Vanishing without a Trace
Justin Lo, 7361
The
first things I noticed that morning were the gold speckles of light that danced
through my eyelids. “They’re so thin
after all,” I thought to myself, rubbing my eyes lightly with the back of my
hand before opening them to greet the new day.
I
rolled over a half-turn to face the wall, glancing at my calendar from a steep,
awkward angle. Craning my neck
slightly, I gathered that it was Sunday – which meant that a home-cooked
breakfast was surely waiting for me downstairs!
Excitedly,
I hopped out of bed and brushed my teeth with sloppy vigor, taking the moment
to look at myself in the large, water-stained mirror. My long, golden hair was in disarray, but it was Sunday anyhow,
so I decided to forego my usual hair-brushing session in favor of breakfast.
I rushed down the stairs, still decked out in my blue nightshirt and ash-gray sweatpants, seeing my parents already seated at the table and my younger brother sitting on the ground with his firetrucks.
“Good
morning!” I shouted cheerfully.
I
found it peculiar that neither of my parents responded, nor did they even
bother to look at me. They instead were
engaged in their own discussion about my brother’s kindergarten class.
“Mm,
this is really good!” I commented after scarfing down a crispy waffle with some
genuine Vermont maple syrup and a couple of diced strawberries. Again, no response.
“Uh,
Mom? Dad?” I asked, leaning over in
front of them to wave my hand in their faces.
Bizarrely enough, it seemed as though they continued to look at one
another through my hand, despite the fact that my hand was certainly between
their mutual lines of sights (and I even felt the moist, warm exhalations of
their breaths on my skin).
I felt a cold shiver down my spine. I mean, back in elementary school, we called this the “silent treatment.” But that was elementary school.
I considered that perhaps
this was merely a dream – a bizarre one, and highly realistic at that (damn,
those waffles were <i>good</i>!) – but a dream nonetheless. I pinched myself in the arm, hoping that it
would shake off the coccoon of slumber, but instead I just felt a sharp pain in
my arm. “Of course, that doesn’t mean
anything,” I reassured myself. “I’ve
certainly felt pain in a dream before, and it never woke me up, either.”
Tentatively, I stood up and
walked over to my little brother. I
knelt down and started moving one of the firetrucks, hoping that he would catch
on that I wanted to play with him. But
instead, he only paid attention to his own firetruck, and desperately, I tried
to hug him. For a moment, I thought
that maybe my hands would pass through him, confirming at the very least that I
was a ghost and that all this would be normal – or at least, as normal as it
could get.
I closed my eyes, letting my
arms encircle him, and then I pulled in for an embrace and felt his body
clasped in mine. When I opened my eyes,
I realized that I was indeed holding him, and yet he seemed ignorant of the
fact that he had been put in such a position, instead simply looking the other
way and continuing to play.
Not as if I didn’t exist,
but as if he didn’t want me to exist. I
let go and just stared at the scene unfolding before me, taking one step back,
then another, then running away into my room.
Breathing heavily, more out of the shock than from the physical
exertion, I sat down on my bed and pondered what to do.
Clutching my pillow to my
chest, I bit my lip lightly and tried to flip through my memories, trying to
find something as a precedent. I mean,
even in elementary school, you’d at least get <i>some</i>
response from the person ignoring you (granted, it might be a slap or
something, but it’s pretty hard to ignore someone who’s grabbing you). Nothing came to mind, but I clenched my
fists, determined not to let the situation get the best of me.
I stood up again, opening my
wardrobe and pulling out a lightly embroidered t-shirt and a pair of tan
pants. I changed in silence, the sound
of the dawn-loving birds providing the only ambient sounds. After grabbing my purse, I left the house
with only a small whisper of a “goodbye.”
I heard the door shut behind me as if it were locking me out forever.
Even though no one had
spoken a word to me thus far today, the sun was still just as warm, the wind
still as strong, the scents of spring just as aromatic. If nothing else, I consoled myself, at least
Mother Nature hadn’t chosen to ignore me.
I walked over to my bike, perching my purse in the small basket at the
front.
“Hold on a moment, okay?” I
told my purse that looked kind of impatient of the moment, “I have to put on my
helmet.” Did I normally talk to
inanimate objects like that? I didn’t
think so – it was just a purse, and I had never been all that fond of it,
either. It just held my cell phone and
wallet and chapstick and address book.
That is to say, it was completely interchangeable, and at my will, I
could simply stop using it and throw it out, and nothing would drastically
change in this world.
I secured my helmet and
climbed onto my bike, leaving the train of thought back in my yard. My only concerns now were the pedals of this
bike, pumping left then right, left then right, racing up the hills and down
them, too, without a care in the world.
