Time to Go

Contains some themes of suicide/self-harm, substance abuse, promiscuity

Dear Ria, 

How have you been? I can’t believe it’s been seven - no, eight - years since I last wrote to you. 

I turn twenty-one tomorrow. Crazy, right? It feels like yesterday when we went to preschool together. Ah, the glory days. 

I’m writing this letter to invite you to my birthday party tomorrow. I just returned from uni, so I haven’t had much time to organise it. I think I’m gonna do it at home. My address is written on the front. 

Well, it’s late now. I guess it’s time to go. See you soon!

From, 

Rex

***

Dear Ria, 

Have you moved houses? It’s not like you to not show up without writing back. I asked my mom if she knows where your new address is, ‘cause she’s kinda good at this stuff. But all she said was that you moved “really far away”, so I guess that’s where I’m sending this letter. 

The party last week was smaller than I expected. Only my mom and our neighbours showed up. I guess Dad’s really busy at work because he leaves before I wake up and doesn’t comes back until I’m asleep. 

Mom bought a carrot cake from the bakery. It was perfectly circular and perfectly orange, the way I love it. 

I don’t know why, but I started crying. 

Remember when our kindergarten teacher threw birthday parties, and I refused to touch the cake unless it was flawless? Man, those were the times. 

The Sun has just dipped below the horizon. I guess it’s time to go. Hope to hear back from you soon!

From, 

Rex

***

Dear Ria, 

I guess you’re busy with your life at uni, ‘cause it’s been two months, but I still haven’t heard back from you. But everyone’s busy at uni nowadays, so I can’t blame you. 

Speaking of uni, my winter break ended a fortnight ago. I’m majoring in astrophysics, but it’s driving me crazy. Sometimes, it’s like translating Egyptian hieroglyphics. Sometimes, I want to drop out of school. But of course, I can’t do that. I have a future to live. 

Today, when I was listening to my professor’s lecture (or at least, pretending to listen while nodding asleep), I remembered how much fun math used to be.

Remember first grade? Remember how we learnt addition with chocolate chip cookies, how we gobbled them up after class and secretly brushed the crumbs on the floor, how we licked our thumbs after they turned black as night? 

What was the name of our math teacher? You know, the one that had a bald spot on his head and a mole with hair on his chin? What I do remember about him - as clearly as glass - is that he used to pick his nose. He’d act as though he were scratching his lip, and then start digging! 

The dining room clocks struck eight. I guess it’s time to go. Do get back to me soon, ‘cause I’m interested to hear what you’re doing!

From, 

Rex

***

Dear Ria, 

You naughty girl, purposely ignoring me. I know you are. I know you all too well. 

Making friends at university’s more challenging than I thought it would be. A year and a half after joining, I can conclusively say that making friends is like strutting across boiled eggs. One misstep and you’re covered in gunk. 

That’s what I thought about today as I watched a classmate get bullied. 

It’s never fun when it happens. It makes your face ignite and your hands turn colder than Antarctica if it’s you, and it makes your insides shrivel up if it’s someone else. 

His name’s Kyle, I think. He’s one of those guys with wire-rimmed glasses and a forgettable face. His wrists are thinner than pencils. He’s in my math class, but I’ve never talked to him before. 

He made some snide remark to someone or another, and the next thing you know, the jocks on the football team stripped him to his birthday suit, struck him with a baseball bat, and strung him up in front of the lockers. The worst part is, all the dean did was give them detention for two weeks. 

I don’t know why I’m telling you this. But I wonder what life’s like for you. You know everyone, and everyone who’s ever met you wants to be your friend. 

Most people want to have friends. But you, you’ve always toyed with people, pulling them away when they need you the most, distancing yourself and giving the cold shoulder. You could be standing right next to someone and still be further away than the Andromeda Galaxy. 

My professor’s shrieking my name. I guess it’s time to go. Please write back to me soon. I don’t want to be another one of those guys you threw into the dumpster. 

From, 

Rex

***

Dear Ria, 

Well, this is getting annoying. But I still love writing to you. 

They’ve reinstated Happy Week ‘cause schools are paranoid that students are gonna turn depressed as hell. The idea is, students will magically release their stress in seven days. What a load of poppycock. 

Normally during this time, I finish up on overdue reports and do some extra research for my thesis, but today my laptop died. Rather than twiddling my thumb and stalking the little battery bar, I turned the TV on. 

The TV’s not mine; technically, it’s my roomie’s. He’s kinda touchy about me using his stuff without his permission, but he’s one of the blokes on the football team I told you about, so he was out of the room all day. 

That’s how I ended up binging this horror show, Hello. To get the most of the feel, I drew the blinds, locked the door, and flipped the lights off. 

