4000 Page Autobiography

TRIGGER WARNING: a school bus and civilian collision described somewhat explicitly.

Melony’s flight left at dawn, and there she was at midnight in her home office, her industrial printer in full swing belching out her 4000-page autobiography. Her black cat precariously perched at the top of her arm chair, moonlight spotlighting her in witch-like lore, squinted down at her in a matter of judgment, wondering how Melony planned to fit her manuscript into her mini suitcase. “Don’t worry, Luna, I’ve got this.”

   Her cat purred and raised her chin in defiance and skepticism. 

   Melony enclosed each 50-page stack with jumbo paper clips and chucked them into her suitcase, making sure to attach a sticky note to each pile with a number: one, two, three, and so on, just to be orderly. 

   Her breath faltered when her suitcase was running out of space. Her cat meowed in scolding. “I get it, Luna. I’m an idiot.” Luna rested her chin back on her paw in resignation. 

   There was a world-wide hack with Email and WhatsApp—an undefined hacking group had been stealing personal data from users so to be safe, Melony insisted on hand delivering a hard copy version of her manuscript to her editor who lived in London. 

   Her editor was not very enthused about this news because that meant worlds more work to do. Imagine trying to shorten a million-word manuscript to fit industry standards! It was impossible and her editor questioned how she’d done it all those times before and not died in the process or taken a year’s worth of vacation time to forget the torture. Melony never picked up on her editor’s contention because to her writing this many words was commonplace.

   Many speculated that she had some sort of condition and hadn’t been officially diagnosed yet but really, Melony had a fear of forgetting things. It started in her childhood, one day in spring when this piercing voice shouted out her name and then there was a crash—a ringing crash, the one that echoed in the sky even after it ended and fell silent when the black birds flapped out of the trees to fly in a circle above death. 

   She was only five years old when it happened. Her father stood with her in this quiet field and she was so preoccupied picking the bobbing daisies she hadn’t noticed her mother had gone to the store and as she crossed the road to come back a school bus slammed into her, sending her flying. She died instantly on impact and her father watched this scene play out before him and he couldn’t process it—like a movie scene: it wasn’t real…That was the line her father had repeated: ‘this isn’t real, this isn’t real.’ Melony tugged on her father’s country overalls and swished the bouquet of daisies up for him to see but his face was soulless. The bus driver was pacing, holding his head, on the phone with 911. Melony eventually turned to see what her father was looking at and she took in the whole scene: she noticed a limp body, the red blood dripping onto the road, but couldn’t register that it was her mother who was dead. She noticed the birds up high flying in a circle but couldn’t understand it. She noticed the bus driver, his yellow bus, the store and the clear sky. She remembered how the daisies’ stems felt clutched in her tiny palm, but she could not remember the pain of losing someone she was supposed to love. The stories people told her weren't enough to make her feel anything like nostalgia for her mother, or remember the memories they supposedly had singing in the kitchen. Her mother was just a blank page to her.

   “Dammit. Where am I going to find another suitcase on such short notice? The stores won’t be open…” A thought struck her, one she wasn’t all too excited about. “There is Vincent…Oh, but I don’t wanna!” 

   Vincent was her next door neighbour and sworn rival since freshman year of highschool. He always loved outdoing her in the things she cared for. Like, that time she nominated herself to be Class President, he also nominated himself—and won! That time she entered the school’s bake-athon and he vowed to beat her—and did! And the other time she entered into the 400m race at their school’s sport’s day and he said ‘watch me outrun you, Melon’—and what do you know, he ran through that red ribbon like a lightning bolt, fast and striking, the whole crowd cheering for him! She had enough of him kicking her down to size so she leaned into her talents and promised to be successful—which she was. She could finally claim that she was better than him at something. 

   At the peak of her career, he challenged her and said that he’d outperform her in her genre category on Amazon. It took him some time but a couple months ago she saw that in the slice of life category, his book viciously topping hers. That was her last straw. She didn’t want to see his face again. 

   Although, that didn’t stop her from peeking through her downstairs curtain to eavesdrop on him. These days, ever since his book gained popularity, he’d been in and out of his house, frequently loading suitcases into his new shiny black convertible, presumably taking first-class trips to exotic countries. He had money to splurge—with his new found source of income from his plaything side gig. 

   Unlike her, he had a stable income coming in from the car dealership he owned downtown so he wasn’t badly off to begin with but the extra money seemed to put him in a more relaxed position. She’d noted too that every time he came back from these vacations he’d have two extra suitcases amongst him. He would surely have the kind of suitcase she needed to fit her manuscript but the problem was, would he loan it to her? Would she have to get on her knees and beg? Pay him an amount she couldn’t afford? She wouldn’t put it past him to request something extreme. Luna realised she had on her contemplation face: frowning eyebrows, an anxious look in her eyes and her fingers sliding in and out of each other like choppy waves. Luna meowed some encouragement to Melony. “I have to, don’t I?”

