I Know Something That You Don't Know

Four

The narrow hallway of the Oxford Processing Fax Office stretched from my room to the door next to the main guidance station, where a zigzagged and mazed pathway will lead to the comfort room I were in this morning. It was a minute after I had left my room when I felt that my stomach turned into a knot. I won't throw up in front of my classmates, or so the appreciation of my wit would flare up into an insult and judging.

     I don't know how this happened. Right after Simon filled up my probes, I just stared into the air, thought of how I would look in the middle of the tour. Suddenly, a part of me told that my face is rotting. I mean, I would be wearing a mask, conveying a zombie plaster, but it just seemed so real. And I could imagine how a rotting flesh on my face would smell. It is so pungent.

     Ten years ago, when I was in my primary school days, my mother would always tell me about the old man, seventy year-old maybe, living alone in a small cottage, four houses from us. She would tell me how fortunate I am, that I should learn to cherish and appreciate every little thing, which so even, the old man hasn't.

     As I grew, I had learned to communicate with my friends and give time of fun with them, and one of those is the old man. Everyday, mom would shout in the whole house, asking where the roasted chicken went, where the hot soup she just left for a second went, and on which river did the fried fish swam. From those cases, there is no one responsible but me. I just wanted to share, it is fine, really, if it was not just from stealing. And finally, our maid caught me packing up the banana in my pocket. Mom scolded me, and I was grounded for one week.

     Craving the moment I am released, I never wasted an opportunity to visit my friend. I asked my mother for a little gift for the man, she approved with a pack of goods. It was an orange lined-horizon dusk, as I clutch one of the oat meal pack from our neighbor's package share, I knocked at the door and waited for his answer. But after a million of thwacking, even a sigh of him never sounded. Then everything puts to a suspense. I caught a smell of a strong scent which I don't know if some rotten foods or dead animals. Then it made clear, as I opened the door, another creature welcomed me. A man sitting on a chair, his head lying on the fabric, which swam in a pool of dry blood, staring on the ceilings of the cottage. It's fingers spread like he is perfectly laying his palm on the mattress. The circular mouth bolted wide opened, welcoming the big green flies in his system. His foot laid perfectly on the floor, and the other displaced. Rotting. Pungent. Dead.

     Although in state of shock, and the face so far from what I've seen weeks ago, my instincts drove to truth. He was the old man.

     I turned to mom and the police carried the corpse away from us. A lost friend. Mom felt sorry. There were times when I would feel pity for him, cries, and think it was mom's fault. But sometimes, it wasn't pity, it is fear. I could see his rotting body and strong voice of death both chasing me on a road of mud. I can't run. I can't escape. And when he caught me, he would say, "Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me?"

     I would always wake up screaming out those nightmares.

     As I continued staggering on my foot, the end of the hallway stopped and the pathway sprang to life. Suddenly, as I saw a faint recognition of the comfort room sign, my tongue thickened and my throw-ups are travelling in my esophagus. My foot turned to easy steps and finally, I shut the door of the room behind me. I snatched one of the cubicle and puked in the toilet. My saliva was sticky, and green and yellow matters were dropping out. I keep out the eerie sensation of the dead old man. And finally, I found my level of wellness.

     Stop thinking of those Frank. It was ten years ago. And funny are you if you'll wear those zombie mask. No way.

     By the way, you are not supposed to be kill-joy. And you are convinced on what Simon told you.

     Remembering those words as I cleaned up and returned to my class, I winked and laughed.

     Simon really got guts. Funny was he.