MitchMatch

How Do You Say Goodbye?

Slowly—

Take her things out slowly, carefully, as though it might break, as though it might defy the laws governing life and death. Be careful, you might break.

It’s been a week since they sealed her coffin and buried her, her lifeless body strangely beautiful beneath the glass, tucked under the soft earth, a precious gem returning to where it came from, never to be unearthed again. He goes through her things, dangerous as they are, in a vain effort to let go, or hold on, who knows? Going through her things is like recovering a piece of paper placed near a nuclear reactor that just had a meltdown—futile and foolish beyond words. That piece of paper might just save your life, but is that salvation worth endangering the very thing you are trying to save? Maybe. Or maybe not.

But for him, it is. And he doesn’t even know what he is looking for.

He goes through her things as though every trinket is divine. Her clothes, her letters, her photographs—everything reeks of her and of her absence. The half-empty perfume bottles standing untouched on the bureau, her lingerie, the scent she left on the sheets—everything serves as a painful reminder of the love they’ve had once and lost forever. He closed his eyes and clutched at his chest, hoping, pretending, that it would and could keep his heart from breaking.

The first thing he sees after opening his eyes is his dead wife’s wedding gown, kept in a box with a transparent lid at the bottom of her closet, the most radioactive of it all. The memories come rushing back to him, flooding his heart, his mind, and as though his soul could no longer contain the love, the pain, the emotions he couldn’t even begin to describe, his eyes started welling with tears. There’s no point in trying to be brave now.

He took out the gown from the box, soft and delicate in his hands as it was on their wedding night. It’s amazing how anything and everything a woman owns retains her smell, through the years, through it all. It’s amazing how everything about the woman you love keeps you from letting go.

How exactly do you say goodbye when deep inside your soul you believe that the love of your life is coming back from the dead to hold you and love you and make the nightmare end?

Unspoken

Like the scent of a beloved someone lingering in the heart—

Like the last few notes of a well-loved song reverberating in the mind—

Like the shards of glass piercing into the soul—

Like all the things we’ve had and lost and tried to get back, your name alone breaks my heart. Why didn’t you say anything?

Humans are weird creatures, don’t you think? While we claim to be the most intelligent of all creatures on earth, we are also by far the most stupid—screwing up relationships, hurting the people we love, keeping quiet about our feelings even when our hearts are already beating so hard against our chests, it feels like our ribs are going to break.

I told you I love you. Why didn’t you say anything?

It takes talent to ignore the declaration of love of people around us, no? But we can, we do. We deliberately do. And then we chase after the people we send away afterwards. What inefficient irrational fools!

I really wanna say sorry. Can we start again from the very beginning? This time, can we say all the things we thought we better leave unspoken?

The Ungodly Hour

Listen to the hoots and howls of owls and beasts, to the soft devilish chants of the winds, to the rhythmic breathing of everything and everyone alive who will soon be dead.

Listen—

to the crackle of fire and the cackle of witches, to the unintelligible hymns of the devil-worshipers, to the final gasps of a dying virgin. Do you hear it? Do you feel it? Do you smell it?

Minutes before the ungodly hour and the scent of blood already lingers in the air.

Do you hear it, my lady? The bloodhounds have all gathered around us, waiting for the right time to pounce, ready to devour you whole.

Muffled sobs, the sound of glass breaking, a beastly howl from the depths of hell.

My, my. What an impatient lady! Cackle. Just a little more time, my fair maiden. Just a little more time and we shall partake of the fruit that the gods forbid. Just a little more time and we, together, shall cheat Fate and Time.

Something black and slimy thrown into the cauldron. The scent of burning skin assaulting the nostrils of gagged humans, enticing the creatures of darkness, encouraging them to bare their claws and dig in.

Not yet, my friends, not yet. The main dish has yet to be served.

A large silver platter in the middle of the dining table. A bloody maiden with her eyes closed, her lips blue, her chest cut open. A pentacle enclosed in a perfect circle, drawn with blood on the concrete floor.

The godless hour has arrived.

A single black candle burning in the dark room, casting an eerie glow on everything, on everyone. The time has come.

Devilish chants. The sound of bones being broken, of limbs being torn. A small prayer of thanks, a testament of sin.

A clap of thunder. A strong wind putting out the candle. Blood splattered everywhere. 

Cackle.

There is none who witnesses and survives the ungodly hour.

Frankly

“Ms. Kikuchi, I believe this is your fifth time to be late this month, and two weeks haven’t even passed! Do you have any good reasons for your tardiness?”

“Oh, why, of course, Sir!” Maria chirped happily without throwing her boss a glance. He followed her to her office and shut the door. When he spun around to look at her, she’s already sitting on her swivel chair, looking at him with a smile. Patience, he tried to tell himself. Patience.

“Have a seat, Sir.”

“I have no intention whatsoever of chatting with you because, honestly, I hate your guts. Now, are you ready to tell me your reasons for being late again?”

