A Million Little Pieces
helium lost

Author’s Notes: I’m very proud of this work, in that it’s the longest thing I’ve ever written. I’ve been trying to increase my wordcount lately, and it seems to finally be working.

In any case, constructive criticism is always welcome. It starts out a bit slowly in the beginning, but it gets more intense at the end.

Edit (4/9/2006): Expanded a little at the end and fixed some minor errors here and there.

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Some people spend all their time and money collecting things. Some collect stamps; others collect coins. I personally know a person who collects socks. Don’t ask me why, because I wouldn’t be able to give you the answer even if I tried. Or, at least, I wouldn’t give you the right answer. I’d probably give you a Freudian analysis on why he felt the compulsive need to collect socks, but it’d probably be totally off the mark (though incredibly fun for me to do). In any case, he spends all his time scouring stores for interesting pairs of socks. I remember how he has a pair of toe socks, striped hot pink and lime green. He also has a pair of revolting polka-dot socks (he told me that he found them ‘endearing’). In fact, I think he has a whole room dedicated to his collection of socks. To date, I believe he’s spent over five thousand dollars on socks. Five thousand dollars on socks he doesn’t wear! And he doesn’t dare wash them, either. He firmly believes that there’s some sort of goblin lurking in the washing machine that eats up lone socks, leaving the other of the pair alone.

Me, I collect people.

It’s not as strange as it sounds. It’s not like I bottle people and put them in some vile, green preservative liquid and place them decoratively on the shelves. No, it’s something different. I can’t quite figure out how to describe it. I don’t collect their physical beings—I mean, it’s not like I rob graves or anything—rather, I collect my interpretations of them. Yes, that’s it. I collect interpretations of people. And it’s much more worthwhile than silly pastimes like collecting rocks or stuffed animals. First of all, it doesn’t cost anything—except for maybe the occasional trip to the local supermarket to develop photos—and the specimens are endless. So I have my camera and my notebook, and that’s all I need for a Saturday of people-watching. The corner café is enough for me. I sit and jot down notes about peculiar tendencies of people, discreetly take pictures of those in a graceful pose, or someone who strikes me, in that instant, as beautiful.

I remember a boy I saw on a Tuesday afternoon, ordering Earl Grey tea to go. I remember this clearly because I’d thought that it was funny for someone to order Earl Grey tea to go. In any case, he was one of those pseudo-intellectual types. His coat was reminiscent of a tailcoat, and he placed his hand on the counter as if he were holding an imaginary cane. He probably would’ve worn a top hat too, if weather had permitted; I recall that it was very windy that day. Anyway, I remember most clearly his face, which was very narrow. He had sharp, angular features, but in the sense that they were detailed and delicate, refined and looking as if they had been carved from marble. His eyebrows arched up as if they were cocked in a disbelieving manner, only he managed to make himself look graceful at the same time. His noise pointed up ever so slightly, as if he were trying to make a pass at looking snobby, but failing miserably. His lips were full and slightly parted. And his eyes—they were filled with a sense of disdain, as if he were looking down on you, as if he were the son of some high-reputation, aristocratic family.

Anyhow, after a couple minutes, the cashier came back with his Earl Grey to go, and handed it to him. And I remember how he raised the Styrofoam cup to his shapely lips, took a sip, and promptly dropped the cup onto the polished, tiled ground when he burnt his tongue with the hot tea. Ha! This was why there was the “Caution: Contents Are Hot!” label on the plastic covers. As if people couldn’t figure that out for themselves. So the lid came off and the Earl Grey got all over his polished shoes and started seeping into some lady’s canvas bag that was lying nearby. Poor bag. I remember wondering if the owner of the bag had important government documents that were now stained from tea from a presumptuous teenager. And I remember imagining her boss standing over her, lecturing her about going to cafés with confidential, government documents, and how she would be imposed with a heavy fine to make sure that she wouldn’t do it again. Probation, maybe. I wonder where she is now, and what she’s doing, and if she’s even a government worker. Hmm.

Well, that’s beyond the point. So his careful composure cracked, and he screamed at the cashier, as if it were her fault. His carved, marble-like image began to shatter with veins bulging from his neck and temple. He looked absolutely, spittingly furious. If ‘spittingly’ is even a word, that is. Well, he drew the attention of all the patrons of the café, and the cashier looked as if she were about to cry. Poor girl. She looked to be no more than sixteen or so, working on her first job. Probably never had any pissed patrons yet. But I remember that the situation was absolutely hilarious because here was this nineteen-year-old, trying to be all ‘badass’, then burning his tongue so unceremoniously on coffee, then trying to blame someone else for his stupidity. Teens these days! I swear that I wasn’t that stupid when I was nineteen. At least I had some common sense. Anyway, I don’t think I ever found out his name. But he looked like a ‘Patrick’. I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s just so un-aristocratic, I suppose. And he looked like an October baby. I’m not sure how someone ‘looks’ like they were born in a specific month, but it happens. I remember how I correctly guessed the birthday of someone I’d just met, just by looking at him. Either he was so impressed, so scared, or so worried that I was stalking him that he stopped going anywhere where he knew I’d show up. It’s a shame, really. I’m sure we would’ve gotten along.

