Lacking Fragments: A Novel (Completed)

A Figurine, a Restaurant, a Scene III

My wife, Annalise, eventually came back from her favorite restaurant. She got the news, said we finally got a reservation at lunch time, 12 o'clock sharp. And so, adding that we still got an hour before we eat (according to the said time of reservation), to kill time and to wait, Kiki by then suggested to go to the Game Station in swift. Said and saying she couldn't be more excited to get few glimpses, of what, of videogames she'd play later on. And she looked so on edge, kind of dying in thrill.

     "If you say so, sweetie," said my wife.

     Inside the Game Station, numerous kids and a few adults alike laughed, ran, and shouted around the amusement center. With me and my family proceeding to the line toward the front desk, of where this franchise sells game-related items, I found myself pondering about a certain past not so long ago. Not mine, however, but of this place itself, of this very amusement center. Of the hearsays I heard before from Annalise about this location, I mused. Not only people have histories in their entire lives, of course; even places and material things have pasts to ponder on, not just people. I believe the world doesn't just revolve around us. But to things around us, too.

     So. Back then, when the supermall didn't exist yet—when the place was only a capitalist idea in someone else's mind—this exact land was nothing but a pure business between gamers and a passionate retailer. It used to be a place, a simpler one, where there wasn't any brand-named restaurants. No house appliances section, no bathrooms for males and females per floor; none of those existed before. No elevators, nor escalators.

     Prior to becoming a renowned supermall, first it was plain backyard house of an old man named Haruo.

     Now Haruo, whose surname I had forgotten due to a period of time (or perhaps just my age), used to peddle portable consoles like Game Boy, Game Gear, and Game & Watch to the old school gamers. But aside from handheld consoles, Haruo also sold videogame cartridges, and printed graphics, posters, big and small stickers, mini figures; and many more to the standard buyers and frequent big-time collectors. Truly, his items were top-notch. Imported from the country he was born, Japan. Although, said my wife Annalise, if the rumors were also true— the dark side of his business was that all his items were bootlegged, purchased, and shipped illegally from Haruo's native supplier there from Japan. Born, raised; originated as a Japanese, old man Haruo had his own impact to the small world he lived in. At this very place where stood tall the supermall, by the nearest city of our province, here in the Philippines.

     In anyway, setting the story of the old man Haruo aside, returning to the renowned supermall itself in the present.

     Along the loud noises coming from different areas, the three of us—my wife, daughter and I—fell in line to get near the front desk where games and the rest are being sold. Us lined up in the back, I noticed my wife's behavior; she turned a little uncomfortable in here filled videogames as much as people. My wife had her arms crossed; her attention mere focused to the surroundings, toward disordered happenings on sight.

     In contrast of my wife, however, Kiki had smiles that felt it could last forever. "A new game! A new game! I want to play!" she was shouting so loud, though her mother insisted to keep her voice down. "Father, I'm going home with a new game!"

     "You are."

     A couple of minutes passed again. Line was moving; it didn't remain stagnant. But the only thing we could do is to wait. And so we waited. Though eventually, we reached the front desk in fifteen minutes or so. Then here, as we stood; the first thing you'd see above through the desk's looking glass is a box. A huge, opened box with nothing but air inside. That if I would make a judgment, I think it would be a great place to put something—like an action figure, with the same size as the box—as an attraction to those who'd be willing to spend money for something interesting, something appealing to the eyes. At this point, I was aware there wasn't anything on the said box. It was empty as the abyss. All in lifeless color of black; uninhabited place.