Out of Combat

‘Can you stop posing at the mirror, you queer or what?’ one of the bunkmates shouted behind him. Alarmed, he immediately dispelled himself from the toilet mirror and began mopping the hospital green floor tiles ever so muddy. Fifteen more minutes a snout nose third sergeant would comes by and scrutinized their bunks, so better keep everything on your godamn pig shed bunk in tiptop condition, berating the snout nose sergeant, whom everyone knew outside he lived in a pig shed. Tobias, mop and damp cloth in hand, felt himself wasting time here. He presumed he would not reached eighteen, thinking and sometimes hoping that death was creeping around the corner, lurking in darkness, waiting for him in the lift or staircase of his HDB flat with a machete. But he was eighteen now. Silently celebrating his eighteenth birthday with a mop and piece of grayish crap in hand, seething malignity at the chagrin environment he was surviving in. Rather be killed with hearts and lungs spewing out by ones bad luck than be killed a janitor and a cleaner by pure, avoidable boredom.

‘Anyone who wants to get out of combat duty isn’t crazy,’ one half moon face said as he peered down to an audience of feculence scattered around an oval shaped amphitheatre. ‘And this is crazy.’ Pluck. The crescent, contained no longer, poured down gooey sick yellowish substance from the orbit, came crashing down as celestial punishment on the filth of crapkind, drowning them into the center pool with bottomless depth. A catastrophic disaster ensued.

‘Yuck’ said one shaved head.

‘Yuck’ said another prematurely baldhead.

‘Well, at least he got a point,’ Tobias, a shaved head, mopped the showering marooned tiled floor ever so grimy.

’Yes, we should try getting ourselves sick,’ said the prematurely baldhead.

‘No, we should try getting out of this mopping and sweeping, eating and sleeping, walking and running, aiming and firing, throwing and ducking, shouting and scolding.’

‘Bro, that’s life you are referring to.’

‘No! Getting out of combat duty!’ Tobias snapped impatiently. Does premature balding beget premature loss of intelligence or vice versa? Another chicken and egg question put out for the world to ponder about.

At night, Tobias laid down his dying body on a mattress he quite certain originated from a casket furnishing. Mind wide awake, dwelling in thought with sobering intensity while physically caged inside the confines of mosquito netting with a thumb-sized hole on the left-hand side of his torso and a big toe-sized hole near the bottom of his feet. Fifteen minutes ago after the fifteen minutes the snout nose sergeant imposed it to them for area cleaning were fifteen minutes of strenuous punishments consisting of pushups and sit-ups. Every count were quietly accounted for and locked inside Tobias unforgiving cerebrum. Every pain and strain he tolerated were absorbed deep into the skin cells and streamed through the current of blood circulating in and out of his agonizing pumping organ. Heart and mind corroborate, the snout nose sergeant be subjected the gallows. No, better yet, impaled him onto a wooden stick just like Vlad the Dracula had invented bloody brilliantly. One thing Tobias adored in this little red dot was the exquisite ethnic cuisines, and barbecued pork meat on a stick was one of his favorites. Fresh snout nose sergeant with rims of fat barbecued on a sizzling grill, wonder what it tastes like. Succulent, juicy, meaty and above all, a sweet munch of revenge. However, he didn’t seek revenge, neither would he fancy himself licking the snout nose sergeant pounds upon pounds of cholesterol guaranteed fats. What the heart and minds corroborated instead was a sense of escapism. The abhorrent army obtuse lifestyle was a life not to be for a roseate intellect like him. But how was he going to escape, that’s the question put up for him to ponder about.

‘Platoon two fall in now!’ It was five in the morning. The snout nosed sergeant shouted from two floors below their bunk, his voice echoed like a squealing adult pig anticipating slaughter.

‘Three days in this godamn combat life and I am enough of that godamn son of the bitch,’ said the crescent faced.

‘So which do you prefer? Your screwed out combat life or the son of the bitch yelping downstairs?’

‘Neither. I am plotting murder. And when I succeeded I would flunk myself out from the window and be martyred.’ The others nodded approvingly and wished him best of luck for this courageous endeavor.

