Polyphony

1

Late at night I left, a few hours before dawn. There was no light but of the moon and dim ugly poles. I couldn’t yet grasp the notion of why I left, but I had no intentions of returning, no, I can’t return. Until I find what I seek, I will leave everything behind. In the drawer, there was a scrapbook. I held it tightly and closed my eyes tracing my fingers on it as if I was trying to memorize its texture. I put it back, hands shaking clumsily. I closed the door and another door. I was gone.

I want to float. Trains come and go. Which one will I ride? Arrays found their rest on my cheeks and forehead. I stared back for a few seconds until a tingle spread through my eyes diverting my head back to look where I put my feet. It was sunny that day too. It was in the summer, but now it’s winter. It was one of those days with a clear sky and not a single cloud. My body ached as I stood from the bench. A couple of hours passed and I needed to decide my destination. I wanted to go as far as possible for no apparent reason. We were on a family trip last summer. The four of us were laying on the beach. Skin turning red under the glistening sun. I wish those moments could’ve lasted forever, but they won’t. Nothing lasts. Trains still come and go; I should go too.

One day, Sam slipped and it was never the same. At least for me.

In my sleep, I could hear a shriek and a splash. When I close my eyes, I see him floating. A few inches away I froze. We threw stones and counted the leaps. A wooden bridge creaked on every step. Sam pretends to lose his footing and then laughs at me when he notices my glare of frustration. One time, I was waiting for his laugh but he only shrieked. The glare was his that time. Eyes begging for the rescue and a stunned statue watching until it was too late. Three days after, he was floating. His eyes were still glaring at me and only me. If I wasn’t useless nothing would’ve happened. But I was. And I was ready to face the blames, but none pledged me guilty. Mom hugged me tightly and told me that it wasn’t my fault as my dad looked at me worriedly. On the phone, I only talked vaguely. The hug and their comforting nature were only a confirmation that I had screwed up. They said that it wasn’t my fault, but I only heard the opposite for it was true. They were unwilling to confront the truth: I had killed Sam.

. It was closure that I sought. I gazed out of the window next to me. It wasn’t as boiling as it was in the morning. It was more winterlike. I should have brought a book, but I wanted to leave everything behind. Again, why did I leave? I don’t know yet, probably will never do. Maybe I wanted action. Or a reaction. I don’t. I suddenly had the urge in my bones to stand up and leave. I stood in my room, holding a scrapbook full of old pictures of us together. I brought it close to my chest and then left.

***

He wandered, and I wandered behind. It was wandering too. We were all running in an infinite circle. In a moment I realized that the tables have turned, that I was all alone.

***

The next day, I woke up on a wet pillow. There were no lights yet, and the wind was brushing through the window before I shut it regaining some of the calm and quietness. I woke up again on the same wet pillow. There was no wind this time, but sun rays penetrating the glasses and interrupting my slumber. The sound of pans clanking and the water running showed me that I wasn’t the only one up. As I climbed down, I could hear my mother’s humming from the kitchen stop, she turned back facing me and said: “Oh! You’re finally awake.” And went back to what she was doing. On the dinner table, there were three plates instead of four. My dad in the living room bursting with laughter as he watched a morning talk show. I didn’t get to know what we were having for breakfast as it was only a few seconds before my mouth tasted strange and was flooded with saliva. I headed straight to the bathroom and then to my room.

I was engulfed in my brain tied down by memories.

It was a mild sunny day in the last week of June. The day I killed my brother. A normal stroll wouldn’t normally harm. The sound of the water ruffling and hitting the edges of the dock in harmony is still in my head like a polyphony that had been played for eternity and beyond. A window was creaking far away. There was laughter and dizziness. And then nothing. 

I cried only once after school. Luckily I was all alone when I felt something wet pouring out on my cheeks, and a sting in my eye. The once-suppression was finally pouring, of freedom more than of sadness and guilt. I didn’t want someone to see me in that state fearing that someone would ask me about it. I wanted to conceal my feelings in my heart, just for myself. For I feared that no one would understand. And when I left everything: my home and the scrapbook full of pictures of me and Sam in the drawer, I only took them with me. Maybe it was closure that I seek and maybe not. But I am sure that I sought grief. Maybe the guilt wasn’t because I think that I could’ve prevented it, but because I, like everybody, didn’t respect what happened. We went on with our lives as quickly as possible with no regard that if something really happened. I don’t know. Never will. Probably. I have no clue why I am even doing this.

