Rewind | Pokémon Fanfiction

The Fifth Moment | Broad Is The Way That Leadeth To Destruction

Night soon takes over the world, not without a few curses here and there. By curses, I mean vulgarities—I've had enough of ghosts, seriously. It's by no accident that a burly man with a pink mohawk snaps at me, I'm sure. Thus far, everything always happens for a reason; the Hypno isn't here, which makes me wonder why. For a stalker to be so neglectful— Or did it perhaps begin since our brief encounter at the sliding doors of the Contest Hall? I could continue to process this situation, but I just have to be interrupted by a most cordial string of words, barely decipherable due to their glutinousness.

"What else? Of course I wanted to die."

Backtrack a little, the man had driven away after his vibrant speech, clearly wanting to flee the scene, not without the killer glare he shoved down my throat. Tracing it back to this strange statement—why would I say such a thing?—it makes some sense, albeit still utterly disturbing.

When had I ever thought of death? The very sentiment is unnatural. A bitter scent scatters in the air after a hiccup, one so repugnant that I'd wrinkle my nose and run off if I have control over my body.

"You have a death wish, don't ya? No one crosses the street brazenly, especially not at a bend!" The man kicks the front wheel of the truck and unfolds his arms.

I bet he will head home and start writing: Dear diary, today's gonna be a good day, and here's why: I didn't kill the drunk gal. At least, the look of discomposure seems to signal that.

On presenting a lour, I bow my head and grit my teeth. Reality stirs and falls on its side before spiralling out of control, a whirlpool for the weak. I must admit, I truly am weak for the time being, well-soused and waiting for the body to drop.

He returns to his seat and the engine grumbles off the road, the truck curving toward me, barely stroking my skin. I'd expected better from myself. Why the bend, and not the crossroads? If I really want to yield to death, the crossroads would have been a bigger bang.

That's the issue with dissociation, isn't it? When you're forever watching as an outsider, as a voyeur, you willingly criticise the situation as you would a film. Sure, some things become slightly more acceptable, but what of others? To see things from a perspective you prefer, one that brings more comfort in comparison to other viewpoints and hence is better, must be a way of survival, a part of being human.

My tipsy self mutters under her breath and trails back to the pavement, cussing before knocking against a lamppost, with an insignificant pain I must have missed in that split second. Reflections that come with dissociation are taxing like this, because you neglect your environment and live in your own darkness where the bell tolls in your head and your senses shut down for some greater repose. Watching myself suffer doesn't delight me in the least; the journey thus far is nothing short of vexing the Distortion World out of me. My behaviour, for the most part, is beyond normal. My life, for the most part, is beyond normal. Has normality grown so banal and obsolete? It's been barely a week and so much has occurred. I must remind myself to fear the beginning of it all, must ensure my frame shivers by the end of it all, and I must wallop the detestable guts, reprimand the will that has tossed itself beyond the cliffs of oblivion, strangle the ill sorrows burning my mind black...

Humans. I tch. Even in my drunken state I recognise the ugliness of these creatures: their largely unforgiving nature, their countless ulterior motives tucked under the covers of some image of selflessness, and their insatiable lust for everything under the sun, among many other things.

When you detach yourself from your humanity, all these tinted criticisms grow clearer by the day, and in broad daylight I am forced to question the world I live in. Perhaps, just perhaps, living with the ghosts might be more comfortable. I can never know for sure.

A near-tumble down a flight of stairs hurls me back to my current circumstances. To have almost lost my balance is frightening enough, but to enter an enveloping darkness delivers more goosebumps. The next thing I know, I am closing a suspicious door and hearing clinks and light conversation in the air. At the edge of my eye, a white wall overflowing with colourful graffiti calls to me. Things like "Xander was here", "Sear the greatest thrills into your heart" and random phone numbers coupling room service and loans pop out among others. Of course, there are the various doodles and sketches and street art. Yet, out of the pile, the me from back then had set eyes on only one.

Broad is the way that leadeth to destruction.

Was that the catalyst for her suicide attempt, I wonder? The way the impact could have caused numerous car crashes and lives lost, how explosive and dramatic an end it could have been? So why did she dither and choose life in the end? She hardly had thoughts that could be heard, that one act seeming more instinctual than any she has ever committed to, as if her whole life was wrapped in indecision and that moment proved to be no different.

She, her, hers. Again with the dissociation, isn't it, Yan? Was your past self so despiteful that you chose to be ashamed of her? But she did live eventually, no? Even as she carried her own baggage, she still stayed, left the road for a quieter, narrower one. But what gives?

I plunge into a rickety seat, my head in as precarious a situation as my behind, going deeper, deeper, into the abysmal confusion. She and I, the way it rolls off the tongue in my head makes it sound so natural and right. We are different individuals to be called the same; one rational woman seeks salvation, and one emotional woman seeks damnation.

Spitting gin out of my lips, the way it fizzes in my throat with its bitter taste forces me to question if drinking had been more than a means of drowning my sorrows, if only to add to the sea I sink in and fall further. Alcohol, then, is a morbid anchor in a world I choose to warp.

I should have died too.

The scent of gunpowder wafts into my nostrils. A hallucination spun out of fear, for sure, since nothing of the sort manifests itself in the bar. Adolf. Thus far, he's the only one that keeps surfacing in my mind when it comes to guns. The man shot me. He had a Hypno stalk me to find my whereabouts, and wanted to end my life for me. A hired help for someone who found no meaning in suicide, much less life.

That's the only viable explanation now, isn't it?

The roaring conversations in the background bash my skull and I vomit gin into glass after glass. To rewind the past now seems to be equivalent to reversing my self-destruction. People don't stare at me the way they did at the Contest Hall, which is a change, and a relief.

It should have been me.

I would have frowned if not for the tip of my lips that curl into a grimace. Much melancholy.

"Hey, got a molotov cocktail?" I ask without receiving a response. Bartenders sure are busy.

I should have died too.

A cycle erupts, the two lines alternating in my head. It grows infuriating after a couple of rounds. Funny how I must have relished every second of this damned despair, clinging onto it against the better judgement of my dear life.

I fill the glass once again and let the bartender take it away, along with my regurgitated sorrows. His eyes level mine in that frictional second, how we'd express so much of ourselves in so little time intriguing the spirits out of me. He speaks to my woes with a gentle gaze, and I gift him his gin, growing sober by the minute.

Sober, but pinning the blame on myself nonetheless.

Something must have happened to me for me to be like this. All the self-hatred makes me want to tear away from this sullied flesh and find another body altogether, if only the body is the problem.

I order a gin, laugh my lungs out, and leave the bar.