a compilation of short stories

5. 上天的安排 • heaven's plans

oh, my darling.

you keep wishing and wishing upon the falling streaks of stardust, wishing that you'd die—soon enough—every starry night.

the stars, they hear your pleads.

they hear your screaming, choked, yet muted voice asking and searching for a way out of your hell.

they hear all the things you want to do, that you want to breathe in the icy, salty ocean water until you become one with it, that you want to have a last meal of pills and a tall bottle of whiskey to wash it down, and that you want to tie a rope around your neck.

dear, they hear you, and there's a reason why they don't fulfill your wish like they do with other kids.

you keep praying and praying to the angels above, that they'll take you with them the next time they visit, and gently grab your soul and pull it out of your dying body.

the angels, they see your pain.

they see you taking swigs of vodka every other hour, driving drunk, jaywalking, in hopes that somehow, somehow you'd just die, and it'd just be another tragic accident.

they see the nights you try to get high for the euphoric feelings you never have sober, the nights you go out and party so hard because you wish you had a chance at dying of alcohol poisoning, and the early dawns you take in a deep breath and stretch, lying motionless in bed and wishing you hadn't woken up at all to see the sun rise that day.

dear, they see you, and there's a reason they don't answer your prayers the way you desperately want them to.

you keep pleading and pleading for me to buy you a big ol' tank of helium or carbon monoxide—because you did your research and knew how easily you could die, right then and there.

me, i feel your dark intentions beneath a lighthearted grocery trip request, the desperation in your voice as you choke out that you've never wanted to die more, and the nights you stay up with the mornings you sleep in because time doesn't matter to a dead person.

i feel the pinching pain you do when you drag your blade across your wrists, the burn and warmth of alcohol as it goes down your throat and courses through your body, and the chilling cold tile floor when you curl up in the corner and can't bring yourself to get up again.

dear, i feel what you do, and there's a reason why i never give in.

the stars, angels, and i all agreed—long before you knew any of our names and our stories—that we'd never let you die at the hands of your own body.

the heavens can be cruel, can't they?

you always see those people living their lives normally. they're going to a stable 9 to 5 job instead of living from paycheck to paycheck on the border of bankruptcy; they go to bed with plans of the next day instead of wishing there wasn't a tomorrow; they drink in moderation on special occasions instead of taking in rum and whiskey at all hours of the day and night like icy cold water in the hot summer.

and you think to yourself sometimes, how could they? how could they leave me like this?

so broken that they shattered me before i could be whole?

the truth is, the heavens and i were both cruel to you.

jealousy bubbled up inside me and burst to the surface when i saw the plans for your beautiful, blossoming life.

born with a silver spoon in your mouth? loving parents that never argued, let alone fought and screamed through the nights? going to a good school with sufficient supplies in a wealthy district? never having addiction or chronic mental nor physical health issues? getting into your dream college? making a six figure salary as a stable adult? married to the love of your life?

you had everything at your fingertips that i could never even grasp onto, never even touch in my whole lifetime that you had before your life could even pan out. you were given what i had yearned, stretching out to grab the intangible lie we call by its foul name of happiness.

you were everything i could never be destined to become.

so i changed that.

i spoke malicious lies behind your back to the angels that you were a murderer and a rapist in your past life, someone unworthy of a beautiful second chance.

i let terrible rumors spread about the type of person you were on the inside, like a perfectly shiny, crimson red gala apple on the surface, yet rotten and bruised, thoroughly infested with maggots at the very first bite.

i made your life turn into a nightmare you couldn't wake up from instead of your fated sweet daydream.

and your new life brought me ease and contentment, nearly a copy-and-paste to that of mine.

i had suffered, and by hell, you were going to, too.

i watched quietly on the sides, staring intently as your first year slowly ticked by, your most loving year you would ever receive in your lifetime.

still but just a young infant, your parents started to fight more and more, sometimes earning a wail from you when you saw your mother being hit.

i saw the way your little limbs flinched whenever your father came near you to put you to bed, and the way your small eyes scrunched up, filled with tears when you heard the yelling piercing through layers of walls and doors.

of course i regretted the way i sabotaged your life.

but did you deserve that life of wealthiness, rich with love and care? a life that i didn't even have a chance at?

fate's unfair, isn't it?

yet still, the way i saw you age into compliance and obedience as to fit into others' molds easily, to avoid being yelled and torn at and swallow whatever pride there was, my eyes couldn't help but sting a bit; i saw my own self inside you—the way i had to suffer, too, and the way i became but an empty shell of a vibrant personality.

and now you would become just that—an empty shell.

but i watched away with tear-filled eyes, unable to bear looking at you. and i turned my back without a second thought.