‘Excuse me. This is an army camp here and we are all combat fit. What do you expect? Free food and accommodation, with sergeants and warrant officers messaging your back under the velvet canopy at the sandy beach overlooking the Peninsula Ocean? So stop squirming your ass off like pussies and start facing the reality.’ The tall lanky guy retorted. Months in the advertising business had conditioned him to use descriptive words, words normally found in newspaper advertisement, to seep into his everyday speaking language. Everyone, in the bunk of twelve, hated him as he made them feel unpatriotic. True they were a somewhat unpatriotic bunch, but by verbalizing it he offended the eleven deities whose spectrum of life consisted of themselves and no other.

Tobias, back from the bathroom with toothbrush and a plastic green mug in hand, decided to kick-start the crusade. ‘That’s the spirit. That’s the holy ghosts we are looking for in ourselves aren’t we? Risking our life for some colorful ribbons and badges just to boast and show off to others. Have you ever read ‘The King new clothes’? Others would just see you as a meathead with colorful poles of bandarilhas adorning your naked skin. Very glamorous indeed.’

‘Well I am just implying…’

‘Or you might perhaps lay down your insignificant life in defense of something far more significant than you ninny propaganda consumerist. Making the ultimate sacrifice for a nation, a country, a piece of land surrounded by unnatural boundaries in which you and me and everyone else in the six billions universe have no right to claim for. What’s the point of forsaking a living breathing life for a handful of soil? Non.’

‘You are dying for your family and your community and your friends for Christ sake!’

‘I will not die, it’s the world that will end.’

‘God you are an naively selfish person!’

‘What the fuck are you all doing upstairs, performing orgies? Come down now and I would orgy you all.’ The group of unpatriotic soldiers gladly obeyed the order, leaving behind the bloodied scene unmapped.

Tobias couldn’t sleep that night. It wasn’t caused by the mere fact that he had ran a distance of ten kilometers without stopping in the morning, swam ten laps in alkaline smelling pool in the afternoon with his left thigh in pain due to the constant stomping on rocky terrains in the morning run, attending evening gym lesson with his left thigh cramped from the afternoon swim, and finally went for dinner in late evening before collapsing, tray and utensils in hand, onto the icy cold checkered tiles due to the pounding and cramping and the machine-straining on his left thigh. Exhaustion wasn’t the cause for his insomnia, no. It wasn’t due to the fact that a group of curious shaved baldheads started circling around him, muttering with one another copiously as he laid legs spread across the checkered floor. To enclose a victim was a ritual practiced by almost every delinquent homesick servicemen whose sole intend was to witness the cruelty of fate drawing towards the victim, if not then perhaps speeding up the process by suffocating him to infinite sleep through the aggregated funky odor of sour sweat and repulsive pungent earth exulted from the wall of homesick servicemen surrounding him. Tobias survived through the olfactory torture; the prospect of three days of freedom popped quickly like a short life bubble in the devious minds of his many brothers in arms. Once he got up, he gave a friendly word of advise to his tall gangling advertising bunkmate to consider taking a bath and changed his stinking socks. Humiliation and a black eye wasn’t the cause either.

It wasn’t even the sense of isolation enfolded around him that gave him insomnia. Sinking boiled broccoli, salt less chicken breast, bland overcooked cod, hardboiled egg, white rice and clear soup thoughtlessly into his jaw hanging opened mouth; he noticed short glimpses and pointy fingers across tables all targeted straight at his face. Yes, it was the heated debate this morning that had crowned him instant stardom, assailing him to become topic of the day at the dinner table. Oh, he didn’t gave a damn about what they thought about him, what were they talking among themselves or what were they thinking of anything else, for what life worth living for if you constantly put your feet into other people stinking shoes. Tobias preferred wearing his own shoes, serving for his own happiness rather than getting pain in the arse on other people problems. National service was pain in the arse. Selfishness was happiness. Communal living was pain in the arse, but acknowledging to live at the best apartment in Singapore could offer was happiness. Entangling in someone’s life was pain in the arse, though involvement with profit at someone’s expense was happiness. Combat duty was pain in the arse, absent without official leave was happiness but with serious consequences imposed by the stringent laws of the Singapore Armed Forces, which was a real pain in the arse. Tobias couldn’t sleep that night; he was too busy strategizing an escape plan, opening a route for happiness from this pain in the arse.

