Discarded Gems

DISCARDED GEMS

"Mom said that my treasured scrapbooks

were rubbish and threw them away.

She doesn't know that they were her treasure, too."

Overheard conversation of teens on the train. 2008

As the crumpled piece of paper danced on the whims of the wind, it fluttered from the motorway across the open fields, weaving through the tall grasses and wildflowers until it reached the outskirts of a quaint village. There, it skittered along the cobbled streets, past bustling markets and sleepy houses, until it finally came to rest against the weathered doorstep of a small, nondescript house.

Inside, an older man, Elias, lived a solitary existence. His days passed in a blur of routine. The monotony was broken only by occasional visits from nosy neighbours or the rare trip to the village square for supplies. But as he stepped outside to fetch the morning paper, his eyes caught sight of the crumpled paper lying at his feet.

Picking it up, Elias smoothed out the creases, revealing a single name: "Evelyn." At first, he dismissed a random piece of litter blown by the wind. But as he went about his day, the name nagged at the corners of his mind, refusing to be ignored.

Finally, he decided to inspect the crumpled parchment, lest it be an errant message from the elements or a purposeful communiqué left for his eyes alone. Retrieving it from the wastepaper basket, he settled himself into his armchair, unfolding the paper and laying it upon his lap. At first glance, he was convinced it must be a different scrap altogether, but he distinctly recalled only one piece in his possession. He realised his initial assessment was mistaken. It no longer bore the name "Evelyn," as he had previously surmised, but "Sophia."

Old Elias sighed with relief as he crumpled the parchment again and dropped it back into the bin. Rising from his seat, he slowly entered the kitchen to make himself a sandwich, thoughts lingering upon the curious incident.

Of course, it was merely an oversight! He reminisced on the name "Evelyn" for the first time in...What was it now? Fifty long years, at the very least. She had been his sweetheart in the days of yore, a distant era he could scarcely conjure. He hadn't even her photograph to jog his recollection. Why, indeed, had they parted ways? Ah, yes. He never liked thinking about it. It hadn't been solely his doing. She was such a jealous type and decided to sever ties over a trifling incident! Just because he kissed another girl. Why, damn, couldn't he? They were saying goodbye to many friends that day. No love was left when they bumped into each other 50 years ago. And no anger, either. "What was the name of that other girl?" He mused, pausing with a buttercup clutched in his hands. It nearly slipped from his grasp. "Sophia!" He exclaimed, stunned at the sudden recollection. Hastening back to the table as swiftly as his weary legs would carry him, he scrutinised the name on the weathered piece of paper. The paper crumbled so much that it became soft as toilet tissue, and he read "Betty."

"What are you trying to tell me?" He asked the piece of paper aloud. In response, it seemed to straighten out even more.

Magic! 

Standing in stunned silence for a time, he retreated to the kitchen table, laying the paper face down with care as he set about preparing his sandwich. Magic? Poppycock! Such a thing does not exist and could not get him. He decided not to think about Evelyn, Sophia, or Betty this time. However, the first thing he remembered was the painful slap on the face when he told Betty that she must not wait for him, falsely claiming indifference to spare her heartache should he not return from war. He thought he was doing the right thing. He didn't want her to suffer and told her he did not love her at all.

Oh, the foolishness of youth, he reflected bitterly. Finishing his lunch, he brewed himself a cup of tea. He came to the paper with his mug and stared at it awhile. The paper looked old indeed. It was yellowish, ripped from a notebook or a diary. His mind drifted to nights spent scribbling in those pages, seeking solace in fleeting romances amidst the chaos of battle. What was the name of the nurse who tended to him in the military hospital? Agnes? Ada? Abigail? Anna? She was so good in bed manners… and in bed like no one he knew back then. He turned the paper over with a trembling hand, revealing the name "Abigail."

This time, he was not surprised. Magic, ha! He took his tea to the living room and soon started his daily routine, reading a newspaper, dusting his library, watering his houseplants, and taking his dog for a walk. Each time he glanced at the paper, the name seemed to change, cycling through an endless array of women's names. This time, he was not surprised. Magic, ha! He took his tea to the living room and soon started his daily routine, reading a newspaper, dusting his library, watering his houseplants, and taking his dog for a walk. Each time he glanced at the paper, the name seemed to change, cycling through an endless array of women's names. Jean, Cora, Bertha, Collette… so many more!

As night fell and Elias drifted into slumber, he found himself amidst a bustling train station in his dreams, surrounded by the spectres of his past. Faces once familiar now passed him as strangers, some casting disdainful glances in his direction. He longed to reach out, to bridge the chasm of time and distance, yet fear held him fast. One of these women with a vaguely familiar red beret on her blonde locks turned around as she passed by. Elias was sure he heard the single word she dropped. He wasn’t sure he heard it right.

With the dawn, he awoke and found the piece of paper on his pillow. He thought he left it in the kitchen. Mildred's name was written on it. She used to wear red hats in 1948. At the same time, Elias remembered the word she dropped for him: "Gems". But what does this mean? The word wasn't that strange. It's also related to his past.