I’m ashamed to say this, but I ended up huddling under the covers, jiggling like pudding. I guess horror’s not for me. 

That got me thinking about when we watched Disney cartoons in our second grade class. We used to sit as a class on the shaggy pond-coloured carpet. I was always picking the grit stuck between the curls of the carpet and running my hand across the metal chair legs. When I stretched my legs out, my feet would touch yours. 

I tried it again today. When I thought about it real hard and stretched as far as I could, I could almost feel your socks brush against mine. Almost. But not quite. 

Oh no, my roommate’s back; gotta turn the TV off. I guess it’s time to go. Hope to hear from you - later’s better than never. 

From, 

Rex

***

Dear Ria, 

I never give up. But getting a reply from you is becoming a Sisyphean task. 

Today’s the last day of term before they let us out for summer break. 

This morning, me and ten other guys took a cab to the beach. Our school’s only a twenty-minute ride from the sea. 

Oh, how much I’ve wanted to go there! Last night, I dreamed about the time when we went on that trip to the beach in third grade. It was one of those field trips where they wanted us to do research for some hocus-pocus science project, but everyone - including the teachers - went to enjoy the water, the Sun, and the slushies. 

We took a short dip before we walked around the boardwalk. 

The boardwalk here’s got so many things it must’ve cost the Moon to build it. There’s an army of carnival games, families of juice shops, rollercoasters, and even a five-star resort. You’d love it. We rode on most of the rides, played a few games, and drank a few slushies, but after a while it got boring. Same old turns, same old scams, same old flavours. 

Soon after, the Sun hid behind grey blankets, and soon we were trudging through mud, cursing the taxi drivers who shooed us away. 

We got back at around three. Let me just say, I don’t know why I used to love beach trips that much. The only thing it leaves behind is an empty wallet. And a lot of sand inside your pants. 

At this point, I’ve practically given up on asking you to reply. 

My ride to the airport’s here, and I need to make my flight back home. I guess it’s time to go. 

From, 

Rex

***

Dear Ria, 

I hate plane rides. 

We used to love taking plane rides. I felt like Superman, soaring into the sky. Over time, though, I’ve grown to hate it. 

But last night, I started hating it for another reason. No, hate’s the wrong word. Despise. 

No one ever feels good in an airplane. Your ears pop, your feet swell, your head rings. 

But it hits different when you brush your arm against the person sitting next to you - and you yank it right back because you touched lifeless stone. It hits different when you desperately listen for any signs of breathing and all you hear is the hum of the engine. It hits different when you expect words to come out of his mouth and only see foam. It hits different when you stare into his green eyes and only see soulless holes. 

It really does hit different when you start screaming your head off, sobbing, thrashing, doing anything you can to run away. Because the person sitting next to you is dead.

We were somewhere above the Pacific Ocean. It took another few hours for us to make an emergency landing. Somewhere in Guam. Cardiac failure. Or stroke. I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember. 

The second I touched down back home, everyone I knew came streaming over, coddling me, soothing me. Or trying to, at least. 

The world thinks you get trauma from what you’ve seen. Yes, it’s horrifying, to realise that someone there a second ago was gone forever. But the thing that strums the chords of doom within you, the thing that throbs inside you, the thing that forces you to lay awake in the dead of night - no, it’s not what you’ve seen. It’s what you’ve felt. 

It’s the relief. The relief that it wasn’t you. The relief that it was someone else. 

And then the guilt. It’s worse than deep-sea diving. The pressure smushes you. Burns you a thousand times. Chips your heart bit by bit, until all that’s left is an empty void. 

Where were you last night? Where were you when I looked at the face of a human and stared into the face of Death? Why does it feel like you’re running away from me?

Where are you in my life, to help me fight through this?

I may be alive, but a part of me died today. 

My head hurts, and I’ve been awake for over a day. I guess it’s time to go. 

Rex. 

***

Dear Ria, 

It’s been a month. And I’m not proud of myself.

I’ve been going to the pub every day since it happened. This means that my wallet’s gone on a diet. 

It wouldn’t be that big of a deal if it weren’t for what I did three hours ago. 

I smoke a half pack every time I go there, but last night, I accidentally picked up the wrong pipe. Let’s just say, it was an otherworldly, euphoric experience. 

All right, scratch that. I intentionally bought it from the girl sitting next to me. And I did it before I took a shot of vodka. 

I know I’ve already spoiled your day. But I haven’t been myself lately, and I think I might go crazy if I don’t spill the whole truth. 

On my way back home, all I could see were fireworks, rainbows, and bubbles. I made a few sluggish turns, and I ended up in some dark alleyway, where the only sound I heard was the chittering of rats and…and a woman’s footsteps. Oh God, please forgive me. 