Military parade was what Tobias loathed the most. Conformity and formation order were a pain in the arse, but he wouldn’t dwelled on further as he had plenty of it twelve sleepless hours ago. Groaning with appendage pain from yesterday hellish limb-breaking thigh-straining sole-stabbing toe-chewing tortures, they limped whiningly in steps to the egg-toast-able parade ground at platoon level of three by twelve rows. After a few attempts to drilled them up, the stick wielding sergeant major whose face reminded him of a yeti gave up.

‘Drop your feet like birdshit again!’ the angry yeti growled. The company delivered to him what he said he wanted again.

‘No! All of you down!’ The sweaty company, yearned for yetis to extinct, wanted to gorge its tiny eyeballs out but thought it wiser to obey his command since it was armed; the murder can wait until it was out from his tuft. Tobias cracked up.

‘Why are you still standing? I asked you all to drop!’

‘I am disobeying you. So what can you do to me?’

‘Are you trying to be funny with me, huh?’

‘This is no joke, I am not going to answer your idiotic question unworthy of a respond.’

‘Fuck you. What do you think you are, huh?’

‘I am not a thing but a who. Tobias is me, and he is denying your request to drop down, and this aren’t no joke.’ Yeti fumed and punished all those obedient ones with more push-ups. The sound of bone cracking proliferated the air.

‘Just do it for us, please?’ one exhausted pallid face baldhead with distinctively bat-like ear pleaded. Tobias ignored him flatly. The batman sighed reluctantly and suddenly, as if intentionally, lost his wobbly arm strength, squarely plunge himself face first onto the rice-steam-able ground. The beetle-eyed yeti widened his eye by a few millimeters, whistled for the medics, who were caught red-handed for sleeping on the stretchers under the rambutan tree. Double duty awaits the two poor medics when yeti caught them red-handed again for running instead of marching smartly into the parade square. Triple when he caught the marching medics red-handed yet again who failed to greet him by his complete Indian name with the right consonants. Fumed even more boisterously when the medics lifted the unconscious batman and witnessed half his face baked - dinner was served early. The thought of writing the damned incident report frustrated him. Yeti recalled grimly that he was not proficient with English, or was he any good in any subjects in school. That’s why he signed on to the army, a profane deadpane career that suited him perfectly well, plausibly a match in celestial heaven. He didn’t came here to write long lengthy essays of incident reports, he signed on for a nobler reason that would reduced Mother Teresa into tears of wailing Virgin Mary: scrotum-tightening the young recruits. And he was going to perform the decent act on this joker he fancied laying his hands on.

‘I am going to charge you for insubordination, you clear?’ Yeti was secretly charmed by his use of a very difficult word. What a splendid day today was going to turn up for yeti, yet another word dribbled itself into the empty pages of his treacherous porous treasures.

‘Yes sir, and I, Tobias is not going to obey your requests, and I am not joking.’ Tobias answered.

‘Are you really dumb, do you understand any eeeenligggisssshhh?’ Yeti pronounced it as he thought the child English.

‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘Its all your fucking fault that the boy knocked out, you will write the incident report for me. You clear?’ The yeti finally scrotum tightened him, expecting him to squirm like a girl.

‘I would certainly attempt to. Its really my fault that he kiss hot smacking loving scorching mother earth,’

‘Aren’t you ashamed yourself to stand while your army mates suffered more push ups because of you?’

‘No.’

‘God you are a heartless selfish person,’

‘Thank you’

Tobias spent the silent night on his bed inscribing words on a thickly crumbled piece of yellowish scrap paper, under the circular orange light his torch sufficiently provided, intruding the darkness encapsulated his bunk. It was galvanizing for him since he hadn’t been practicing this craft for a long period. Nevertheless, Tobias strongly believed he inherited a unique blend of genetic code that guaranteed success, a combination of his pap’s indomitable literacy talent and his mum’s unforgiving gabbiness, all stored and flowed within the body of their love product. So writing shouldn’t came difficult for him, and one in which he might even excelled at. Imagining himself soused in the world of book signing and obsequious readers clamoring for his great name, kissing his every book, sucking his every breath, licking his every word, a bit terrifying scenario for most un-ambitious fowls but he was mentally prepared for this inevitable inauguration to shower on him. Yes; this opportunity to penned his finest wittiest piece in the form of incident report he had ever written on a thickly crumbled piece of yellowish scrap paper.