Then, there was that woman that I saw on a Sunday morning. I remember that it was Sunday because it took me twice as long to get to the supermarket because the streets were clogged up with people on their way to church. Infernal place, that is. Teaches all the people to be the same and removes their individual notions and characteristics, making it absolutely boring for people like me. And not only do I disagree with half the stuff the preacher says, but the people around me provide no entertainment, either. In any case, once I finally got to the supermarket, I went over to the dairy section. I was running out of milk, which was frustrating, because I had to eat my cereal dry. I hate eating cereal dry. I like to have part of it soggy, and part of it crunchy; thus, you get the crunchiness, and then the milk kind of oozes out in your mouth when you chew on the soggy parts. Dry cereal is just no fun. It crunches. Makes some interesting sounds. But it’s not satisfying to eat it.

But, I digress. Back to the woman. I remember being behind her in the express line, clutching my gallon of milk. The sign of the express line said “Ten Items or Less”, which was really frustrating for me, as it should have been “Ten Items or Fewer”. Call me a grammar Nazi, but that’s the way it is. The ignorance of this nation increases more and more with every moment that passes; it’s really quite depressing. And if ignorance is bliss, then so be it, but don’t go around looking for a finger to point when your nation gets into some conflict with another and you ask yourself why. Blame yourselves. Anyway, what struck me about the woman wasn’t the fact that she was short and stocky, that her scraggly hair touched the ground, nor that she wore the largest pair of glasses that I’ve ever seen, but the fact that she bought dog biscuits, dog toys, dog treats, and then—get this—lubricant. Not car lubricant or the like, but the other kind. You know what I’m talking about. So anyway, I guess it could have been for some innocent reason (well, then again, anything involving lube is bound not to be innocent), but I just kept connecting the dog biscuits and the lube. Either she and her partner had some strange fetish in which they consummated, or, well, let’s just say that maybe her partner had four legs and a free coat of natural fur.

The next day, I’d decided to go to the park for a change of scene. And lo and behold, who else was there but the dog woman? I remember that she showed up mainly because I was trying to take a picture of a ludicrously dressed man, believing him to have an attention-seeking complex, when all of a sudden, this massive crowd enters the corner of my eye. So I turned and there was the woman, walking—simultaneously—no fewer than ten dogs. And they weren’t the little poodle kind that walks daintily on their paws. No, it was a mix of Great Danes, Golden Retrievers, Labradors, Chihuahuas, and a couple other types I couldn’t identify. Jesus, how that scared the people in the park. As she walked by, you could literally see the ripple of heads, turning to stare at her. Needless to say, all I could think about was that blasted lube. My mind was filled with a series of rather disturbing images, which I won’t talk about, lest I bring them up again. In any case, that left me twitching with unpleasant scenarios in mind. I don’t think I’ve returned to the park since that day.

Which leads me to today. Wednesday, March 15th, 8:57AM. Skies are overcast, with a twenty percent chance of rain. Eighty percent if you’re not carrying around an umbrella. Five percent if you are carrying around an umbrella. As usual, I went to the café, ready for a hard day of people-collecting. Sipping a trusty cup of dark coffee, I looked around, snatching up bits and pieces of people. There was, in one corner, a girl sitting with a sleazy-looking guy. She was blonde, cute, bright-eyed; he was scraggly, face obscured by red pimples and acne marks, and lounging casually on the booth sofa. She seemed to be totally enamored with him, for a reason that I probably will not be able to fathom for years to come. He looked indifferent, which I found to be ridiculous; there was a perfectly nice-looking girl in front of him, and he didn’t seem to realize it. But, then again, I didn’t know their circumstances; he could possibly be one of those godawful “grunge” artists, and who knows how they manage to snag in so many unsuspecting people as fans. Suck away their money, as well.