A blonde lady sitting across from me looked at me with worry. She handed me a napkin hesitantly. As I grabbed it from her, I started exploring the possibility of small talk, of a total stranger asking me “what’s wrong?” If she asked, strangely enough, I wouldn’t resist. I would say everything that I couldn’t say. I wouldn’t hold back. I’m sure I would explode. She, obviously, did nothing though. I thanked her with a nod and we both minded our business. I will probably never tell anyone about this. For I think I won’t be understood. For I think that despite being true to myself, one may say that I am being melodramatic. He or she wouldn’t say it but will think it while giving a hug and showing compassion. I will never say that I always felt responsible for the death of Sam. I witnessed, no, watched him grasp his last breath. I stood unshaken. I was startled and couldn’t move a muscle as I watched him begging his sister, me, for help. And I watched with anticipation. Part of my brain was telling me that there’s a chance that this was a joke, a silly prank, another part knew that this was full of crap, that it was as real as the burning sun in the sky. The problem was that I didn’t know which part to act on. I was oblivious to what to do. Strangely enough, no one blamed me. They didn’t see me innocent as I wasn’t even a suspect. Truthfully, I was a murderer. Nothing could change that. Not even this pointless trip.

2

Days passed and the anguish only grew stronger. I was back at home with nothing but a failure. I failed, not because I backed down, but the lack of what I sought and couldn’t get only filled me with emptiness. Only the train rumbling with other passing trains and its wheels squeaking. I boarded a train with determination, got down hesitatingly, and then boarded another one back with dismay. When I was back at home, I was welcomed with a delicious aroma, and mom asking where I was from the tip of her tongue. I told her that I was with some friends. She didn’t ask who or where and why I didn’t tell her beforehand and went back to the kitchen leaving me to my thoughts. Up the stairs, I could hear her murmuring and humming a distant song. I knew the slam of the door would infuriate her, but for the wrong reasons. There I slept hoping to not dream.

***

He ran towards a lamp and went right through it unharmed. A clock tower was faster than time. Hours passed in seconds or minutes, and with every hour passing the clock screamed. I run towards the boy and away from the clock; he did the same. Only the echoes of our footsteps on the asphalt are audible between the screams. I stepped over something that almost pierced my bare feet. It was a sharp earplug. The screams only grew louder, and the pauses quieter. I turn around while keeping the boy in my peripheral vision. I see that the clock was chasing us. I ran as fast as I could while not being able to get past the boy, whom now I can see a beard growing on his face. The squeals are deafening. The tower is gawking. I raise my hands level with my face, hands now full of wrinkles, I see the earplugs hidden behind a mass of flesh. The clock’s squeals went mute as I plugged them. A warm sensation hit me on the sides of my neck. It was a transparent liquid that originated from my ears. There were no more squeals nor footsteps that can be heard. On the horizon there was nothing, the boy wasn’t there as if he disappeared into thin air. I turn back to see if I am still chased. I wasn’t. The clock stood still and next to it was the boy holding to and hanging from the clock’s minutes’ hand. His face had no apparent features but it felt recognizable. Both the boy and the clock were smiling at me malevolently. I and the boy are still aging rapidly. I saw his mouth moving trying to tell me something but I couldn’t grasp what he was trying to say. Nonetheless, I need to keep running. I turn around but my legs started to feel heavy. My body following suit, I fell on the ground; no agony whatsoever. The boy still speaking, and the clock smiling. Warm liquid on my neck running. Numbness in all of my body. The boy is aging and starting over from youth. I am only aging and he is starting over, and over, and over, and over.

***

Again, I wake up on a wet pillow. Mom humming the same song. It’s probably a Saturday, dad isn’t home though. To my right, a dove passes by and disappears behind the right window frame. It was a rare sight. I move towards the window and open it. I followed the dove with my eyes until it disappeared from my vision. The weather is clear and the sun isn’t as radiant as the cloudless sky unveils. The air nicely tickles my nose. It smells of the sea. I close the blinds and hold a scrapbook level with my chest. My grip tightens but the wind brushes against the blinds as if it was bustling me to go, leading me to leave the scrapbook on the drawer. I bid my mother farewell as I head out to enjoy it even more. Closer to the sea, the better. Nearing the end of our street and heading to the docks I see the dove again. Flying with jolly in front of me as if I was playing with her. She seems to head to where I am going so it’s no harm. I follow it with my eyes and feet. Having never spectated any bird this closely before, her graciousness of flying captivates me that I almost lose my footing multiple times. I hold my skirt as we reach the dock; the breeze is stronger and misty. I squint my eyes while trying not to lose the dove in the process. The rear end of the docks is close by but it doesn’t seem to matter for the dove. It still flies graciously forward. I wonder if I should follow suit, enjoy the breeze more, and abandon the limits. For are few seconds I was reluctant to follow the dove with anything other than my eyes. Though, from the very beginning, I knew that I will follow the dove and Sam towards the end.