   Her cat jerked her paw up and down, like some Chinese automated cat figurine, signaling for her to go. 

   “Alright-alright. I’ll go. I’ll…I’ll even beg on my knees if I have to!”

   She slipped her fluffy-socked feet into her flip-flops and headed out into the cold night with her hands stuffed in her hoodie’s pockets.

  She hadn’t left her house in ages—as you might imagine she was busy typing up her unnecessarily long autobiography. She spent the longest time writing this specific manuscript because she wanted to get each detail as right as she could, after not remembering much from her mother’s crash. The autobiography was centered around the foggy memories of that fateful spring day in the field but was also about now, a confusing time where she’d supposedly ‘made it’ as a writer, having gained the New York Times Bestselling Author title for majority of her slice of life books. It pondered the questions of what was life supposed to be after the thrill and arrival of ‘the dream’. Was she meant to start a family now? Get married to a no-fun type of guy? Have fifteen kids with him? Or travel? She didn’t desire these things, per se. She got accustomed to the isolation of her house, being away from family and just being content with her cat, Luna. Her mornings were defined by five cups of coffee; the afternoons, her trip to the store for ink cartridges and more than ten packs of 500-stack paper; the evenings reserved for thought and reflection in her journal. And in between these times, peeking out her window at the world outside her confinement, at Vincent who left constantly to experience the vastness of the world, and the kids who rode by with their bicycles and floppy hair. 

   She stood on Vincent’s porch, staring at the YOU’RE NOT WELCOME sign on his door. She scoffed, and blew a rogue curl from her forehead. 

   After a frosty breath she knocked two fingers on his door and waited. CREAK, CREAK, CREAK, the floorboards went. Then Vincent peeked his sleepy head out. “What the fuck? Melon?”

   “Oh, will you stop with that nickname, Vincent? You make it sound like I’m fat.”

   He sighed, having no energy to debate. “I don’t know if you’re aware but it’s midnight.”

   “Yes, I’m aware.” 

   “You’re standing on my porch...in those hideous flip-flops—and wearing socks?!”

   She cleared her throat. “It appears I am.”

   “And you’re talking to me, after you specifically said you won’t be doing that anymore—after I, you know, topped your book on Amazon—”

   “Hey, no need to rub salt on an old wound! I have a favour to ask. I’m…I’m willing to beg on my knees okay?!” 

   His eyes were awake now, looking rather curious.

   “Listen, okay. You know what’s been going on with the whole hacking thing. I’ve decided I’d take my manuscript to my editor. She lives in London. I have a flight in a couple of hours and it can’t fit in my suitcase…”

   “I’m sorry, what can’t fit in your suitcase?”

   “My manuscript.”

   His eyebrows furrowed, thoroughly confused. “What do you mean it can’t fit? How tiny is your suitcase?”

   “It’s four thousand pages, okay—”

   He gasped. “Your manuscript?!”

   “Yeah.”

   “I don’t have words for that.”

   “Yeah, I’ve always been better at that than you, words…”

   He put a hand on the doorframe and said, “Let me get this right. You’re carrying four thousand pages worth of manuscript in a suitcase to your editor.”

   “Yes.”

   “And you didn’t think to put it on a flash drive instead?”

   Her mouth widened, almost as if she’d just remembered that alternative. “Um, well, what if someone stole it? Or it had gotten lost? Think about it. No one would steal a suitcase full of paper.”

   He considered this and shrugged. “I pray for your editor then.”

   “She’s perfectly fine!”

   He scoffed. “I beg to differ, Melon.”

   “Hey! I’m not a melon!”

   “Sure…” He wasn’t going to explain the nickname to her because she already decided the meaning on her own.

   “I need you to loan me one of your suitcases. I know you have quite a stash.”

   “Oh, hey, spying on me recently?”

   She pressed her lips together and looked up to his awning. 

   “I’ll let you borrow one,” he conceded.

   “Really?!”

   He nodded. “If…”

   “Of course there’s a caveat.”

   “Always. If you say that ‘Vincent is the best’ then I’ll let you pick out the suitcase yourself. As you said, I have quite the stash.”

   “Seriously?”

   He folded his arms. “Seriously.”

   She cleared her throat, her hands falling to her sides. She looked into his eyes and twisted her lips before saying: “Vincent…Vincent…”

   He smiled with an amused flare in his eyebrows. “Oh, come on. Say it.”

   “Vincent is…the best.” She groaned. “There I said it.”

   “Okay, Melon, you can enter now.” He stepped aside to let her pass. “Door to your right.”

   She pushed the door open and—my…A shiny room filled with suitcases in the hundreds it seemed. “Why the hell do you need this many suitcases? I mean a whole room is crazy.”

   “Says the woman who wrote four thousand pages—which is more crazy by the way. I doubt anyone has that much to say.”

   “You’re right. All I have is questions. So many unanswered questions which I attempt to answer on my own…” She strolled the room full of suitcases, scoping out the big ones. She skimmed her hand down a few.