Next to them was a student (I’m assuming) surrounded by thick textbooks. I couldn’t make out the titles on the spines, but I’m assuming that they were history books, judging by the thickness of the books and the way that he read them voraciously and with such intensity, pausing occasionally to take down notes or underline something. Actually, maybe it was psychology. Yes, that seemed more fitting: He was a psychology student, reading his textbooks, and possibly applying the concepts to the people sitting around him. He would observe the people around him and take down notes on their behavior, analyzing them later, perhaps. In fact, I wonder what he would think if he saw me, sipping coffee and staring around at everyone else, instead of out the window, like the people surrounding me. Actually, no one goes to cafés just to look out the window. Shame, really; cafés have wonderful atmospheres in which one can relax and bask, doing absolutely nothing.

Then, something caught my eye. Or, rather, snatched it, grabbed it, seized it, for it wasn’t just a mere catching—it was something far beyond that.

There was a girl, sitting in the exact center of the café, crying.

I found myself shocked for the first time in years. The dog lady was disturbing, and the idiocy of ‘Patrick’ was somewhat unnerving, but those weren’t equivalent to shock. No, I was shocked, to the point where I held my cup to my lips, but didn’t sip; I was frozen, my eyes glued on her. Then, trembling, I slowly set my cup down, my eyes not traveling off of her for an instant.

There was a certain regal air to the way she sat. It wasn’t like ‘Patrick’, who was presumptuous and idiotic; no, she was humble, yet regal. She cried proudly, holding her head her up high, not caring about who saw her. And most people, like me, lose all dignity when they cry; the snot begins to drip out of their nostrils, and they have to sniff to prevent the snot from dangling on a thread of glistening moisture, and preventing the snot from snapping and dripping into their tea or coffee, whichever it is they’re drinking. But she was different. The tears simply streamed down her cheeks, and she was silent, just staring out the window. Yes, she was at a café, staring out the window, crying, ignoring the people around her, and not caring that her tears were dripping into her coffee.

I was seized at that instant with an overwhelming urge to get out of my chair, walk over to her, and ask her what was wrong. I wanted so badly to do it that I was almost out of my chair before I grabbed a hold of myself and forced myself back down. I collected people, I reminded myself, but I didn’t interfere with them. They were just specimen in a lab, worker ants doing their duties, oblivious to the world around them.

I sat, my hands pressing down forcibly on my thighs, telling them to stay put. For at least ten minutes, maybe, I simply sat and stared at her. I was shocked, primarily, by the fact that she was crying without any logical reason as to why—she didn’t look hurt, and there was no one sitting with her—and, secondly, because the people around her ignored her, as if she didn’t exist. No one stole nervous glances at her. No one whispered and pointed. The psychology student continued his reading; the blonde and the grunge rocker continued talking. The cashier continued to ring up coffee sales as customers continued to wait in line. It was as if people had been told to ignore her—all but me.

I watched her, noticing how the only things that moved were her eyelids, blinking every now and then, and the tears creeping slowly down her cheeks. Then, I saw her lips part ever-so-slightly, and she took in a deep, shuddering breath, and broke down, her body racked with sobs. Her dignity and regality were shattered as she slumped down onto the table and sobbed as if she were suffering from deep anguish. For a moment, I imagined a scene akin to Alice in Wonderland; she would cry and weep, caught up in her own sorrows, until the café was filled with tears, and our teacups and coffeecups would magically grow and enlarge until we could use them as boats. But the turning of heads broke me from my thoughts, like how you might concentrate intensely on one spot on a wall for hours, only to have that concentration broken by the slightest movement just shy of your blind spot.

Suddenly, the room was filled with a hushed silence. It wasn’t the kind of silence that occurred when you were listening to someone talk, or when you were watching a movie, or when you simply weren’t talking. It was the type of silence where people tried not to talk, but still whispered; there was a soft undercurrent of psst psst psst as people began to point at her. I could hear snatches of conversations around me, all about the girl.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Shouldn’t we go and comfort her?”

“I wonder what happened.”

“Crying in the middle of a crowded café, for fuck’s sake. She should have some dignity and cry in her own goddamn hole of a home. She’s just an attention whore, she is; she’s faking it.”

The last voice came from the booth behind me, from some punk who apparently thought that he was on the top of the world. It filled me, inexplicably, with some sort of vengeful anger. I stood up finally, turned around, and grabbed the wannabe-badass by his collar, lifting him a good six inches off the floor. He looked surprised for a moment (and I was surprised myself; I didn’t know I had that much strength in me); then, his face was filled with anger and spite.

“You put me down,” he hissed threateningly, as if he had authority over me. The final silence came over the café, the kind where everyone shuts up just because they want to see what happens next.