I don’t even know what her name is. I barely remember her face, save for blotches of blond hair and rose lips. I fell for her. Hard. I know. I’m sorry. 

She said a throw for ten bucks, but I vomited out twenty. We did it there. In public and all. 

I feel like someone’s chopped me up into bits. I hope it’s time to go. 

Rex. 

***

Dear Ria, 

Mom found out. 

She woke up early in the morning. Found me in shambles. 

I swear, she’s psychic. Her eyes bore straight through you. They excavate everything inside you. Nothing stays hidden. 

Her roar. A volcanic eruption on fast forward. First the rumbling. Then the ink-black clouds. Turned magma-red. Tsunamis. Gritted teeth. Clenched fists. Bulged veins. Carnage. 

I wish she’d never stopped screaming. Because facing her wrath is far better than seeing her cry. It should be illegal. I mean, a child having to watch a parent cry. It shatters you like glass. 

Oh, her speech. Her words echoed inside my head like a gong. 

She asked me what Grandpa and Grandma would think if they could see me. How she’d feel when the only part of her left on the planet was someone like me. Whether I knew how it felt to swim against the current, sacrificing everything, fighting for the only person I love day after day, at the cost of myself. Why I could waste my life away while she had to wear a smile and clean rich people’s toilets out all day. When I was ready to grow up. What real loneliness was if it wasn’t being abandoned. 

She left the house. 

If it was like old times, I’d cry to myself, get a headache, and fall asleep. But I’m old now. 

I was buried under a glacier. 

I walked over to my bed. Squatted down. Prised what I’d been hiding under the bed. What I’d been hiding for years now. 

A knife. 

I stared at it. Breathed on it. Sniffed it. Then I gripped the hilt till my knuckles turned white. 

I’ve been lying. I’ve been lying to you. 

My dad. He’s not busy at work. He never was. He left ten years ago. Left after calling me hopeless and Mom disgusting. Left after chucking us into a one-room flat. Left before he saw the first tears Mom ever shed in front of me. 

Life’s been a nonstop road trip. Except I had to build the car I was driving using junk lying on the road.

I’ve haven’t been whole. Not in a decade. 

It’s funny. Sometimes you can’t think for the life of you, sometimes a river of thoughts courses through you. 

Thought about Mom. Thought about life. Thought about the world. 

I thought and thought and thought until the silver knife began turning crimson. 

I nearly did it. 

But I didn’t. 

I didn’t because of you. Didn’t ‘cause of all the time we spent together. 

I began to sob, my chest rattling with earthquakes. I was drowning in my tears. 

I don’t think I can bear it when it’s time to go. 

Rex. 

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Dear Ria, 

It’s time to come clean. 

All this time, I’ve been writing to you for solace. Hoping for a response for your companionship. I wanted to connect with the only person I’ve known my whole life. But that’s just the thing. You’re not a person. No, you’re far more than that. 

You’re the time when I couldn’t reach the bathroom sink; the time when ice cream melted in my hand; the time when being rich meant having the most M&Ms; the time when ran slower; the time when money could grow on trees; the time when I talked to the teddy bears and they talked back; the time when friendships could last forever; the time when I couldn’t tie my shoelaces; the time when I could walk on the Moon; the time when there were gaps in my smile; the time when I was friends with the Avengers; the time when my feet couldn't touch the bottom of the pool; the time when I called swear words by their first letter; the time when my voice could reach an octave higher than it does today; the time when I could trust other people; the time when magic was real; the time when I hid in my bed from the witches and goblins; the time when I loved going to school; the time when I would dress up for Halloween; the time when I stayed up to meet Santa; the time when I loved the Tooth Fairy’s gifts; the time when my grandparents could run around with me; the time when my parents’ hair was brown and not grey. 

But you’re also the age when I stubbed my toe; the age when I bloodied myself after falling off a tricycle; the age when I first went green with envy for someone else’s toy; the age when my insides flipped out after I got kicked out of a birthday party; the age when the teacher mocked me in front of the whole class; the age when I got lost in a mall. 

You’re my lost hope, broken promises, soured joy, and forgotten memories. 

Life with you was deeply shallow and rapidly slow. I never realised what you were to me until you slipped out of my fingers like water. 

Because you’re my childhood. You’re my youth. You’re my innocence. 

You’re the missing part of me that I dream about. You’re the silver lining in every nightmare. You’re the only compass guiding me through life. 

I miss you. I love you. I need you. 

But I’m no longer the child I once was. 

I graduate from university today. Entering the world. Moving on with my life. 

This has grown old. Two years old. But I’ve thrown it all behind me now. I’m ready to turn the page. I’m ready to live again. 

I’ll always think about you. But now, it’s time to go. 

Love, 

Rex