   “Questions that fill four thousand pages?”

   “Yeah. Why do you have so many suitcases? Are you trying to escape something?”

   “How’d you come to that conclusion?” He followed behind her, his eyes drawn back to her flip-flops and fluffy socks combination. He silently judged her but tried to keep his thoughts at bay. She suddenly bent over and he halted just in time before he collided into her. 

   “This one seems sizable.”

   “Yeah…” His gaze was caught on another sizable thing and it wasn’t the suitcase. 

   In highschool, during gym class, everyone had to wear these grey sweatpants and Melony’s ass was unmistakable; he’d have a hard time not staring as she ran ahead of him. It took a lot of training to eventually outrun her.

  It was embarrassing really, having a silly little fascination for his rival. All these years he’d been trying to get over it. When she decided not to speak to him anymore, he figured he wouldn't be seeing much of her but during his trips away he always wondered what she was up to and he’d kick himself every time for doing it. “Melony,” he said without much thought. 

   “What? Hey, I think I’ll take this suitcase.” She pointed to a sleek black suitcase that was quite sizable indeed.

   “Yeah, um, sure. Take it.”

   She looked at him with a question mark on her face. “What is it? You seem like you have something to say.”

   “When does your flight leave?”

   “Six...Why?”

   He scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, um, no reason.”

   She sighed, raising up the handle of the suitcase and pulling it away. “Thanks again. I’ll bring it back in one piece. I’ll be two days—”

   “Melony, wait.” He grabbed her hand and she turned back startled. 

   “What now, Vincent? I have to pack my manuscript—”

   “I have been trying to escape.”

   “What…? I don’t understand—”

   His face got all fired up. “Escaping you was the main reason for my sudden interest in travels…That and the fact that I had the means to run away from my dull life.”

   “Are you trying to rub it in here?”

   “No, what I’m saying is, I don’t think I want to run away anymore. I want to face this. To face you. I want to end our rivalry today.”

   “Why? I still don’t understand—”

   His heart was exploding now and he said with vigor: “I have a thing for you. An odd thing, and it’s been so long.”

   “The suitcase?”

   He sighed. “Not the suitcase, you dummy! Feelings. I’ve had feelings for you. Or, maybe fascination is a better word.”

   She put the pieces together in her head. A thing for her? Feelings? Fascination? “Are you admitting you’re impressed with my writing? And you finally have the courage to ask for my autograph—?”

   “You!” His face twisted and squinted at her. “You’re annoying, you know that!”

   “Well, so are you!” 

   She pulled the suitcase with her and steamed off. Vincent, after a second, chased after her. “It started with your ass!”

   Her head jerked over her shoulder. “I beg your FINEST pardon?!”

   “It’s hard to summarize my entire maturation of feelings or fascinations for you but I know it started in gym class. You were running behind me and all I could see was…well, your ass.”

   She scoffed. “You sick pervert.”

   “Hey, why do you think I called you Melon? You should look at yourself in the mirror. You’ll understand my point of view. Anyway, it started then. And I guess I enjoyed the look on your face when I beat you at our unofficial competitions. Your lips pouted in this way—it was cute! And so I guess I wanted to see that look again...” 

   Just as Melony attempted to fit her entire life into a suitcase, Vincent tried to summarize a very confusing yet whimsical chunk of his life to her right now on this cold, foggy midnight, hoping she’d understand him. But who could do it? Try to fit a lifetime or even part of it into a few minutes, or a million words, and hope someone would cherish it and love it and give them answers to something so complex as feelings and lost memories? It was hard to ask this much of someone because people were just trying to get by and do the very hard thing of understanding themselves. “Vincent…This is too much to process...It’s coming out of nowhere and I have a flight in a few hours—”

   “I know. I know that but I had this chance and I’m realizing I can’t keep my feelings to myself anymore. When you get back can we talk? Can you indulge me a little?”

   “Um, maybe…? I’ll have to think about it.”

   “Okay…Do you need a ride to the airport or help packing your manuscript?”   

   “No need. I called an uber. And, my cat doesn’t like visitors.”

   “Right…” He scratched his head. “Well, see you in a few days?”

   “Maybe.”

   She headed back to her house and organized her stacks in the suitcase. As she leaned in close, Vincent’s scent caught in her nose. Like scents do, they trigger a person to reflect. 

   What was her life to be after all this, she wondered? After her trip, she’d just write another book, hiding in the words of her manuscript. Drink coffee. Go to the store to buy ink and paper. Reflect and ponder things in her journal. 

   Between the words she wrote were unanswered questions but also a longing for love; it didn’t click until now, until she was on her knees packing her life away to ship elsewhere. Maybe life didn’t need to be this way anymore, maybe she could live instead of summarizing and recalling the details. Maybe she could make a new life with new details to replace the old ones. 

   Vincent’s scent was comforting in this lonely office. It reminded her of an embrace she’d long since forgotten.