“Not until you take back what you said about her,” I said, quietly. I had not intended to sound threatening; I was merely trying to control my anger. But he apparently took it as a threat, face filling with a hateful rage. He began flailing around—almost desperately, it seemed—and trying to make me release my grip on him. I suppose he was trying to pretend he knew how to defend himself, but for all his badass attitude, he was worthless. After all, you can’t shove someone and look for a fight when you’re dangling six inches off the ground in the hold of someone twice your age and a good head taller than you. Eventually, he tired himself out, and began spitting insults at me, instead.

“Why do you fucking care?” he spat, irritated. “She’s just a pathetic person trying to get attention from people by sitting and crying. She probably doesn’t even have a reason to cry. She’s probably just pissed because her boyfriend broke up with her. And I can see why, anyway; she’s fucking ugly.”

It took all my self-control to prevent myself from slapping him across the face.

“Take that back,” I said, in that tone where it’s not quite a whisper, but not quite in a normal voice; it’s too clear to be a mumble, and too straightforward to be a mutter.

“No,” he said, voice filled with contempt. “I don’t need to listen to you.”

“Take that back,” I repeated, “or I will beat your ass to the ground.”

Thus followed that special silence that happens after you hear someone cuss when they are so mad that there is absolutely no other word to express their feelings. It’s the silence that ensues when a student realizes that he’s pissed off his teacher so badly that he or she cusses. It’s that silence that ensues when someone who you thought didn’t even know the words cusses because they are just so damn pissed. And I suppose the punk realized it, because he immediately shut up, unable to say anything. Moments passed as the tense silence continued. Even the machines running in the background seemed to have stopped. The only thing punctuating the silence was the faint ticking of my wristwatch.

“Fine,” the punk said at last, “I didn’t mean what I said about the bitch.”

I shook him roughly. “About what?”

He grunted, then muttered, in the normal mutter, where you’re reluctant to say something out loud, “About her.”

The anger in me subsided, and I set him down. I sat down, exhausted; I had exercised all my energy in trying not to hurt him, lest I became the victim of sueing from his parents or whoever else was foolish enough to care about him. My ears were assasulted by the rush of sound returning, like the sound of wings flapping by too closely to my ears. There was a buzz of comments and whispers near me, and I could hear them discussing what just happened, as if they were watching a drama, or their favorite TV show. Funny, I thought dryly, how people can still care more about themselves and how they feel than the people they just watched, not pausing for a moment to think about what motivates them, why they do the things they do…

She had, in the midst of it all, disappeared. I don’t know how she managed to slip through the crowd; perhaps it was because all the focus had been on me and the punk. In any case, I decided to leave the café; I didn’t want to keep on listening to the talk about me and what I did. I slapped a dollar down on the table as a tip for the waitress who’d never come to ask me if I needed more coffee. I figured it’d make me look less like a person looking for a brawl. I myself was rather surprised with my actions. I’ve always been something of a pacifist; it’s not like me to look for a fight.

I stepped outside, and the bell on the door jingled merrily as the door shut behind me. It almost sounded as if it were giggling, which it had no right to do. I sighed and put my hands in my pockets, looking up idly at the clouds in the sky as I waited at the bus stop. They passed by lazily, as if nothing significant had happened at all. The leaves in the trees rustled, unbothered; the buzz of traffic continued, unmarred.

Suddenly, I heard from my side a soft, quiet sniffle, something that you wouldn’t hear unless you were blanking out and not paying attention to anything. I turned, and I saw the girl.

Close up, she looked much different than from across the café. I had thought her to be a dignified girl, who stood up straight; I had thought that her face wouldn’t show the typical scars of crying—puffy, bloodshot eyes; a pink nose from sniffling—but I was wrong. Outside the atmosphere of the café, she was a completely different girl. She was small and plain-looking; if I had been walking in a crowd, she would have been one of the invisible people, the kind that you see, yet don’t see; the kind you glance over and forget about. She glanced at me furtively, as if she were trying to pretend that she didn’t notice me.

“Sorry,” she murmured, after a few minutes. She said it softly, almost like a breeze passing my ear.

“For what?” I turned to her, examining her.

“For involving you.” She deliberately avoided my eyes, inspecting her shoes.

“What do you mean?” I asked, even though I knew well enough what she was talking about, and what she meant.

“I’m sorry. He’s right. I shouldn’t have gone to the café in the first place. I shouldn’t have gone to a public place, and I should have stayed at home. I didn’t want to involve more people, but that’s what I ended up doing . . . . ”

I frowned. “Don’t listen to him. He thinks he’s king of everything, but he’s really just the king’s servant, wishing too hard.”

A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry . . . . ”

“Why? Why should you be sorry? It’s his fault that he chose to act like an asshole.”

