Atlas

Chapter 1 - The Probability of Four

"Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others, past and present, and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future."

― David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas

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Atlas ‒ noun • at·las • \ˈat-ləs\ ‒ capitalized:  one who bears a heavy burden

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Sometimes, people dream. And a dream is sometimes a form of beauty, an art, an abstract, or a story, written by the subconscious in a crumbling book, on singed pages that are torn off at the edges. The subconscious can be a clever writer sometimes; other times it is a sadist, a psychiatrist, or simply a lost artist. These storylines, these distorted, pure, and raw first drafts of our subconscious are often pressed to play by the straightforward guidance of our thoughts and emotions, converging together for the sole purpose of delighting us... or tormenting us.

And every night, I dream.

Every night, the same story plays. The same scenario my mind tortures me with.

The same nauseating shade of white, the same four suffocating walls, the same hospital bed, the same machines and tubes, the same plastic nightstand, the same drugs.

The same clouded russet eyes, the same pallid olive skin, the same crooked teeth, the same thinning brunette strands.

The same smile.

The same dying sister.

The same hauntingly beautiful farewell.

"Let's go to Disneyland together the next time, Kaki."

And the same prolonged ringing set off as the heart monitor flashes a flat line.

The only difference is me. My reaction, if I'm to be specific, because I'm only allowed the freedom of lucidity always at the end of these dreams. There are times, during the bad days, when I lash out, breaking down to the illusion my fucked up brain forces on me every night, and during those times I'm forced awake. There are other times, mostly during the good days, when I am even capable of cracking a smile and pressing a kiss to Sofia's cold forehead.

The closest to the truth is neutrality ‒ when I just sit and stare at her as the last traces of her short-lived life leave her chapped lips, when I'm frozen in the cramped space of the chair as the doctors barge in, and then the dream would be cut short by morning.

Every night, I dream.

But what a dream is depends entirely on perspective, because sometimes I just dream, and sometimes I'm having a nightmare.

With each recurrence, the scene is polished, and I, in turn, am tarnished. The Law of Interaction, Science says. It's a more destructive analogy, I suppose.

And I suppose the only reason why I'm not yet prescribed some anti-depressant pills is because I'm quiet about it, because I don't scream ‒ I suppose it's already tired out before it can even crack the surface.

But in the rare occasion, I dream of the past, during a time before Sofi's lung cancer hit, when we're chasing each other around the backyard, letting loose strings of boisterous laughter, and Mami and Papi are on the porch, watching us with content smiles ‒ that was, of course, also before their divorce in the '11.

A sullen blue is crudely painted over those memories now, because each time I recall them, I'm reminded now how we had become fatherless at the ripe ages of twelve and seven, and how Sofi had lost her life before she had even much of a chance to do anything with it at twelve years.