious?” She looked at me, eyes wide open in surprise.
“No kidding, but –” I patted her back gently and pulled her towards me for a hug. “Good job anyway.”
Her performance was awesome. I was just looking for an excuse to hug her.
She uploaded a picture of us together. The picture where she was smiling happily at the camera while I was staring at her intensely with my arm around her, another in my pocket clutching her torn sleeve tightly.
Why can’t you look me in my eyes? In my heart I cursed her stupidity, but that was part of the reason why I loved her. She was charming in a stupid way.
<“I want to tell you something… I couldn’t push my intestine back into my body”> That was her caption and I almost sputtered water on my laptop screen when I read it. I had always jokingly called her sleeve “my intestine.”
<Your sleeve is mine now. You’re never getting it back> That was my comment. Aww, her sleeve. I kept it on my memorabilia shelf. Such beautiful memories.
<You’re getting me a new one> That was one of her lines. She loved using her lines in real life.
<I don’t think H&M stocks up on sleeve>
<New blouse please I’m XS thank you very much>
<Ugh all of a sudden I’m feeling so sick>
<You lame excuse makes me sick>
Days later I made time to buy a new XS boat neck light pink blouse. Yes, I remembered her size, her favorite style, the color she liked.
Now I need an excuse to ask her out for a date, I thought.
Then, she disappeared from my life. She stopped sending me text messages and I had no idea why.
I told her I was busy with rehearsals and I would do the song cover I promised her once my performance was over. I thought she would be happy about that – I thought she loved my singing.
I thought, since we sang together all the time, from Bee Gees to Katy Perry.
From “How Deep is Your Love” to “Unconditionally”.
How I wished I could watch that performance we had both been dying to watch with her but we both had tight schedules hence it was not possible. I had to watch it with other friends of mine and honestly, it would had been so much more enjoyable if I was watching it with her instead – I was positive that she would come up with funny names for that geeky nerdy actor with a shiny yellow hat.
She would probably crack me up by calling him banana.
The people I watched the show with made me do a song cover for them. I wasn’t in the mood for it and I was too busy with rehearsals anyway, so I just uploaded an old song cover I did years ago to please them.
Another week passed, my performance ended (she did not come to support me. I thought she would.) and I finally had time to relax. I looked at the pink sleeve on my memorabilia shelf – that very sleeve she torn for our performance. She almost cried when our director cut that sleeve from her blouse and
I had to cover her eyes with one hand while placing the other around her slim waist tightly so she would not have the chance to snatch her blouse.
She always jokingly called me crab because she thought my voice sounded like Sebastian the crab in “The Little Mermaid”, and she asked me to do a song cover of “Under the Sea” for her. That showed how much she loved my singing, no? At least, that was how I viewed the matter.
Those were the days when we were so close to each other.
On my table was a CD containing the song cover I did for her. No, it wasn’t “Under the Sea” – I decided to do “Kiss the Girl” instead because that was what I really wanted to do – I wondered if she would get the hint when she received it?
Once my performance was over, once I had the time to check Facebook again, the first thing I did was to stalk her profile.
From Facebook she seemed to have a great life going on. She was involved in some other projects it seemed – singing, acting, writing - There was nothing on her Facebook that indicated she was missing someone. I guess she didn’t miss me.
Checked my phone again and again. No incoming text messages.
Who was I in her heart anyway? Just a fellow cast, and nothing more than that I suppose.
Or maybe I was just a crab. Crap.
I threw the CD along with the new blouse and the torn sleeve into my dustbin and for the first time in my life, I cried.
I exited her life.
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