Incident Report

To Colonial Lee / Major Lim / Major Gan / Captain Ong / Captain David / Captain Leong / Lieutenant Lee / Lieutenant Saw / Second Lieutenant Patil / Second Warrant Ang / Second Warrant Kismore / or to whomever this may concern whose name is being left out: please indicate ____________

On June the twenty second, Tuesday afternoon at around 3.30pm. The hobbledehoy Recruit Benjamin Toh falsified an injury by self mutilation on his left face while flagging an immoral, outrageously perfidious accusation on the sunny weather we Singaporeans all accustomed to. He shrewdly situated the wound on his face, a shrewd place of choice where the skin is most delicate and culturally of great importance in our society of first impressions, thus fooling us to sympathize even before questioning him. The two helpful paramedics stationed during the accident, which I found them so overtly friendly and jubilant, gay, I might add, when I came to en–queer them about the seriousness of this pain in the arse injury. One of the inseparable chatter birds diagnosed that a rice cooker or an oven is possibly the main culprit for his charred face, an undeniable piece of evidence of which this pretentious liar of Judas incarnation had obviously infiltrated our holy cookhouse kitchens stealing army food, gnawing away our food supply, wishing us death by starvation. I thanked them for this insightful knowledge; apologizing at the same time for disturbing their Tuesday afternoon sun tanning session, picnicking like a lovely couple under the termite infested arms of the rambutan tree.

As I had witnessed, Recruit Toh has nothing an appearance worth preserving or to be proud of, disfiguration is perhaps to him like a vase of lilies placed on the crowded dining table of rotten food. Moreover, based on my thorough background investigation, he got a wealth of distinguishing criminal records outside. We are dealing with a dangerous character here, sir. It would certainly be my greatest honor to send them to you for reference but alas, my precious information got burnt down by a shadow friend of his whom I failed miserably to catch. But never mind about my loss, Sir, a few pints of whisky and some recruits to vent my sadness is all I need to extinguish this fire in my soul, crashing this heavy stone in my belly. Other than that, Recruit Toh should be nothing for us to worry about when he is behind bars, or treated as one of the Jehovah’s witnesses.

What is more troubling should be Recruit Victor. After this incident in which he had not partake yet being poignantly wheeled into, he had became more and more sinister about army life. Probably because of his youthful innocence tolerable for someone his age, this infidel Recruit Toh had cast an unbreakable miasmic curse on him, killing every positive image in his strawberry tender mind of good soldierly characteristics and the glorious call for duty every five in the morning. He had changed entirely. I have first hand encounter personally with his psychosis homicidal behavior. Cutting wrists, drowning himself in the toilet bowl, banging his head on the cabinet, eating shoe polish, drawing eerie pictures of impaling his platoon mates on a flag pole and saluting at the platform, murmuring himself about crucifying officers on the crucifixes and humming accordingly to their shrieks of pain. He needs more than a psychiatrist or a therapist, a counseling or an exorcism, he needs an immediate exemption from combat duty, or else there would be a high possibility of bloodbath, gunning us down with our own SAR-21. With our own weapons! Imagining the shame we would have to endure, getting killed by our own invention. Never say I haven’t warned you, sir, this recruit is much more dangerous than a freed terrorist. If he never got your immediate concern to be disarmed, sir, it would be my deepest regrets but to sacrifice for the goodness of all humanity. I will present you my resignation letter, together with the piles of spiritless breathless corpses murdered by this kid as souvenirs for your own mistake, uncorrected by stubbornness.

Regards

MSG Gospala Nordopulalan

It was pouring outside. The bunkmates’- whom Tobias found a nuisance memorizing their names - didn’t stirred at the sudden dropped in temperature. His wristwatch beeped two. Two in the morning! Less than three hours of sleep left, Tobias copied the letter onto a clean sheet, ballpoint pen whizzing like crazy robotic hands tapping on a piece of microchip at some wafer manufacturing plants. Completed, he slides the original in one of his many duffel bag side pockets, kept the imprint neatly folded, placed under his pillow to be sent to yeti in the morning and proceed to dream. Tomorrow everything would change, breathed Tobias in his sleep, smiling from cheek to cheek.