“But it’s my fault that I chose to draw attention to myself . . . I should keep my head down low, hide in the shadows . . . . ”

I put my hand on her shoulder. She flinched.

“Don’t say that,” I said, softly, the kind of soft where I drew her in close and told her so that she could hear every word. “You’re going through enough already, and you don’t need to blame yourself for my actions. I chose to do what I did, and it’s not your fault.”

A trace of a smile appeared on her face, uncertainly peeking out, like a weak ray of sunshine coming out from between two dark clouds.

“Thank you . . . . ”

The bus came at that instant, almost drowning out her words with the forceful hum of its engine. The doors opened with the hiss of pressurized air being released, and she stepped on. She looked back at me one more time before she entered, and I swear that I’ll remember that look for as long as I live. Her eyes were filled with an inexplicable sadness mixed with touches of gratitude; her hair partially obscured her face, and the straight line of her mouth curved up gently, softly, to form a small smile. Her hand loosely gripped the rail, like she didn’t care if it might slip away from her or not; she stood, poised to climb the next step, and she seemed so determined, yet so hesitant at the same time. I didn’t know her, and I didn’t know about her, but somehow, at that moment, when her sad eyes met mine, I felt connected to her. I felt as if I hadn’t seen the last of her.

She climbed the last step, and, after the bus driver saw that I wasn’t going to get on, the doors closed behind her.

As the bus left me, the sky darkened as the clouds gathered and a bitter wind whipped up. Living where I do, weird, sudden shifts in weather were nothing new to me (and the weather forecast had predicted rain anyway), and I have known it to be sunny one instant, and snowing the next. Yet this shift in weather was so perfectly timed, it was as if she’d called for it herself. In any case, the clouds rumbled darkly and released a gentle torrent of rain, drenching me. And, of course, I did not have an umbrella. I decided not to take the bus and opted for walking home instead (I didn’t live too far, after all). As I walked, with the rain chilling me to the bone, and I knew that I’d regret my decision. But it didn’t seem to matter to me. All that was on my mind was the girl, who she was, and why she was crying—I wish I’d asked her for her name, but it was too late now . . . .

When I got home, I burned my people collection. I took every picture off the bulletin boards, I took all my notebooks, and I burned every last one of them until they became a pile of ashes. I was done with people-collecting. After her, I wouldn’t be able to collect any more people. She showed me that what I thought when I interpreted people was radically different than who they were; she showed me that people were not just specimen, but that they were alive, and they had their own lives, their own difficulties . . . that they felt pain, too. I’d lost all my isolation from society. She brought me back, and no longer could I view people with indifference . . . .

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Ever since I met her, I’ve been avoiding cafés. They are, I feel, filled with people with no feeling for others, filled with people who follow the crowd and can only survive in a crowd. They are like a school of fish, doing only what the fish in front of them is doing; you stray from the school, and you’re easy prey for a shark. So ever since I met her, I’ve been going elsewhere, where I can connect again; I’ve been withdrawing back into myself to know the rest of the world better.

Today, I was at the beach.

I was walking, barefoot, in the sand, feeling it ooze up between my toes. I don’t think I’ve ever walked through anything more comforting than wet sand; it’s soft and cushions you, supports you, and you can look back and see the trail of footprints you’ve left. And I like picking up driftwood, the kind that’s so wet, rotting so badly, that from the moment your fingers touch it, it starts to crumble into a million little pieces. If you even manage to pick up a piece, the moment you begin to caress it, get to know the feel of it, it begins to wear away, until it’s completely gone . . . .

I sat on a low, rugged rock and watched the waves crashing down upon the shore. They’re like a million white horses, charging to the shore, only to collapse and melt into an amorphous mass. And they charge, and charge, without a sense of purpose; they wash up on the shore, then disappear, as if they’d never been there before. And as the sun makes the water sparkle like a giant jewel, as the crabs click around in the whirlpools, as the seagulls squawk overhead, I feel alone, yet at peace; I feel alone, yet together with something greater.

I heard the soft sloshing of footsteps approaching me from behind. I turned, and I saw her standing behind me, her brown hair loosely flowing around her. She was wearing a sleeveless, white dress, and she was barefoot; for some reason, the utter simplicity of her and her dress struck a chord within me. She was smiling at me, a genuine smile; her eyes were still sad and lost, but they held a sparkle of hope. She blocked the sun from my view, obscuring her face in darkness. She shyly tucked a strand of runaway hair behind her ear, then motioned to a spot next to me.

