The Sounds of Beginnings

Trigger warning: suicide

I had always enjoyed waking up in my college dorm. I am, in every sense of the expression, an early bird, and I was accustomed to waking before my roommate, or anyone on my level for that matter. 

This practice, if one can call it that, had given me a sense of superiority; it was as if the symphony of noises that marked the morning greeted me, and only me. I studied in New York, but not at a large private school in the city, our campus was nearly an hour away from Manhattan. So these aforementioned “morning noises” were not taxis, sirens, and construction work, but more suburban: birds, wind, the occasional sound of a bus or train.

It was my last day of college, the end of school, and the beginning of adulthood. I was 24. It had been a year, 5 months, and 14 days since Eli killed himself; a year, 6 months and 10 days since Zelko died; 19 years since I had last seen my parents. (Remembering these numbers was never a fun task, but I constantly kept track of them in my head then, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop.)

And, incidentally, the best of those 19 years were spent in college. Nearly every part of the system was rhapsodic: the professors, the freedom, the intellect of those around you. So you may understand why this final morning was so disheartening for me. 

The only truly awful part of college was the dorm itself. It was small, so it became stuffy and hot in the humidity of New York summers very quickly. I opened the windows as much as the locks would allow and turned on the little metal fan that I kept on my desk. I then splayed myself out on the bed and dug my face into the sheets. There was a slight metallic smell to the bed covers that the school provided, and as I buried my face in them, my nose stung in the same way one’s lips purse when tasting their own blood. The noise from the fan, that incessant clattering, was circular and piercing, and I felt it would ingrain itself in my mind if I laid there any longer. I felt I’d go deaf if I didn’t get up and turn off that fan in an instant, but luckily, others in the building began to wake, and they muffled that sound with their own symphony of routine.

After a while of milling around my room, my clothes were packed and my roommate was gone. All that was left was to clear out a small drawer in the closet. Inside that small drawer, there was a box. It was made of a red-brown oak, and measured about 6 inches across, 2 inches high. It had originally belonged to my mother, so it was adorned with some flowery carvings and her initials— A.W. I don’t remember the box mentioned in their will, but among the three of us, Eli and Judy and I, it had landed in my possession. Under my possession, it was filled to the brim with clippings, photographs, letters, and some old diaries that just barely fit inside. 

However, before I even opened the damned thing, I thought of Anne, and not for the only time that day. My mother’s name was Akiko (Japanese, for those frantically finding an encyclopedia on name origins) but, as I’m sure many children do, I never associated the letter A with her. More frequently, seeing an M would remind me of my mummy or mama, or if you’re lucky enough to know her longer, your mom. Not A for Akiko. Anne’s name was the first to come to mind at my glance of that letter A carved so delicately in the corner of the box. And when I remembered what was inside the box, I nearly tore the hinges off it. 

After a few moments of digging, I found the letter. The first letter Anne had ever sent me. June 4, 1954, posted in Anaheim, California. Anaheim: the same location listed on the train ticket that stuck out the pocket of my messenger bag. That little slip of paper haunted me now, teased me, sucking up the sentimentality of the letter A for my least favorite place in the world. I shook off the ticket and turned back to the letter. 

Anne always had the neatest script. She’d learned shorthand when she was 15, but you wouldn’t be able to tell: her script wasn’t littered with those awfully ambiguous loops. 

Anne and I were both, to put it bluntly, nerds. We loved exchanging letters, simply for the premise of writing down things we may have been too afraid to say. We attended the same school and saw each other all the time, but the world we fabricated within those letters was a type of connection I truly believe only comes around once in a lifetime. Buddhism has beliefs rooted in soulmates, and although I’m unsure if she is a romantic soulmate of mine, I’m almost certain she is a general soulmate of mine, at least in the sense that our incarnations were meant to find one another. I saved every last note, letter, and photograph I had of Anne since we parted, and when college became too lonely, I would read them occasionally. To give you a sense of our exchanges, I’ll insert a small excerpt (slightly paraphrased, to maintain some privacy). 