Perplexed and intrigued, Elias couldn't shake the conviction that there was some reason for this mysterious piece of paper and his dream. With each passing hour, his curiosity grew until it consumed him entirely. He spent half the day poring over old journals and dusty manuscripts in his trunk on the loft, searching for what might explain the strange phenomenon.

Eventually, he found it. His long-forgotten manuscript of the fantasy novel "Discarded Gems". It was never published because he was going through his separation from another lover he betrayed, Alice. 

How could she leave him after he named the character after her? She was his Muse, his true inspiration and soulmate, and she failed to appreciate it. Yes, he cheated during his work trip, but he never stopped thinking of Alice. Mildred was a work colleague, and it only happened once when he was drunk. It was nothing! Nothing...

Elias's watery eyes behind the thick glasses turned to the sky in the loft's small window. To him! It was nothing to him. She was devastated, and he chose to remain blind to her pain. He did not want to be in the wrong so much that he threw her away like a candy wrapper... So much for a soulmate? He didn't know the meaning of the word in his thirties.

“I am sorry, Alice,” he said to a piece of paper with her name on it, thinking it shifted a little as if from the draft. Did it follow him to the loft?

Elias took the bundle of dusty pages of the typed-up manuscript, fastened with an old shoelace, and untied the knot. He turned page after page, not recognising his writing anymore. What a rubbish! No wonder Alice didn't like this novel. How could he write so badly? 

And then Elias stopped. Did he write this passage, too? He has no memory of it at all.

His protagonist walked along the railway at the station and peered into the faces of women hurrying past him about their business. They were young and beautiful. And he thought that any of them could fall in love with him if they knew him better. Each of them could make him happy. He could have married one of them and had children, but he was not cut out for family life. But now his angry girlfriend Alice had not met him at the station. All these women are meeting someone else. One of those women could have been pure gold. Every year of his youth was a gem. He will grow old and die alone.

Elias turned the page. But all the following ones were empty. Did he really not finish writing this novel? The old man could not remember, no matter how hard he tried. No wonder. He doesn’t even remember writing those last words. But how was it written almost about him? He also turned out to be not a family kind of guy. At least, that's what he used to think. When he stopped being afraid of women at eighteen, he was sure, just like his father, they were all silly and frivolous. Then Elias was convinced that the main thing was to have a good time, and serious feelings were yet to come. Closer to forty, he became arrogant and condescending until he discovered that even his peers stopped liking him, never mind the younger women. Now, only the neighbour two houses away talked to him. She was a clingy old lady, and he tried to avoid her chattering about the weather and cats.

Women were changing too. In his father's time, ladies were more reliable and more respectful towards men. They... didn’t know so much.

So what about all those names written on a piece of enchanted paper? The cursed thing deliberately prompted recollections of the women he had left behind, summoning forgotten names and stirring memories of their faces, voices, and changes in fashion. He remembered when they stopped wearing bright red lipstick and began paying for restaurant meals.

It became evident to Elias that these names were not merely arbitrary but glimpses into the divergent paths his life might have taken had he made different choices. This realisation filled him with wonder and regret as he contemplated the possibilities beyond his grasp.

Yet, the magic of the diary page seemed to fade. It stopped following him from room to room. One name remained constant throughout the evening and into the following morning: Iris. Elias racked his memory but couldn't recall any significant connection to any Iris. The last mistress he boasted about to his long-departed mates at the pub was Ruth, who happened to be his co-worker's wife. Elias hadn't pursued another romantic relationship since his return from the hospital at sixty-two. Now, he has entered the new millennia and his eighties; he was truly puzzled over the mystery of this unfamiliar name.

Another day passed, consumed by the enigma of the magical paper, until enlightenment dawned upon him. He realised he still had time left, albeit limited. He couldn't rewrite the past or rectify his mistakes, nor could he seek forgiveness from those he had wronged. Happiness wasn't something owed to him by others; perhaps, it was something he could still offer to someone else.

With newfound purpose, Elias prepared himself and set out, adorned with a fresh demeanour and a couple of lilies from his garden. He headed toward the cottage two houses away, where an old woman resided—a woman named Iris, he vaguely remembered.

As for what became of him next or why the magical paper was never found again, that remains unknown. 

Epilogue

A young rabbit, barely a year old, nibbled on a blade of grass, observing the flurry of vehicles speeding along the nearby highway. Occasionally, debris such as tin cans or discarded food wrappers would be flung out of passing car windows, accumulating along the roadside. Despite this, the rabbit had yet to witness the arrival of a clean-up crew or community service workers tasked with clearing away the litter.

One particular yellowed piece of paper fluttered beside the rabbit, prompting it to retreat further into the safety of the thicket. On it was written a single name: Tristan. However, the rabbit had never learned to read. Moments later, it appeared like the wind whisked the paper away, carrying it toward the local park.