Getting Home: A Sentimental Journey

I intentionally chose not to post this in installments. This is meant to be enjoyed in one sitting, so, enjoy!

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FATHER HAD three large tribal-marks on either side of his face. Oddly enough they weren't his most distinguishing feature. Neither were his dark lips or his imposing stature. What you remembered about my father is his voice. He could send minotaurs cowering with that voice.

Oddly enough the same went for my mother. What you remembered about her, too, is her voice. And what a contrast it was from father's. Don't get me wrong, mother was just as feisty and stubborn, but when she hurt you she hurt you with charm.

One day I had a nightmare--right in the middle of the day--and I told it to mother, who had rushed inside the room as soon as she heard my scream. I could see in her eyes she was scared for me. She said:
--Believe after me, son, it's all in your head.

--Doesn't make it any easier,
Father said, appearing like a ghost beside her.

--Sure it does.
Mother retorted. --Sure it does.

She was wrong, but I believed her. I shouldn't have.

---

Later that day father and I took a walk around the neighborhood. It was a splendid noon. The sun had begun its retreat, chased away by shifting clouds. Cool breezes swayed the trees around in a rhythm so scarily similar to my heartbeat.

To me the best part of our neighborhood was the roads. Not only its reddish-brownness, or the fact that they never seemed to take you away from places, but always to them--on those roads you were never going, you were always coming--but that wasn't the charm for me. For me it was the dusts. The dusts were eternal.

On these roads you were always coming, you see, but you never arrived; hell you never even knew where you were coming. It was certainly not home. You never came home. You could never come home, not through these roads; not with those dusts.

These roads also happened to pass sinuously through fenceless houses, behind backyards, and even through corridors. It was especially weird because you had to stop and greet everyone you met along the way. When we got to a shop, father and I, we nodded our greetings to two women, who were in the process of buying some cooking materials at a kiosk. They responded swiftly, but languidly.

--There are two kinds of people in this life.
Father told me after we'd move ahead. --The ones who talk and the ones who doesn't. Which are you, son?

--The one who talk,
I said. My head was bent to the road and I could barely hear my own voice.

--Wrong!

--The one who don't?

--Wrong again.

---

When we returned from the road that day it was already dark. Mother was out back, cooking. Suli was with her, helping. Suli was my twin sister.

Suli was the most charming thing you'd ever seen. Taciturn and bashful, Suli barely looked anyone in the eye--which was a shame for the person because Suli's eye were like a goddess's, tiny and acute under slightly arching eyebrows. She was petite and carried herself with so much delicacy you wouldn't believe she was a part of our family. Sometimes I didn't believe it either. Most times. In my mind she still isn't. That's the only way I could sleep at night.

---

--Only thing I trust is the sun. It always comes back.

We were lying outside on a cold pavement. It was noon and mother and father weren't back yet. Suli had just returned from college. I was yet to secure admission.

--You don't have to be so cynical.
She said.

She rolled over to my side and slid her fingers across my forehead, with a rhythm that matched the throbbing in my head.

--It's hard not to be cynical when you find yourself bereft of ideas.

--Nonsense. No one has ideas as much you do.

She looked so beautiful laying there, and I could feel my brain throb thinking of how beautiful she was. Suddenly I found myself craving her pity so much, so I said:

--Did. It's all gone now. They've successfully strangled each other, my ideas. Which is perfect. Now all I trust is the moon.

--You said the sun.

--Yes.
I said. --The moon and the sun. And you. I trust you.

--Only things I trust are roads. Or at least I used to. So much reconstruction nowadays.

--You don't trust me?

--Shhh. Listen.

I stayed still and from a distance I heard sounds of generators and birds chirping and little children playing on the street. Suli shifted closer to me and placed her head on my chest.

---

About a week later I found Suli sobbing at our backyard very late at night. The rest of the house was asleep including myself, but then I heard her soft sobs and large nostril-drags by my window and I stood up, and it was there I found her curled up, sobbing. I didn't recognize her at first and I was scared and my heart was beating so fast but when I got closer I couldn't have mistaken her for anyone.

--Suli,
I said. --Suli, what is wrong?

She kept sobbing for a while, then I sat beside her and folded her under my arms. Her ponytails pierced my neck but I kept her there. She kept sobbing softly.

--I'm pregnant.
She said, hiding the words underneath her voice, not too low for me to hear, but not too loud for the walls to.

My head spun, my heart raced and I didn't quite get myself for a second. It took only a second, though, and I regained myself.

--You can't keep it. You have to get rid of it. It's just not right.

She shrugged me off with a god-like strength.

--Get rid of it? No! I'm not getting rid of my baby.

She was angry and irrational. I knew she knew as much as I did, that she couldn't possibly keep it. And the reason was simple.

--It's my baby too, isn't it?

---

She didn't answer for a while. She stood up and paced and kept shaking her head vigorously. Then she stopped.

--It's not yours,
She said.

--Stop.
I said. --There's no point-- --

--It's not. I swear to you it's not.

I'd never been more shocked and confused all my life. At first I thought she was ashamed and was only in denial to shield herself from the shame; but as she talked I could tell there was no less shame in her eyes. It was more.

--If it isn't mine, then,
I said. --whose is it?

---

It was mother. It was she who found out. I still don't know how she did. All I know is I was in my room sobbing when I heard them. I went outside to them and in the living room I saw mother flinging mugs at him in pure rage. I'd never seen her that angry till then. What I saw transcended even anger.

--You useless man,
She shouted as she flung the utensils at him. Suli was standing behind her.

--You devil! You lucifer-infested demon. How dare you! How dare you do this to your own daughter!?

I didn't know what came over me. I believe it wasn't the devil. I'd like to believe it was a really pure, Liberating Spirit, but I've realized recently that it wasn't even that. It was something in between.

Picking up a large shard of broken mug that had scattered all over the floor, I lounged at him with all my strength, and with his back fallen upon the shelf I sat over him and dug the mug straight into his left carotid. I removed it and plunged it into the right one, and there I kept stabbing and stabbing and mother and Suli kept screaming but I couldn't hear them, and when mother came over I hit her with her my elbow and she fell. And even then I didn't stop stabbing. I couldn't. It was a pure, holy rage, and yes, I enjoyed it.

---

That was five years ago. The next day they took me inside, and it was there I learned that my mother had died at the hospital. Suli visited for a while and I kept imploring her to get rid of the baby but she wouldn't. Suli died of childbirth while I was in. They said she willed it.

Thanks for taking the time to read this really long-ass story.