I am terribly fascinated by your definition of perfection, Charlie. You say perfection is a matter of flawlessness. Of utter and complete goodness. But I have to disagree, my love. I interpret that word as a state that is singular to one person or another. It can be a simple circumstance, like feeling your hand fit perfectly in mine, or a feeling, like the smile on my face when I receive a new letter from you. But it isn’t an idea of flawlessness. It's an idea that can describe the nuanced situations that, in my life, I find simply, utterly perfect. 

I couldn’t take the sappiness of the letters any longer (at least that’s what I told myself. I think, in actuality, I missed Anne so much I couldn’t bear to read another reason why I was a fool for leaving her) that I folded the paper up and took out a small red leather-bound notebook from the box. It was the diary I kept my freshman year of high school, and as I opened to the first page, I was reminded all over again of why I disliked California so much. 

WHY AM I ALWAYS SO UNHAPPY? was written at the top of the page. The rest of the entry went as follows (word for word this time, I have no shame). 

I try so hard to be friends with people. I really do. But they fail me. The world fails me time and time again. I wish everyone could just say what they think. Imagine the power that would hold. I could walk up to a group of people and explain my situation and ask to be friends. The next day we could be close and laughing like we’ve known each other for years. Or they could look at me like I’m insane. I could ask her, invite her over. I have so much power. So much power. Everyone does, and that’s what’s so scary. If all our thoughts were vocalized, I would be even lonelier than I am. If all our thoughts were vocalized, I would be happier than I am. The power we all have lies in our choices of what to say or not, when to say what we feel, what to even say, to begin with. That’s the power, the insane power we have, to change our lives. And yet I can’t even open my mouth and use it.

I had used it, eventually. Anne’s face materialized in my mind for the second time that day. I had used this so-called “power” that I wrote about at age 14 on Anne 3 years later. And we dated for 2 years. And I believe we fell in love. Real love, not just teenage lust. Yet this was one of the only real connections I had ever had with someone my age. When I look back on my high school years, Elijah, Anne, and Zelko were very likely my only friends. 

The speculation and brooding became too much for me, so I stood up and shoved the papers and diaries back into the box, then put the box into the last vacant corner of my suitcase. A glance at my wristwatch told me I had only a few minutes before the bus into the city was coming on campus. I would stay in a hotel for a night before heading back to Anaheim. As I walked toward my door for the last time (I had managed to keep the same dorm all 4 years, don’t ask how, it isn’t important, just know this was a very sentimental moment for your dramatic narrator), I noticed a rather awkwardly-shaped stain on the carpet near my desk. At first, I paid it no mind, thinking it might have been some spilled beverage from my roommate, but upon noting its color and apparent age, I was reminded. Reminded all over again of that horrific day, and somehow that memory made leaving the dorm that much easier. 

                                                ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ ۝ ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼

I walked aimlessly around the hotel room a few times, relishing in the freedom I had never quite tasted. For the next 24 hours before my train departed, I was totally and utterly free. From school and Judy. All people and obligations in the world outside that hotel room were null and void. I had no financial dependence on Judy, I had no dependence on school. I was staying in a hotel room paid for by me only, inhabited by me only. The joy plastered on my face was immeasurable, I’ll tell you that much. 

The phone on the bedside table seemed to twinkle at me every round I made around the room. Anne’s name continued to nag at me until I could take it no longer. I really ought to call her. I pulled out the address book from the front pocket of my messenger bag and spun the first few numbers around before I stopped. A knocking at the window (of my 5th story room, mind you) pulled me away from the task at hand. I shoved the small book of numbers in my vest pocket and observed the commotion.

A branch had snapped on a nearby tree, and the piece of wood was blowing rhythmically against my window. At that moment, I realized that I was stationed right above the old cemetery where Zelko had been buried. Leaning my hands on the window, I searched through the rows of headstones and monuments and thought about that evening, a year, 5 months and 14 days ago. 

Eli came over from California (he moved back post-college) and we stayed in my dorm at school, since Zelko was going to be buried in New York. We attended the thing, came back to my school on the same bus I had taken that day, and then Eli was gone too. 

Finally, I spotted Zelko’s grave on the far west side of the cemetery. (Looking back I’m not sure if it was really his, but let’s say it was for the sake of the story, yeah?) With impetus, I sprang up from my dream-like state and rushed out the door, barely remembering my key in my haste. 

