Friday, January 19, 2007
Azrael At Dawn by Aya Dela Cruz
The man in the bright suit told you that if you stepped through the door, the questions of your life would be dealt with, one by one. No more wondering. No more what if I could have, would have, or should have. Hopefully, no regrets.
It shall be all yours, and within a knob's reach.
Don't you wish for answers? He asks, and you are compelled to reply in your head. Yes, you say. I wish to know the logic behind every fucked up disaster, every life-altering event. I want to know what happened if I had been five minutes early for the job interview. I want to know what happened if I didn't meet my wife. I want to know if I might have been richer, happier, healthier, more traveled, had a better life.
He nods, slowly, as if he heard you. All you have to do is open the door, he coaxes. Open the door. Open it.
You do, and you find yourself on the other side. No glitzy man, no door back. Nothing. Soon you find yourself plunging to some endless depth. You claw at nonexistent rocks, and when it doesn't work, you shut your eyes and pray for the shattering thud—nothing happens.
All you do is fall, down, down, down, down.
You've probably been falling for days, but you can't tell night from day. Is there even night and day in this place, you think. Suddenly you remember a conversation with a friend, about the cycles of the sun and moon. You enjoyed that one, you say to yourself.
How did it go again?
You wrack your brain, but you can't think of the exact words. And you normally have an excellent memory. You try to piece it one by one. Your friend—wait—which friend was it again? You can't remember.
Panic grips you and you grow cold. Why can’t you remember? Who was that friend? And why are you so bothered about not being able to bring a certain conversation to mind? Shouldn’t you be worried about where this endless plummeting would lead you?
You try to bring back some more of those times you talked with this friend. But every time you get a glimmer of something back, it is snatched from you. Exchanges, phone conversations, whole days escape your recollection.
There's probably a cause for this, you think. Hysteria, yes, that would be an apt explanation. When it ends, your brain, jarred from its normal environs, would be able to adjust.
You settle for another memory to keep you busy. But this one too slips from your mind like silt through fingers, and the one after that, and the one after. Even madness wouldn't account for this, you think. When you see that gaudily-dressed man you would really make sure he gets it.
The darkness was probably the only thing keeping you sane at the moment. At least you couldn’t see how you're falling, or where. You couldn't even hear yourself falling; the wind just rushes past like how it does when you are on top of a mountain.
You laugh at this, but you can't hear yourself.
Afraid to focus on any one memory, you are worried it will all pass through and you'll fail to remember them. But you can't help it. Soon you flail around in your mind. You've forgotten something again.
Would you ever get out of this place? You curse the man who tricked you into falling in this abyss. And then, as soon as you think of it, you forget how he looks like. Your memory's drastically worsening.
Will you remain like this forever? This is horrid, you think to yourself. Why can’t you remember certain things? It's like something's missing, only you don't know what, because you've forgotten.
Your palms are sweaty, and you wipe them on your pants. Your heart beats twice as fast, your breathing ragged and heavy. When was the last time you felt like this, you ask yourself. A horrible feeling pushes against your stomach. You can't recall.
Faces flash in your mind, and you hold them for as long as you could. You worry that if you push them away this time, they might not return. You manage to do so for a few minutes, and you even remember things you have done with them. You laugh with them. You cry. You smile. And then their faces die into your mind's darkness.
After a while you get used to this cycle, of remembering someone or something, holding it for as long as you could, and watching it fly away, never to return. But you never liked a minute of it. Those are your memories, you should be able to decide what you want to do with them.
The memories come before the more important ones, you hear yourself reciting in your head. And a cold dread fills you.
You cannot see it happening in the void, but you feel images draw off of your head. Your mother. Your father. Your friends, the schools you went to, your loves, your passions, all gone. You are no one.
Who are you?
Where are you going?
Are you even going to try to remember?
Now you understand everything. No more of it. And you are not willing to expend your feelings lamenting that you opened the door. You're content with what you don't have, thank you very much.
And as soon as you have thought this for yourself, you see a fleck of light. You focus on it, hardly believing what you are seeing. The spot grows bigger, and faster than you expected. You are rushing towards it at breakneck speed, and all the blood flows into your head, your temples throbbing because of this.
You try remembering something, and you can't.
Wind whistles in your ears, and you see your hands flailing, your clothes rippling in the currents of air. And when you least think it would, It swallows you whole.
Aya â¥
6:13 AM
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