Lacking Fragments: A Novel (Completed)

Chapter V: The Contents of the Urn

5. The Contents of the Urn

We were coming to the end of our trip. That's the only way to put it. Of this quick little trip, which I hadn't fully planned. One more destination— one, then we're done. I already said it before, and if I have to repeat it again, I would say it. That this was just something I had to do; or else, this unfinished business would bother me until the day I die. Or night. At the moment, I don't really know anything at all. I couldn't be sure of anything after everything that happened to me. Of all occurrences in this quick trip. Not anymore. All I know is that I had to do this— I had to find the hidden fragments of the problem I kept within for a while; the fragments of my friend, involving the case of her death. I had to search for what the me in the mirror implied to me. As if he said, 'You'll find the remainder,' and that I would not be at peace, regardless of my paid respect, in case I don't find any relative of hers.

     Especially, her brother. Her little brother.

     I had to find him so I could ask a few things, yes, I had to see him.

     In the gone past, I remember that time I had with her; that walk around the Midnight Carnival, with my old friend. The time that occurred in April— that midnight one year prior to when Maya decided to die. Good times. Belonging to good memories I keep, excluding the part she panicked. Back then, my old friend had mentioned the talk she had with her brother. Their little talk about the Ferris wheels, of how her brother's answer to her question seemed so unrelated to her inquiry.

     Those Ferris wheels, the fairground ride themselves, cause suffering.

     Although, after all these long years, I wonder now if the little brother still hates riding the wheel. I remember Maya telling me that even in dreams he hated it. So now I thought, what about now? Did time already change his perspective? His views? Nevertheless, this doesn't go to the questions I'd like to ask him. What I wanted to ask more is about his big sister. Of how Maya was feeling before she thought of killing herself. I wanted her heart and thought processes before she jumped off the building. How they functioned. I wanted to know what pulled the trigger.

     Perhaps, even at slightest bit, the little brother knew something about these things.

     "We're here," I told Kiki.

     In front of us stood a house formed crooked. Nakedly high maintenance on the left side of the roof— and below it, below the roof I saw materials made of wood having slithering termites (and don't forget the fact I had blurred eyes). Moving insects— there were many about outside. Although, on the right part the house it looked low maintenance. Technically, both of sides were consistently deranged. Straight unbalanced. The colors of overall paint seemed to have faded, too. There, a few yards away from where we stood, the house turned to be unappealing toward anyone's sense of sight. By then, I looked at my wristwatch to see the time: it was 2 o'clock in the afternoon. And by the placement of the sun above, it could've made the house look brighter already; should've had more luminescence onto most of its parts. However, as for what I saw from here, it had not. I presume the house used to be a wholly yellow once, a picture of one golden sun, that now, only now, it looked as if it had been brutally bleached off its hue. Out of original color; a one washed-out yellow.

     "Is that it?" asked my daughter.

     "I believe so," I retorted.

     "What she pointed?" And whom Kiki pertained to the 'she' is the person who answered our call, the one who owned the number she found behind a years-old letter. A name starting with letter M, as it was written along the contact number. For minutes we talked to an old-sounding lady, back when we were still checked-in the three-star hotel, just this morning. And now in front of us, just about a few yards ahead, is the house of where the old lady had pointed.