“Well, you see, Mr. Dawson, I fucking hate this place. I see you as nothing more than a conceited bastard whose head is bigger than his ass. There’s nothing motivating in the way you handle your subordinates. And you can’t handle my brilliance.”

“Ms. Kikuchi, I don’t like you either. You could resign for all I care. But the president thinks you’re useful to this company and he ordered me to talk to you. I’d much rather smack the bitch out of you, really. Can’t you at least come up with stupid excuses I could report to the president?”

“Tell him I have a sick mother to take care of. That old man wouldn’t know it’s a lie, anyway.”

“Alright then. Thank you for your time, Ms. Kikuchi.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Dawson. I hope you trip on that expensive coffee table in your office, hit your head, and die.”

Even a patient man like him wouldn’t be able to stand such impertinence. He glared at her and walked closer, ready to slap her—hard. He decided against it just as he was raising his hand.

“Ms. Kikuchi, I am still your boss. Please don’t forget that.”

“Mr. Dawson,” she carefully stood up, “there is no rule in this company that prohibits employees from saying what they want to say. I will follow your orders, yes, but I will call you an idiot whenever I feel like it. Please do yourself a favor and get the hell out of my office.”

***

He’s gone. Finally, he’s gone.

It’s tiring. Going on like this everyday—telling people I hate them, people calling me names, hurting others and getting hurt—after some time, it gets tiring. It’s nice to not having to pretend to be somebody else, to not hide my feelings, but it’s painful.

I wonder why people have never thought of keeping their opinions to themselves. I wonder if it would be too unacceptable, weird, if I do that.

Songs

“Going out, Melody?”

“Yeah.” She zipped her guitar case, put on her coat and took one last look at the mirror. She looks dashing—

“But broken…”

“Did you say anything, Melody?” The voice startled her. She forgot all about Jun. Shit. My head’s in the clouds again.

“No. You’re just so hungry, you’re hearing voices.”

Jun laughed. A hearty laugh. A laugh that reverberates in their empty room, in her empty heart. A laugh that is genuinely happy. “I guess so. You ate all the food in the fridge.”

“I did not!” She picked up the empty water bottle from the table and threw at Jun, barely missed and went straight for the door.

Jun grabbed her hand.

“You’re going to the market, aren’t you? I’m sorry…” His voice trailed off, the way it always does when he’s sad, or apologetic, or both.

“Yes,” she whispered, with more coldness than she intended. He let go of her hand. He never put up a fight, never raised his voice, never cried in front of her. He smiled, as he always does, and probably always will.

“I’ll be back before dinner.” She smiled—a sweet smile, a sad smile, a smile she reserves for Jun.

And all is forgiven.

***

My love, can you hear me?

In the midst of all these screams of pain, can you?

My love, will you break free?

Will you have the strength to take them down and break the chains that bind you?

“Here’s your gun, kitten.”

“Thanks.” She put down her guitar and to get the gun the man placed in the counter. Not bad.

“Tell me, kitten. How did you learn how to write songs like that?”

“I just do what I can, mister. And I’ll buy this world next… Because I can.”

“Whoa there, kitten. You can’t be serious.”

She smiled. “Of course, I am serious. In a world as dead like this, in a world where people would hold on to anything that could make them feel human, anyone who could write a song, and write it well, could get anything, everything…” Yes, everything. Just wait, Jun. Just wait.

“You sure have guts, kitten.”

“No, sir. I have songs.”

***

A long time ago, before the third world war, people use bills and coins to trade. It was logical, because carrying gold is too inconvenient and dangerous. And for hundreds of years, money circulated, kept in banks, under the bed, in pockets… Until the war broke.

It was a destructive war. Great powers exhausted their resources in fighting a war that can never be won. Dead people were everywhere. The survivors were left with nothing but memories of the dead, of the good old past. Bills became nothing but paper that no government would, could, pay for. And there was nothing to buy. After some time, with nothing but death and desperation around, even the memories slowly vanished. That’s when people started using songs as currency. Anyone who could bring even a tinge of hope and humanity in a world so savage was welcomed with open arms. Those who can write songs on a daily basis became rich… And those who refused to bastardized their art wallowed in poverty, hunted by those who profit by capitalizing on the talented.

***

“Jun?”

No answer. “Jun? I’m home.” She felt a sudden surge of panic. Jun never leaves their apartment. If somebody sees him… If they recognize him… She shuddered at the thought. She rushed outside. He has to be somewhere near. Damn it.

Then she heard the voice she hasn’t heard in years. A voice that pierces the heart, that breaks it, that mends it. Pacemaker and heartbreaker.

“Jun!”

He is sitting on the lone swing in what used to be a playground near their apartment. He is resplendent, angelic, but, somehow, different.

“Let’s use all my songs…”

“But, Jun… Your songs are precious, sacred. We can’t do that…”

“They will hunt us down. Let’s buy this world before they catch us.”

She smiled with no real happiness. Just what exactly is the price of freedom? Dignity? Self-respect?

“We can be artists again after this, Melody… After this…”