Nothing lasts forever

Untitled Part 1

The small island nation of Tokelau, with a population of just under 2000 people, is located in the Pacific Ocean, about 7000 kilometres from its nearest neighbour, New Zealand. Secluded from the rest of the world, and uninvolved in international affairs, it often goes unnoticed by the vast majority of the world population.

 Him 

05:17. The same numbers stared at me every single morning. I had never known what it meant, I had just assumed that my brain had been programmed to summon my brain at this random hour, when the day was still new, and the sun still peeped over the top of the rolling green hills. Knowing I would be unable to fall asleep again, I climbed out of bed and proceeded to change into running gear and lace up my shoes. It was too early to begin the day's tasks; therefore running occupied my time until it seemed suitable to commence my daily routine. Pulling my hood over my head, I ventured out into the violet morning light and onto the white sandy beaches to start the day's exercise. 

Her 

The days were seldom the same. There was always a new task to perform, a new problem to tackle, a new challenge in my way. At times, it made me miss the strict routine at the orphanage, rise at 6 am, breakfast at 7, school until 3 and chores until 7 followed by homework and lights out. Those were the days I yearned for now, the days of certainty, knowing there would always be food and knowing that there would always be a warm bed waiting, but most of all, knowing there were people who you could turn to for help. Things that are often taken for granted, things you do not appreciate until they are gone. That all came to an end 3 years ago. Life in the adult world was difficult, jobs and bills, the jobs come and go whilst the bills just pile higher and higher. You leave home and things get tough. You take a shortcut with a person you just met who has all the answers. You get caught. You spend 2 years in prison for intent to use a deadly weapon. You come back home. And everything is different. That's just my story.Having a criminal record changes everything, all the doors you believed to be open are suddenly shut. Even the orphanage which you spent your childhood in closes its doors and draws its blinds. Being broke, homeless and without any skills, you become dependent on the scraps and spare change you come by. Once or twice, you even beg. Not a pretty life, but an honest one.By the time I awaken from sleep, the sun has coursed its way to the centre of the sky, exercising its full radiance on the world below. A sunny day, clear skies, and hot as hell. Today would be a busy day at the beach. It would be easy to get essentials from the generous locals, and the few overzealous tourists. Not bothering to clean myself up, having forfeited the rights to hygiene a long time ago, I start for the seaside. 

Him 

The day is a marvellous one, especially when viewed from my air-conditioned study that overlooks the cerulean waters. Having lived on the beach for so long, the ocean no longer tempted me. Having lived in cities such as New York, Beijing and London, one still learned to appreciate the tranquil picturesque country that was Tonga. Work done for the day, it was still only 1400 hours, earlier than I'd expected. Seeing no reason to hang around any longer, I found myself putting on my wetsuit and grabbing my surfboard. Surfing always transported me to another world, a place where nations weren't warring with each other, where you are one with nature and you can feel every single little wave, sympathise with every marine creature and be truly liberated of all the weights of the world.Coming out of the water, and traversing hard ground again always felt surreal, like a merman learning to walk on human legs for the first time. Your legs completely forget the act of perambulation, and before you know it, you are lying on the warm grainy sand, bunching it up in your hands before releasing it in a strain from your fingers, bit by bit, before repeating with another clasped hand of sand. This motion can only entertain you for so long before you need to get back and move to the next place. The beach is crowded with teenagers from neighbouring Polynesian states today, as part of a big celebration that the school holidays. Navigating the maze of bodies is difficult, considering I was carrying a surfboard that was larger than me and half my weight (which, mind you, is a lot).I didn't notice their faces until a girl barrelled straight into my chest, landing flat on her back on the ground, the impact making me drop my board in shock. At least I think she was a girl, her hair was mangy and wild, dirtied brown where the colour was really a deep gold, her skin almost too dark to be olive, but too light to be caramel. Her clothes were rancid and old, but what struck me the most were her eyes. The green tigering the gold, they pierced into my shocked expression, and I don't know what I felt most, perhaps it was confusion, anger or sympathy for her, but what gripped my heart with an icy hand was something I had not felt in a long time. Fear. Something was not right, this situation was not normal, this was no accident, it was intentional. Before I could say anything, she was up on her feet again, her stare never breaking, before she broke off into a sprint past me. Before I could even hope to think about going off to find her and apologise, it struck me. The trainers of which I had tied the shoelaces and hung up over the fins of my surfboard, had magically disappeared.