A day with Hana at Hougang Avenue 8

Observing perfunctorily the rhythm of everyday life on the street of Hougang Avenue 8, Murrai profess to be an expert of the small community inhabiting this area. Everyday at 5 am, the vociferous sound of alarms brought the drifting souls of the residents back to their working class reality. At 6pm, grumpy middle aged men and women descend down the concrete stairs of giant mosquitoes hives they call home, and gather at the bus stop to form a sleepy drolly crowd. At 7 pm, teenage students, possibly offsprings of the 6 o’clock commuters, for they possessed the sleepy drolly sameness, teeter to schools like walking corpse. At 8 o’clock, Suzuki and Mitsubishi, never a Lamborghini or Porsche, roams the road like royalty to the admiration of bus commuters onboard. 9 to 12pm is the only time of the day when one could hear the serendipity sound of the birds chirp, the rustling of trees and the incoming ancient old man clearing and spitting flam. It nearly missed Murrai leg, but it doesn’t spoil his day. For today is a special day, Murrai is meeting Hana, the prettiest girl in Hougang, not in avenue 8 alone but this whole busy town.

At 12 pm, young Murrai glanced at his reflection on a Honda rear view mirror at an unsheltered parking lot. He knew he is cute, with big shiny dark brown eyes and possess the most adorable grin, anymore cuter would be a sin. He knew he annoyed some of his male buddies, for his self-indulgence in looking cute rather than manly like they all relentlessly pursue. But who cares about their opinion if he could attract the prettiest girl in town? Giving himself a last minute check, he takes his time and strolled along the lengthy drain barricade to Macdonald. He knew he should be careful to meet up at a place like Macdonald, since the last time he was there he got thrown out by an angry old man after he create a huge nuisance there. Wait. Hold that thought. That foul man seems oddly familiar; Murrai recalls and chuckle as he did so. It is the flam spitting old grandpa he got the pleasure to meet this morning.

Slowly tilting his head up from the Mac breakfast banner, Murrai spied whether that man was there. The coast is clear. This time he spied on other person– Hana. How should I make an introduction? Should I just say hi, how are you? What should I say next? You look hot. Wow, whistle. Slapped. Damn it, I should have prepared myself this morning, Murrai mused. He knows he can be lashingly funny, but turned stiff cold when someone of an opposite sex approached him, giving him the look as if she was scrutinizing his every part of his body, assuring herself a flea to be hidden somewhere in his skinny body. What if I am not as cute as I myself believe it to be? Without the appearance, I am just an awkward youth, nothing to be proud of but everything to be ashamed of, Murrai heart sank, hitting the bottom of Magnolia milk carton.

‘Are you Murrai? And what are you doing?’ a soft feminine voice call out to him from behind. It is Hana.
‘Oh, um…. just thinking of what to eat for… for break..first,’ Murrai stutters. That’s when he realized he is hugging onto the ‘$4.95 for McMuffin meal with coffee or tea’ banner pole when Hana saw him.
‘Um...its 12.30pm, and I don’t think we should be here. Come take me around this place, I haven’t been here for ages,’

The tour with Hana is, surprisingly, delightful. Murrai slowly sheds off his shyness and stutter as the walk progress. He became conversational, not the ‘quiet as a mouse’ stigma some of his mates labeled him as such, which he loathed the creature but acknowledge that reserved trait that haunts him since childhood. Murrai showed her the various facades of the prosaic high-rise buildings, the small, cozy neighborhood garden hidden amongst the monstrous housing estate (the origin of mosquito breeding, Murrai exclaimed), the vast array of hair salons (they make a living by cutting each other hairs) and the indistinctive comic bookshop tucked between a computer repair shop and a family clinic, with a wrinkled grinning man sitting at a turn corner enterprising his shoe repair skills (speaking of multitasking…).