“May I sit here?” she asked sweetly, and I nodded. Together, we sat and watched the white horses gallop in, collapse; gallop in, collapse . . . . We sat together for maybe minutes, maybe hours; I don’t know. Time stopped mattering to me. All I really cared about anymore was the moment.

I saw something glittering beside me, and I turned and saw her crying again, silently, only this time, there was a smile on her face. Something was amazing about her; I couldn’t imagine how I could have thought her to be plain. Her messy, brown hair flowed so freely in the wind, and her eyes, like smooth green marbles of glass, shone as she stared out into the distance. Her white dress seemed to glow in the light of the sun. And her tears were sparkling, as if she were crying liquid diamonds.

“What’s wrong?” I said, without hesitation.

“It’s just . . . ”

I waited for her to finish; she could tell me when she was ready.

“I feel so happy . . . . ”

I smiled, then looked back out to sea. “That’s good to hear.”

She hugged her knees, and we were quiet again. It was not an awkward silence, either; it was the silence of two people enjoying each others’ presence, the silence of two people mutually connecting with each other. It was the silence that indicated that we needed no words.

“You know,” she said softly after a while, listening to the waves, “I never got to know your name.”

“Brian Dante,” I said, equally as softly. For some reason, I felt as though I couldn’t raise my voice any louder than that tranquil, soft level at which we spoke; it was as if her presence, her aura, was commanding me to be gentle, be soft; it was as if she were telling me to hush, to wait patiently for things to happen. She put a hand on my shoulder, just as I had done that day.

“I’m Kaitlin,” she whispered, and looked me in the eyes. “Kaitlin du Ciel.”

“I’m glad to have met you, Kaitlin,” I whispered, more quietly than she had done, marveling at the depth of her eyes, her gaze. I was completely awed by her presence, as if a goddess were talking to me. She smiled even wider.

“Brian,” she whispered, “when I met you that day, and you defended me and talked to me, I realized something—I realized that I was my own person. I wasn’t someone else’s perfect creation; I was Kaitlin. Kaitlin could make her own decisions; Kaitlin could decide the direction her life was going. Kaitlin was strong, and Kaitlin didn’t have to tell anyone about what had happened to her. Kaitlin could keep it all inside and control it.”

I opened my mouth to tell her that that was wrong, that keeping her feelings inside would only hurt her more, but before I could say anything, she gently but firmly pressed a finger to my lips.

“Kaitlin,” she continued, “didn’t have to feel alone anymore, without anyone to talk to. Kaitlin knew that there was at least one person out there who cared for her, who cared enough to tell her that she was special. And so Kaitlin didn’t need to hear the jeering and the insults from everyone else; she only had to think of an amazing person called Brian, who had looked her in the soul and saw that she was good, and saw that she was a human being, just like everybody else.”

I was at a loss for words. Every word she said struck me and stuck; I could feel a mounting tension building up beneath the tranquility, beneath the calm. I was silent, I was worried; I didn’t know what was going on, and all I could do was listen, immobilized, a strange sort of terror and anxiety creeping into my body, despite the fact that it was the most beautiful day that I had ever seen, and despite the fact that Kaitlin was before me, looking so incredibly happy . . . .

“And,” she began again, so softly that I had to lean in closely to hear her, so that our foreheads were touching, so that I was looking straight into her glassy eyes, “she’s made her decision. She knows that people won’t approve, and she knows that people will think it’s the wrong decision, but it’s the right one for her. She knows that it’s the only way she can find peace, and she knows that it’s the only way she can be happy again. She can go back to where she came from, and she can meet Him again.”

She knew that I was about to speak, and she hushed me softly, smiling like an angel.

“This is my favorite place in the world,” she murmured, getting quieter with every word she said. “I’ve always loved the ocean . . . . ” More minutes passed as we sat and stared into each others’ eyes. Then, slowly, she reached up and took hold of my face, gently cupping it with her hands, and kissed me softly, as if she were sealing something between us.

“Don’t try to stop me,” she whispered, so softly that it was like the faintest breeze rustling cherry blossoms, so softly that almost all I could hear were her lips brushing against each other.

She got up and stepped down from the rock. With her back toward me, she began stepping toward the water, the same way you would walk on a narrow ledge, with her arms held out for balance. I could almost see pure, snow-white wings blossoming from her back; I felt myself mirroring her as tears began to roll down my cheeks. I knew what she was about to do, yet I was powerless to stop her; my terror rooted me to the spot, and I couldn’t move—I wouldn’t move. I couldn’t ruin her happiness . . . yet . . . .

