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“Helvítis... Hong! What are you doing up here? The meeting’s starting in five.”
You involuntarily halt in your steps towards the edge of the edifice, in an effort to resist the unknown, primal urge keeping you away from the heights it promises. You fight back, your sight clearing and fixating onto the banal majesty of the vista lain before your eyes, glassy and hollow as ever. There you are, the prospect of release, the so-called recipe of happiness, barely out of your futile reach. You’ve been waiting for so long, so long, for this one chance of salvation, this leap into the lighting void, away, away. Away from your sleepless nights, haunted by shadows, shadows of every decision of life and death made for you from birth, the constant reminder of your insignificance, that you never had a choice.
You remember grasping at every chance they have given you, every chance of a better life, the way a condescending emperor scatters largess to his starving descendants. You remember passively awaiting their protection and provision. But this, this jump, this take-off, it is not their decision. It is all yours. You are in control now, for once, and you decided to scale the heights, and soar like an eagle from its margins into the great beyond. It is the first time you held dominion over your own body, and his voice just has to deprive you of the hard-earned bliss.
“... and they’ve turned the whole building over looking for you. Taiwan… she’s almost murderous... Look, you fífl, I won’t pretend to know what happened, and I don’t pretend to understand… But I’m not leaving until you get down.”
Why? Why does his voice have to keep you back? Does he not know how much this means to you? If he were truly a friend, if he truly cared, he would leave you alone. He would let you make your choice. He would be glad for your decision, not only because you made it, but also because it was what you yourself wanted, desired, for too, too long.
Go away , you tell him, your voice alike a brittle stone, hard and fragile. If you cherished Death, if you cherished me, leave me be. Let me sleep a happy eternity.
You can only imagine what the owner of the voice, mildly concerned with confusion and extreme exasperation, is witnessing before him, whatever is unfolding before his ethereal magenta irises, the ones you had never been able to take your own hazel ones off of since that accidental glimpse caught, over 60 years ago. His face must be a deep rosy red by now, so much more accentuated by his pallid skin and even more ashen hair. Ha. Ashes. If you were born human you could have joined the ranks of the seventy children that took their lives and earned that privilege, the privilege of returning to ashes, beyond that fatal flight. But a state, menial as the one you are, never deserved these luxuries.
But then, a part of you knew that, until the day your bosses figured their crap out, every lost child would only be another insignificant code, another meaningless statistic. None, none of those children could rest their souls and gain their right of returning to ash until then. So neither could you.
Still you would like to leap, you would choose to leap. For another part of you knew it would come anyway, that sweet release, when China decided you were too much to handle and had Canton, the useful one, the mature one, take over. You would go to the dogs, you would have to vanish. It is just a matter of time before it happens, and you ardently believe that, if so, why not sooner? Instead of watching them gain the satisfaction of witnessing your breaking down, with a simple scribble over a rotten piece of paper, why not make a choice of your own, and take the plunge?
“No. I’m not moving, unless it’s to haul your ass back over here, and I’d rather you do it yourself.”
Fífl , you heard him mutter under his breath. You can imagine his face flushed, lips pursed, eyes squinting. You try hard to suppress a tiny smile at the thought, though you know he couldn’t see you, and remember you couldn’t actually see him. Lest you turned around.
But you cannot turn around. You must leap. Resist his chains, their chains, and leap.
Yet you know a part of you desperately longs to turn back and address him and drown yourself in his little awkward hugs and cool, glacial breath. You want to heed to his gentle voice, ever a source of comfort in those endless, restless nights despite being miles away, oceans away. China must have thought your recent fervour for reclamation was to get closer to him, an effort to reconnect with the elder brother who abandoned you to a complete stranger 175 years ago, but no. England must have thought it was to continue developing and growing on the foundation he'd lain for you, before he tossed you back into your real brother's hands and began the twenty-year pretense that you never existed to begin with, but no.
No. It is all a vain desire, an obstinate stupidity, compelling you towards the ashen island nation that accompanied you in your nightly battles against those voices and monsters infesting and corrupting your sanity, crumb by crumb. If the Jingwei bird could displace the sea, perhaps you, too, can build your way through the oceans to him. To his bashful smiles and into his world, ever reeling with the most fantastic sagas and wondrous fairy tales. Only then, would the voices leave you in peace, you thought. Only then, could you ever be whole.
He hasn’t yet moved. And neither have you.
Thirteen feet apart.
***
He was at one end of the conference table and England at the other. Late ‘58 or early ‘59, you couldn’t remember. All you knew was that it was something fishy, and the negotiations certainly did not go swimmingly. You were curled up in a corner, unsure of why you were even there to begin with, impatiently waiting for the ruckus to be over. Thirteen feet away he slammed on the table, the impact of which sent invisible waves undulating throughout the enclosed space, screaming what sounded to you was but nonsense. You jumped in fright and awe, and tilted your head upwards, a bit to the right, in curiosity, and laid eyes on him. Brown clad, ghostly complexion, platinum fringes, like nothing you had known before. As your gaze lingered on his flustered expression, that flushed face, those pursed lips, time seemed to have ceased, and the whole world melted into a rose-tinted lens centred only on those ireful irises of magenta. You were almost dreaming, and yelped a little too hard upon that self-inflicted pinch. He shifted his glare from your guardian to yourself, thirteen feet away.
Your eyes met. Your heartbeat stopped. Your mind went blank.
For half a day you simply stared, dumbfounded, at the agitated but so very charming man across the room, unwary of your indecency and lack of proper manners. It wasn’t until you were shoved out of the conference, when you received fully the livid British cold shoulder, that you realised you had been staring, that you had made a gravest mistake. Thirteen feet away.