At 1.30pm, profane, homesick students escaped their puritan’s catholic school flood the pathway, shouting and fooling around, proving the nearby chattering coffee shop aunties’ theory correct on the menace of walking on the concrete footpath and rather travel on the tar road with Toyotas for safety reasons. Murrai sat down with Hana on an uncomfortable metallic bench at the opposite bus stop, savoring this wild rampage scenery while Murrai lectures Hana about the social aspect of Hougang Avenue 8.

This street is cursed with insouciant, he says. The residence didn’t bother about community bonding other than their pathetic self-interest. The young would curl up in their cells and engrossed over pixilated panels and television screens and cell phone screens for a full wasted day. The workhorses, unable to fathom their current dismal status, craved for greener pastures, turbo charging their career like a racehorse, in actuality more like a plow horse, leaving behind friends and families, muddied and forgotten by their unrealistic ambitions. Only the old, who had the luxury of time in their frayed hands, played Chinese chess and practicing tai chi in Punggol Park with other white hair duds and gals. Yet through their beetle eyes they knew, sooner or later, they would join the obituary club. Beside their black and white individual photos would be pictures of those who practice tai chi with them. Ah, finally, they murmured in heaven: a class photograph taken.

The translucent, cloudless sky allows the sun to smile face-to-face to his earthy mortals. The residents in avenue 8, however, are not particularly charmed by his positive radiance. Cursed, complaining, shielding the smiley with an umbrella as if he was an illuminating medusa. The sun, in the eye of the residents, is the murderer, ungoverned and untouched by the overly strict laws of Singapore judiciary system.

Murrai and Hana, wayworned by the sight seeing: the arresting diamond shaped façade of Hougang mall, the breezy laidback Punggol park, and the commercial green please-keep-the-environment-clean-thank-you trash bin. They dragged themselves back and sat on a checkered void deck overlooking the main sizzling street baked by intense sunlight. It is now 3.30 pm, everyone in avenue 8 should be, at this time, mending their own individual business, in their homes, offices, shopping centers, toilets, anyplace with an air conditioner. This is hardly utopia, incongruent with Socrates philosophy of true communal living. Murrai and Hana, both bleary eyed, eventually dozed off, surrendering themselves to the mid afternoon heat.

A piercing scream, a shriek of intense, crucifying pain, brings forth the animalistic instinct of Murrai –of escapism, to run as fast as possible from possible harm. But the scream is Hana’s and Murrai, realizing it only after unwillingly crawled out from dreamland and dumped his muzzy headedness into the trash bin, rushed to action. Following her cry Murrai saw from a distant, through his frightened bright brown eyes, an unleashed bulldog clenching on Hana’s scarlet limb. Blood trickling down to the ground and Hana, either due to excessive lost of blood or shock of fallen into that situation; seem too weary to fend off that beast. Escaping no more, as I had run away from life for too long, this is the moment I should assert myself, Murrai proclaimed to himself. Conjuring up the newfound heroism in him and pounding the scary feeling to a pulp, Murrai charged towards the beast.

It is now 7.30 pm. The workhorses, dreary from their endless work, dragged themselves back to their nest for a deserved night rest. School kids being escorted back home from tuition by Philippine maids. Old grandpas and grandmas, after tai chi, wipe up their beloved remote control and buzz through channels of mandarin language programs. It is at this time the residents of Hougang Avenue 8 overheard two kittens dire meowing and dog incessant barking. They scurried down their giant mosquitoes hives to form a crowd around the scene. Some, showing an affection of small animals, came down to break up the fight. Some, who sympathize the weak, help the kittens with first aid. We must do something about it, the old man who works at the Macdonald laments. A committee must be set up to look after the strays, he says. Just after he finishes his sentence, two Malay families volunteered themselves for this cause, and soon everyone wants to chip in - finacially, finding shelter, feeding, washing, taking them out for strolls - donating away their precious time. From this small incident the disconnected street has found the connector that links them, household-to-household, resident-to-resident. Finally, the individuals in this street bonded together, at this day with Hana and Murrai.