Splash. She stepped into the water, and I watched, hypnotized, as the first waves broke over her feet. She paid no attention to the white horses stampeding across her, only seeing the horizon before her. Slowly, but surely, she pushed herself against the flow of the water; she was almost playful as she waded in, skipped in . . . . She advanced, step by step. Now, the water was up to her knees. In a moment, the water was up to her waist, and in another, it was up to her neck.

Yet she still held her head high, ready to face everything with a determination admirable in anyone . . . .

Soon, all I could see was her hair, floating on the surface, and gradually, every last strand disappeared under the sparkling blue jewel; as the last strand of her hair disappeared beneath the surface, I felt someone tugging against my heart, pulling me, then letting go suddenly . . . .

She was gone.

Kaitlin was gone, and I was the last one to ever see her.

—————

My next days were filled with an inexplicable rage. I broke whatever I could and screamed wordless screams, throwing things at the walls, denting the cheap plaster. I didn’t care how pissed the landlord would be; I didn’t care that I’d be evicted and that I’d have to pay a large amount of fines. I just continued to throw my tantrums, crying and pouring out my anguish at something I couldn’t understand. And, sure enough, within two days, the neighboring tenants were complaining about the racket I was making (which was surprising to them, as I’d always been a law-abiding, considerate neighbor). So it was no surprise to me when the landlord knocked at my door and handed me the three-day notice. I tore it from her hands, furious, and tossed it on the table. I stomped out my apartment and slammed behind me, in her astonished face.

It was cloudy outside, and I could hear the low, ominous rumbling of thunder. As I descended the three flights of stairs to the bottom, I felt the first drops of rain begin to fall. Drip. Drip. Drip. They left small, dark spots on the concrete, gradually growing and multiplying until all of the concrete was three shades darker. And I didn’t quite care that the rain was soaking me, or that my jacket wasn’t waterproof, or that I didn’t have an umbrella. In fact, I didn’t know what I cared about anymore. It was as if I had gone colorblind—I still saw what I saw before, but it had lost its color, lost its vividness, lost its spark.

I found my feet moving themselves. I had ceased wondering where I was going; it didn’t really matter my path, I suppose, as my destination. I’d find out in time. I passed the parking lot, passed the people running for cover, shielding their heads with newspapers; I passed the faceless, expressionless people holding up their black umbrellas, waiting aimlessly. I passed short-circuiting neon signs and shining traffic signs. I paused for a moment to watch as the ink bled from a cheap, paper sign; I watched as it slid off the face of the paper, mingling with the cold rainwater and swirling down to the drain. I listened, expressionless, to the glug glug glug of the water draining away; I wondered how long it would take before the sign cried its face away.

I sighed and turned away from the sign, continuing to walk to nowhere. My footsteps splashed in the water—no, they didn’t quite splash; they made that plink that the raindrops made when they shattered into water, only slightly louder, slightly lower. And I felt my tears mingling with the rain, the confusion within me rising to the surface—I didn’t know what I was doing; I didn’t know why I was here; I didn’t know who I was. Of course, on face-value, I could answer these questions—but on the deeper level, I could answer none of them . . . .

I felt warmth bathing over me. Only, I realized, it wasn’t physical warmth—it wasn’t like sinking into a tub of warm water and feeling it wash over me and cradle me. It was more as if my soul were being warmed, held and hugged by something warm and gentle. And I heard the whisper and flutter of reassuring words, floating around me, touching my heart until I was crying because there was nowhere else for my emotions to go. I was standing in front of the café. I was on the outside, looking in. It was so warm and inviting in there, casting a warm, orange glow on the gray world outside, reaching out for me. There was movement and bustling behind the double doors—machines running, people laughing, people talking. I saw people smiling and people being happy. No one was crying . . . .

I used to be one of them. But now, these people—they disgust me. They act as if nothing is happening. They act as if everything in the world is good and just. They pretend to ignore the fact that people are dying every second, that halfway around the world, someone is being shot to death in a pointless war; they ignore the fact that, maybe a few miles away, someone is beating another person to death for a few dollars; they ignore the fact that, in the next city, a woman may be being brutally raped and killed all for the selfish desires of one man. They pretend to not realize that someone is being tortured at this very instant, that people are screaming and dying of despair and anguish, but no one is listening.

They only see the day, but never see the night.

I turned around and decided to sit at the bus stop, waiting. I didn’t know what I was waiting for. I just knew that I’d know when it came.

I never did find out the truth about Kaitlin. She told me just enough. And I’d never find out what really happened to her, or why she was crying. I could try to imagine her life story, imagine what she meant by her words, but I’d be wrong. And I could ask people who might know her, but they’d be wrong, too, because they’re not her. They’d never see the world from her perspective. We can say to “put yourself in someone else’s shoes”, but that’s not possible—one person can’t be another, can’t dictate the life of another, can’t fully understand another. And I’d never know, either, why I came to know her. We’re all pawns in a grand scheme of things, and we’ll never know why we were moved until we’re done and gone.