                                                 ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ ۝ ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼

I sat down on the grass in front of his plaque, folding my knees up to my chest and hugging them close. At first, I only stared at him, the small piece of metal I had so frequently visited over long weekends, and when I could afford a bus ticket. I simply sat and enjoyed my friend’s company while the thoughts of the day swirled and bubbled around in my mind. 

Then, “Damn it Zelko why did you leave me? Why does everyone leave me?” I took my glasses off and pinched the bridge of my nose, breathing in deeply. “Why can’t I keep them? Why am I so awful? And unhappy? And unlikeable? I’ve never fit in anywhere, dammit!” I smacked the grass beside me in frustration. 

I was so damn cynical back then. I still am, sometimes. But I’ve realized since that sadness and evil are easier to attain and revert to, and that happiness and kindness take time and extra effort to practice. I was merely lazy, sitting there on the grass and blubbering over my dead English teacher’s grave. 

Still, those questions I had a terrible habit of asking never were quite answered at the time. Not in an explicit black and white way, anyways. I still wonder from time to time why it was so difficult for me to make friends, why it felt as though nobody my age understood me, why I had such poor memories of childhood, but I think I’ve come up with a more or less concrete understanding. 

I am mixed, in every aspect of my life. And in Anaheim, in the high school Judy wasted her savings on for us to attend, no one else was that way. My race is mixed, yes, but I feel it goes beyond that. My interests, my upbringing, my religion and culture, all mixed. And being mixed, at its very core, means to have pieces and portions of various traits. As lovely and well-rounded as it seems, it's somewhat awful when you are a sad and belligerent teenager. One who is mixed is never enough. Never enough of any of those traits, since one has only a portion of each of those traits. He is forced to occupy an external limbo-like state of observation. (Though I suppose this is beneficial as a writer, as most of our work comes from observation.)

In small towns, everything is black and white. In my high school, everything was black and white. But in the city, in New York, many more of these blacks and whites are muddled, closer to greys. In certain areas, of course, the black and white is stark. Even in college, there were only a few of my peers that I could really relate to, like Gabe. Yet the city as a whole, that was what I loved. The city felt like home, it felt mixed like me. 

“Zelko, I don’t know what to do,” I muttered into my lap. I had been pressing my eyes into my knees, and as I looked up at Zelko again, zig-zags of every shape and size flashed before me. I laughed. “God, why am I even talking to you. What did you become?” I smoothed my hand over the grass in the place I had hit. “That tree earlier? A little bird? No, you probably already reached Nirvana, didn’t you?”

Just then, a small yellow warbler (Gabe has his MA in ornithology, I know too much about birds) flew down from a tree and landed onto Zelko’s plaque, twisting its little head at me quizzically.

“No way. You sly, sly man.” A smile grew over my face. The bird flew back up into the tree and seemed to be hunting for a stick. After a moment, he grabbed what he had been looking for, swooped down over me, dropping the twigs, and flew away from the graveyard. I studied the brightly-colored animal for a few seconds before seeing what he had left. Sure enough, the sticks had been dropped in such a way that the letter A seemed to be presented on the grass, plain and clear. I ran a gentle hand over the sign. 

“You think I should go visit her? You think she’d let me stay with her for a while? I don’t think I can go back to California just yet.”

I let the question linger in the air for a while before I began to laugh. I laughed loudly, obnoxiously, and even rolled back onto the grass for a moment before sitting back up to face Zelko. 

“I just talked to a bird. I’m talking to a bird! God, I’m going mad.” I picked up the sticks and shoved them into my pocket next to the address book. “I’ll see ya, Zelko.” I walked away from the grave and straight into the nearest phone booth I could find. 

                                                     ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼ ۝ ⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼⎼

“Hey, Anne?”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” I didn’t want to waste a second of that call.” Listen, I know it’s been a while, but do you think I could stay with you for a bit?”

“Stay with me?”

I sighed, I swallowed, I spoke. “I miss you. And I can’t go back to Judy just yet.” The only sound on the other side was her breath, the little sounds she made as she thought, and I smiled thinking about how she probably looked, clutching the phone to her ear while she processed my proposition.

“Yes. What time will you get in?”