***
“Hong, come on.”
Intently you stare down at the crossroads and pavements beneath you, the hundreds, thousands, flooding the streets in a sombre and lifeless parade. A vivacious scene delivered by ghastly players, none of them the principal, despite what they themselves may think otherwise. All marionettes on invisible strings, playing to the whims of authority. There are so many of them, you think. So many, it wouldn’t hurt if you fell. In the worst case scenario, you shall enter oblivion; in the best, you shall enter oblivion and salvage another unfortunate soul, from their dour, unmitigated routine of hell. It isn’t night, yet, but the voices returned. You have never seen them, you can barely acknowledge their menacing presence, but you know when they’re here. And here they are.
Pounding. Pounding. Pounding.
Spineless. Conceited. Cowardly. Vandal. Disrespectful. Loud. Undeserving. Deadbeat. Fake. Scoundrel. Radical. Stuck-up. Depressing. Savage. Whiny. Ungrateful. Egoistic. Bastard. Shame. Black sheep. Die. Die. Die. Die. Die.
Die.
***
Each morning you emerge from your dim-lit room, fatigued and drained, your walk lopsided.
Again? Hong Kong, how many times have I told you not to indulge yourself in those video games-aru? You never listen, do you-aru? Aiya! Look what that goddamned Brit has done to you-aru. So petulant and dishonourable! Even a piece of pork chop is better than the useless brat you’re becoming-aru!
You silently nod, archiving those repeated words into your inventory of nightly voices. You used to talk back, in vain attempts to justify your actions. But escaping from reality has never been a reason for you to do anything, especially not for nightly virtual battles, both in your MMORPGs and inside your own head, sometimes in those international long distance calls, too, when the soothing fairy tales made way for bottled-up frustration erupting like his many volcanoes. Even so, the last scenario seldom happens, with the worst case having occurred in 2011, and even that was much milder than what your own siblings, real or adopted, are capable of inflicting upon you, daily.
Each day you walk on the gaudy streets, taking in the humid, stuffy air that had displaced the fresh ocean breeze, the ones you used to know and bask in as a child, in the recent score. You pose yourself to be normal, humourous and laid back enough on a casual basis, efficient and no-nonsense enough when it comes to work. You think of beautiful things, of going on a hike along the MacLehose trail, or just lounging in that pathetic excuse of an apartment taking in the enticing elegance of nocturnes and symphonies or perhaps a hymn or a madrigal here and there. You have half the heart to pick up that forlorn cello, slumped against the southwest corner, or indulge yourself in the ivory keys. In a trance your fingers trace the dulcimer’s hundred strings, recalling its mellow resonance sounding as your bamboo sticks flit from one arpeggio to another like an agile butterfly. You still remember the music, you remember finding solace in it. You still do, but you cannot recall since when you had lost the urge to pick up the long unrosined bow, or lift the jet-black lid, or hold those hammers properly. You know you miss the feeling, and the happiness you could find within. You just can’t seem to pick yourself up. How long has it been this way?
Next to the cello, you observe, lay a langspil. The one he left at the dishevelled apartment two years ago, when he finally agreed to jam a duet with you, on your respective traditional zithers, after months of begging and feigned whining and maybe some verbal manipulation. Hours passed in nothing but polyphonic euphony, until he reached for your hand and laid it on his bow.
You play it like this. He demonstrated, his surprisingly warm hand enveloping yours, then abruptly stopped. Your hand… are you not feeling well?
You looked down onto your limb, cold as always, now trembling uncontrollably. You knew it was the night, the tire, but you mustered a plastic smile, as you’ve always done, and told him you were fine.
Nonsense. His silver brows furrowed, his silky voice stern and hardened. It was the news, wasn’t it?
You blinked blankly, unsure of what -- which -- he was alluding to, the shaking crawling up your veins into your entire being.
I… I read about it, you fífl. The unrest. The miscarriages of justice. The suicides. The magenta orbs narrowed, his arms flung around your body, his concerned breath warm, so warm, against your frigid skin. Look, I won’t pretend to know what actually happened, and I don’t pretend to understand… But I’m not leaving you like this. Not until your mind has registered what you’re really going through, and let your body rest…
***
Let my body rest. You plaintively sigh, your fingers twitching involuntarily, your teeth chattering. Please. Let me fly. I need rest.
“It’s the news, isn’t it?”
Not a word.
You couldn’t hold it in, not anymore. It was as if you lay completely naked before his intense magenta gaze. All the control over yourself you had with so much difficulty, so much laboured courage, garnered, collapsing at once into the pile of mess that was your body, slumped on the stiff concrete. Tears flowed like waterfalls from your drained, sunken sockets, your limbs gave in to the quaking terror, compelling your fading consciousness to grasp onto the rooftop’s borders, unable to bring yourself any further.
Then there was nothing. Nothing but silence. Thirteen feet apart.
Thirteen feet apart you feel narrowed eyes and furrowed brows and pursed lips directed towards you, but you cannot respond. You have lost control.
Footsteps.
Two slender arms flung themselves around your body, pulling you into a tight, awkward embrace. You feel a breath warm, so warm, against your frigid skin. A breath that painted the beauty of his mind’s world, ever reeling with the most fantastic sagas and wondrous fairy tales, and tasting of the nostalgic ocean breeze of your thousand years of prolonged childhood, long bygone.
Time seemed to freeze as the Earth halted. Hours seemed to pass in nothing but euphonic silence. There was no need to talk. No need to know. No need to understand.
This was whole enough.