Maybe I caused her death.

Maybe she would have died anyway.

Maybe she was meant to tell me something.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

The cars were driving by particularly quickly for such a rainy day. Busses passed by me, stopping for a moment to see if I’d get on—as if they knew who I was, as if they knew where I was going, and why—but left again once they saw that I wasn’t going to budge. And the rain cascaded down, droplets and droplets and droplets of water shattering and mingling and mixing into a crowd of water, where all the droplets lost their identity, where you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other stopped; you couldn’t pick a drop out and tell where it came from, which cloud it came from, and at what time it came. You wouldn’t even try, and you wouldn’t even stop to think and try, because it would take too much effort. And you wouldn’t pause to think why that girl in the café was crying, and you wouldn’t pause to think about what you could do to help, because sooner or later, she’d mingle and mix back into the crowd, lose herself, and hide under everyone’s noses, and then it’d be up to someone else to care.

I suddenly felt myself slowly looking up, as if a gentle, invisible hand were coaxing me to.

Kaitlin was there, across the street.

My eyes blurred. I rubbed them, blinking a few times to make sure that I didn’t just have rainwater in my eyes, but when I opened them again, she was still there. She was the same as ever—even though her brown hair hanging unceremoniously, soaked from the rain, and her white dress clung to her body awkwardly, she was still beautiful, those glassy eyes shining and bright, with only touches of sadness in them. She was smiling, head cocked to the side, as if she were wondering why I wasn’t coming to greet her. Part of my mind told me that it couldn’t be her—no, she was dead; that had to be someone else . . . yet another part of my mind told me to trust my eyes, to trust what I was seeing. That part told me that it was really her, and that she wanted to tell me something. As if on cue, she raised her arms and held them out before her, as if she were waiting to receive a hug.

And I stood up.

I stumbled, then reached the edge of the concrete. I hung, teetering on the edge of the curb. I wanted so badly to cross the street and meet her, yet something still held me back. But then I realized that that confusion, anguish, and pain that I had been feeling—it disappeared, and it left no void or trace of its being, either. It was as if it had never been in my heart in the first place. And as I looked across the street, I seemed to see a path where the rain didn’t fall. It was as if the clouds had parted, and the curtain of droplets and droplets and droplets parted.

I gave in, and took a step off the curb. I felt a jerk in my mind, as if someone or something within me were trying to remind me of reality—but, then again, what was reality, anyway? I took in a deep breath, and took another step. And then another, and another. They were small, uncertain steps, as though I were testing ice to see if it would break. And as I waited in that small zone between the curb and traffic, I felt the corners of my mouth twitching. As I saw the ghostly image of Kaitlin, her arms outstretched, her wings fanning out to shield the others around her from the rain, I began to smile and grin, happier than I had ever been in my life.

I laughed abruptly, my joy bubbling to the surface. I hadn’t laughed in years. And now, I was laughing my heart out, laughing so hard that my stomach felt as though it would burst. Laughing, laughing, I took another glorious step, and I began to dash across the pavement, laughing hysterically, slipping and sliding on the wet pavement. I was going to rush headlong into Kaitlin’s arms, then find out once and for all the truth about her. I was going to tell her how much I’d missed her, even though I’d only known her for a short amount of time. But that didn’t matter, did it? After all, when someone touches you, deep in your heart, it doesn’t matter how long you’ve known them—all that matters is that mark left by them, a mark that nothing—not even time—can erase.

And then I heard it, the assault of sounds that sounded as if they were coming from far away. It sounded as if the sounds were forcing themselves through a thick sludge, slowly battering their way to me. They were breaking, breaking through the air, and once they collected and attacked my mind, I stopped abruptly. And the full force of this so-called reality hit me, and Kaitlin disappeared, tearing into strips of water vapor that disappated as suddenly as she came.

Screeching tires.

The long, drawn-out note of a desperate car honking its horn.

Headlights flashing in my eyes.

A harsh, strong blow.

Black.

And I was gone.

——————————

Author’s Notes: Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. I wrote this over a span of a few days, so it may be a bit inconsistent; Kaitlin developed after a motivational speaker came to my school and talked about how decisions affected our lives (sounds corny and lame, but he was a fantastic speaker, and I was going to cry). In any case, Brian’s development makes logical sense to me, but if it’s unrealistic to you, by all means, tell me.

Thanks for reading!