False accusation

Here I am at Helen’s house, slouching lazily on a dining chair, while admiring her precinct kitchen so lustrous that it sparkles. Her kitchen is always so clean, free of stain and utensils normally found in a working kitchen- an indication that she didn’t utilize her place as much as I did. It is Friday night, a day when I should be most at eased, relaxed, even joyous. Unfortunately, I suffered a constant, pounding migraine that stretched over a week or two, thanks to my fiancé who dumped me with all this damn troubles to sort after, as though I had nothing else to worry about. I need someone to talk to, someone, whom I trust and consult, for Helen is a psychiatrist in profession, and she is my confidante and my best friend. Except that she can’t, for she is now lying on her plain white-carpeted floor, stiff as a corpse. Alive or dead she had already reached the pinnacle of her career. And now this is her final patient, and her last day of work.

………..

I love nighttime. It is the only period when I could just lie down on my bed, after all the washing and the cleaning and the cooking- the usual chores bestowed to a middle-aged woman whose life revolves around the upkeep of her house. Nighttime is also the brief moment when I could see Ben, my husband to be. Although tired and occasionally nonchalant when he returns home, it is nonetheless the unspoken words that speak the loudest. He worked hard till the night all for the love of this house and his fiancée. Ours is not your typical fairy tales story seen on the TV, with its overly romanticized plots and predictable endings. Ours is the reality of a middle class income couples whose love is felt, not heard, subtle and not boisterous. Ben is not the romantic kind of guy anyway. The only time he sent me flowers was when he arrived late to our engagement party a year ago, apologizing profusely for the urgent meeting he got to endure. I took his words, for he is the only man in this planet whom I could trust. But what happened this Friday morning changed all that.

I always have a planned schedule for each morning- House cleaning on Monday, buy groceries on Tuesday, ironing on Wednesday, yoga and meditation on Thursday. On Friday I would do laundry and clean up the closet. Before dumping the basket of clothes into the washing machine, I would inspect the pockets of every clothes, just to ensure that there are no lose change and packet of cigarettes left inside Ben’s pants. I hate cigarettes. The smell of tobacco smeared on every supposedly washed laundry left me disgusted when I failed, a few times, to catch that one single cigarette. I must be vigilant. I reached deep inside the pocket, felt something metal like, crispy and crimpy when crumpled it in my hands. Must be the Fisherman Heads wrapper that Ben enjoys for its spicy taste, I told myself. I pulled out and, not fisherman heads but something different; an opened condom packet rests on the palm of my hand.

.

The kitchen clock strikes 10 pm, Ben is still not home to feed me with his usual lame, impassionate embrace and a peck on the cheek that felt more like a mosquito landing on my face. Didn’t he know his fiancée is waiting grudgingly for him for an explanation? Didn’t he even care that his marriage is at stake, right now, at this moment? Shaking with indignation and hearing my blood pressure pumping, I pulled out from my dining chair and strolled out to catch some fresh air. Fortunately I did. Night breeze is calm and soothing, with flicking lights strategically placed on the bridge to produce an image similar to an aerial view of London Bridge stood across the river Thames. This scene reminds me of the romantic vacation we had at London, where time freezes for us to steal a moment with each other, a moment which became a distant memory slowly drifting away.

Sitting aimlessly on the garden bench. Young couples walking past me, giving me the glance as though I am middle aged women who were in the midst of a divorce. Close, but not totally true since I am not even married yet. Seeing all those couples cuddling and kissing in public made me envious and jealous of them, at the same time felt sad and sporadic for my dire relationship, at the same time shocked at the audacity of youths nowadays to show affection in public. Perhaps they intentionally want to display their love, or show off instead, in front of an audience of broken hearts, to hurt us even more? The reason is not crucial for me to comprehend, not now anyway. Because I recognized someone familiar, strolling the park in deep conversation, akin to a couple if I didn’t notice it. Ben talking with another women, and that bitch is Helen; adorning a chic Chanel dress with high straitlaced heels, my best friend.

I consider myself lucky to have a friend like Helen. She lived a rather successful life, as society denotes her to be. Her career, her beauty, her charming personality and her knowledge about everything made her a perfect mistress, especially so since her boyfriend just broke up with her a few months ago. Nevertheless, it came as a surprise to me that Ben would fell for her, since our relationship is solid as an impenetrable shield, or what I thought to be. Calm down, I told myself. I got to stay calm, or else my anxiety level would kick into me again. On a phone call Helen demanded to see me, something urgent. Yes, this is my chance to get my marriage back into perspective. I reached for the medicine cabinet and withdrew my medicines.

