Memory Lane

Part 6: Trapped

Death is a mercy I don't deserve and yet like every coward facing the perilous pitfalls of their own mind, I'm unable to resist wishing for it.

Last night, I dreamed of you. There was a speck on my ceiling next to the boob light and it grew into a crack in the paint. That crack morphed into a hole with chunks of the ceiling falling onto me. By some miracle of the universe, you were staring at me through that hole, pitying the state I was in.

There was a halo around your honey blond hair and you flew down to me with a pair of pretty white wings, more beautiful than I remembered. You sang me a song that I don't remember the words to and it made us both cry. Your tears dripped onto my cheeks, mingling with my weeping to form rivers and monsoons of despair.

I wanted to ask why you were crying, but our tears filled my mouth with salty bliss and you held me, squeezing me with your arms so I wouldn't come apart.

"Don't leave," you whispered.

"I don't have a choice." I tried to pry your arms off, but your grip was tight.

"You always have a choice," you insisted. "You don't want to leave so just stay. Stay with me. Forget Japan."

"But you already left." I nearly drowned in our tears, barely able to keep my head above the water.

"No. I'm always here with you. In there." You poked my chest, prying into the skin above my heart.

I woke up, still feeling you on my skin. I flattened myself against the bed, your face burned into my retinas. That dream carried the most vivid image of you I had seen in months.

"Did you miss me that much?" I turned around, following the sound of your voice. You were lying next to me, snuggling into my bed as if it were yours. I knew this was a delusion. You weren't real; you were lost. But I gave in and pretended that you never left, stroking your face.

"I miss you more than you know." You felt so real, Elle. Your skin was warm beneath my fingers and your smile broke me to pieces. Can't we stay like this forever?

"I miss you too."

"I wish I could be wherever you are," I confessed. Life was miserable without you.

You placed your hand over mine. "Me too, but I like watching you from afar."

I was afraid that if I blinked you'd disappear. I didn't want to go back to a reality where you were gone and your absence still felt like a fresh wound. You moved closer to me, holding me gently. I fell back into a dreamless sleep, breathing in your scent. When I woke up, you were gone. The bed was cold as if you were never there.

My glass teardrop necklace is pressed against my cheek. Small wonder why my dreams have been full of crying.

I'm moving today. My bag is light, filled with my scant possessions. I don't own much beyond clothing and various keepsakes. My mother says we're selling or giving away everything we're not bringing. We won't need most of our stuff where we're going. She tells me that overseas, her boyfriend has anything we could ever want or need.

Well, technically he's her fiance since they're getting married a week after our plane lands.

In classic neglectful motherly fashion, she gives me the news the night before we board our flight. I'm still reeling from the whiplash of my dream and the wedding announcement.

She's the last person I expect to remarry considering how much she cried over my father's death. And she hasn't gotten over her depression from it as much as she tries to convince me otherwise. No amount of smiling could erase my memory of those early days. Her crying and screaming still echo through my head when I sense that she's in a bad mood.

But she does seem happier these days. I will let her have that.

I take one last look at my room. Privately, I say goodbye to the faded white walls, the desk with uneven legs, and the moronic boob light.

My eyes linger on the bed. Stripes of sunlight fall on the sheets, filtering in through the blinds. I had many memories on that bed, some with you and most with myself. I'm tempted to take a pillow to remember our nights together, but my mother refuses to entertain it.

"You're getting a new bed, much nicer than this one. Don't hold on to useless, dirty old things."

My little box of mementos would have to suffice. I walk out of the room, closing the door behind me for the last time.

Suitcase in hand, I soon find myself on a plane with my mother snoring next to me. I couldn't relax. Something about being several thousand feet up in the sky made me antsy. I hadn't taken a plane since I was little when we moved here from Japan. Funny how we were going back when we left for better things. I don't remember much Japanese, but I understand more than I can speak. My primary school understanding of the language would have to do.

I walk down the aisles to the bathroom, unable to sit any longer. Truthfully, I'm paranoid. Although the interior of the plane is dark and most of the passengers are asleep, I sense that someone is watching me. I didn't know how I knew, but I dared not look back.

Inside the cramped bathroom, I splash water on my face and take deep breaths to soothe my racing heart. I tell myself that I'm not going crazy. Then, I pat my face dry and walk out.

The aisles are empty. There is no one lined up outside the bathroom and the stewardesses are gone. Only the passengers meet my eyes, gray and slumbering.

Out of the corner of my vision, I see a dark figure making their way toward me, touching the passengers with a stick. I freeze, unsettled by how familiar their silhouette looks. For a second, I think it's you, following me on the plane to stop me from leaving.

No, far from it. The figure looks up and a chill runs down my spine.

They have no face. Where their head should be instead shows a shadow. Even without eyes, they watch me as they draw nearer and nearer.

I should run, but there isn't another place to go. Every part of me freezes in fear. Like any coward, when I have the choice between fight or flight, I normally choose flight. It seems this time, I choose neither.

The figure advances at a leisurely pace, still stopping by each passenger. I realize that the stick they're holding is a paintbrush, which they occasionally dip into a tin of dark fluid. Upon closer inspection, I see that the faceless person is painting over the passenger's eyes.

My feet move of their own accord, bringing me to this mysterious and unnatural individual. Every step I make is equal parts anticipation and dread, with every molecule in me buzzing as if my body would deconstruct at any moment.

I stop before them just as they reach a small boy dozing in an aisle seat. They ignore my presence, dipping the brush into the tin and painting small tears on his cheeks.

"Why are you doing that?" My voice sounds strangely loud in the silence.

"I'm marking him for death." They continue their morbid painting.

"But he's so young."

The painter pauses, brush poised right above the boy's skin. "And so are you." They tilt their shadowy head to the side. "So was she."

They step toward me, feet thudding against the carpet floor. I hear a tuning fork in my ears, the resonance intensifying. They dip the paintbrush into the tin and press the bristles into my skin.

I smell the sharp scent of iron. The tin is full of blood, not paint like I originally believed.

I want to swat their hand away and snap their stupid brush in half. The shadowy person paints swiftly, scratching my cheeks with blood Before I could grab their throat, they vanish.

I have no mirror, but I see my face as if someone has pulled me out of my body. A bright red X shines on my face over my eyes, the blood dripping down my neck. I scream but it's no use.

The tuning fork hums and I come apart.