I buzz the doorbell, with feelings of nervousness and of anticipation intertwined; all the while trying to make myself appear as normal as possible so as not to alarm her. Helen opened the door and gesture me to the living room like an old friend. What a performer, I said to myself. All this time she was having an affair with my philandering fiancé and still has the conscious, the audacity to treat me like I am a fool?
‘What happened to your feet?’
‘Suffered from blisters after a run in the park,’ I explained myself when she saw my heavily bandaged foots while pulling out from the slip-ons.
‘Oh, come have a sit, I got something to -.’
‘Nevermind, I am alright,’ I interrupted.
As she was pouring Lays and Ruffles into a large steel bowl, I immediately went straight to her kitchen and helped make two cups of cappuccino. She loves my cappuccino, and never had she been able to master the art of mixing the precise amount of steamed milk with the right teaspoon of coffee powder and boiling water. I secretly draw out a miniscule bottle consist of a colorful concoction of sleeping pills, depression pills and other pills, all finely grinded for easy mixing. ‘Oh Helen you would love this cup,’ I exclaimed to her with utmost pleasure. Sprinkles of vibrant blues, reds and whites dusts fell into her cup, resting on top like the reflection of twinkling stars on the river Thames Ben and I had once admired.
.

I reached home, with intense satisfaction and cruel anticipation on how Ben would react when he reads the news tomorrow. Tormented by depression, famed psychiatrist drugged herself to death! What a headline, the newspaper editors should have me to thank for offering them stories to dish out to the world’s voyeuristic audience. Though I am no professional killer, still I am a domestic housewife, leaving no trace of me on her den. No footprints, as my soles are covered. One cup washed and scrubbed clean, the other cup that killed her was shattered on the floor as she fell. Everything I touched was counted mentally before and scrubbed after her death – the dining chair, buzzer, doorknob, teaspoon, even the kitchen counter, which I didn’t leave a fingerprint but was tempted to scrub. Today is a good day, just like spring-cleaning.

‘Honey I am home.’ I yelled. There is no reply. The house is sequent, every inconspicuous household objects now squeaks like a soft symphony of some sort, hoping to catch my attention. Stepped into our bedroom; our engagement picture hangs proudly on the wall on top of the bed frame, smiling and as happy as the young couples I met yesterday on the park. What a sad reminiscent of our past love, perhaps our engagement is not meant to be? I shrugged off the idea. Without Helen, yes, there is help. The bed has been made, which is strange since Ben doesn’t usually attain the bed. On top of the bed lies a brown envelope. I opened it. Unfold the piece of paper and recognized Ben’s curly handwritten words.

Dear Susan;

It’s a pleasure to know you since our college days. We started as classmates, together with Helen we became best friends, and only with you we blossomed into couples. But wife and husband we ought not to be, because in my heart already occupies someone else. Yesterday Helen told me not to confess to you because she knew you would be devastated. But I can’t carry on living with this any longer, as it would be unfair to both parties. I have to make a decision, and had already made. If you are unafraid, and brace yourself if you want to know the truth, open my first drawer and you would see the person I have an affair with. By then, we would not cross each other again I am afraid. I want to start a new life, perhaps in another country.

I am deeply sorry that our relationship didn’t work out. Hope that you can find another man who truly loves you.

Ben

……………

I sat on the bed motionless. Remorse, regret and loneliness dwell on me. What had I done?

I hear hurried footsteps from behind. ‘Ben?’ Whelm! A powerful blow on my neck knock me off balance. Whelm! The second hit my face, leaving me bloodied and a cruel taste of zinc circulating in my mouth. What vicious person can possess so much hatred on a middle-aged, separated women? ‘Please…’ I plead. And my pleas got answered. The third blow brought me to darkness; an end to all pain and sufferings, fixing all mistakes and despairs in my life that is beyond repair. Thanks, Helen.

Lied next to my battered body is an opened drawer, a photograph of an even happier couple, dated 2006, two years before my engagement picture with Ben, now pales in comparison to this. Ben and another man, smiling like he never did.