The plaza soon appeared before me, its peculiar architecture jutting out
into the sky like a candle’s flame captured in a photograph, so still yet so
livid and deliberate at the same time.
I hopped off my bicycle,
locking it up on the metal rack with chipping blue paint. Hoisting my purse of my shoulder, I walked
over to the clothing shop. I had
realized earlier this week, to my dismay, that I had outgrown all my summer
skirts, and I definitely wanted to have one or two on hand for my dates with
Joey. But even as I held that one
motive in mind, I realized that I didn’t feel much like going home today, and I
wondered if maybe I would just window shop all day long, or maybe sit down for
some ice cream and listen to the jukebox, or go to the arcade and play the
pinball game.
In any case, I entered the
shop, with its flowery but not overly pretentious window display. It was a local boutique of sorts that I
liked browsing every once in awhile, partially because it was only a ten minute
bike ride from home. I swung through
the aisles until I came to a decent collection of skirts.
“Hmmm,” I thought to myself,
examining each one closely for its patterns, colors, and worksmanship. Some were too short, too long, or too
transparent, but at last I happened upon one that I liked, which was somewhat
of a cinnabar-crimson hue and had watermark-looking flowers on the outer of two
or three fabric layers. I looked over
its sisters to find one that would fit me and hopped into the fitting room like
a little kid playing hide-and-go-seek.
There was a bit of
anticipation, and then I happily covered my eyes, turning towards the
mirror. “Will it look good, or bad?” I
wondered to myself. I pulled away my
hands and soaked in the image – ah! it was perfect!
I smiled with glee and
quickly changed back, heading over to the cashier, waiting for her to ask,
“Will this be all?” But she just stood
there blankly, picking at her fingernails.
“Um, excuse me …,” I said
shyly. Then, with more insistence,
“Heyyy, hello hello?!”
I tried something more
drastic – punching something into the cash register. She simply looked at it, muttered something, then canceled the
transaction.
“Ah, to hell with it,” I
said to myself, pulling out my wallet and counting out enough money to cover
the skirt and tax. I left it on the
counter, not bothering to see what she did with it – it was none of my concern,
that was for sure. I just swiped the
de-magnetizer over the tag and left the shop with a bit of an irritated
stomp. “Hell hath no fury like a woman
scorned” – isn’t that what they say?
Between being scorned and ignored, surely women would attest that the
latter is the greater crime.
True to my thoughts upon
entering the shop, I didn’t head straight for my bike, but rather next door to
the ice cream shop. Taking into account
the bizarre state of things, I realized that I could only buy one of those
pre-packed pints, given that they would certainly not scoop anything out at my
behest. I plucked out a container of
cherry ice cream, tossing it around carelessly, throwing a few bucks at the
cashier, who looked completely stoned.
The bills hit him in the face and he picked them off with this
surfer-dude sort of, “Wooooaaaaah.”
I couldn’t help but laugh a
little, and in that spirit, I started piling on as many toppings as I wanted
into my ice cream. No one was going to
bother to stop me, anyway, so I did exactly as I pleased. After settling down with a spoon and a clear
plastic cup brimming with fountain water, I scooped out a grotesquely large
mound of the cherry ice cream, shoving it indelicately into my mouth. “Aammmmmm,” I moaned in genuine pleasure as
the sweetness melted all around and the small sprinkles and gummy bears fell to
their demise between my soon-to-be-rotting teeth.
I ate and ate, as if to
argue for my existence through the fact that I could still dominate my food and
consume to survive. For as long as I
could eat and move and grow, didn’t I exist?
As long as I could taste with my tongue like this, smell the scents of
the ice cream freezers like this, grip one arm with the other’s fingers like
this and feel this warmth, didn’t I exist?
I tousled my hair gently,
realizing that I’d forgotten to brush it this morning. It was prone to frizzle a little overnight,
although it was obediently straight as long as I brushed it per routine. Did I really care anymore, though? Sure, it was nice to have straight hair, but
as long as no one was going to look my way, anyhow, maybe it didn’t matter so
much. I sighed, smiling weakly, looking
around the small parlor, watching the other people go about their lives, then
finding my reflection in one of the freezers’ glass doors. I was still there, staring back at myself as
always, eyes open as always.
The clear outline sat there,
so distinct that I could trace it with my fingernails. But even my spoon could see its own
reflection.
I finished the carton of ice
cream, realizing that I probably wouldn’t be able to fit into the skirt any
longer and not caring all too much.
“I’ll burn the calories off on my bike,” I convinced to myself, throwing
out my trash and returning to the balmy outdoors, where the sun was now
directly overhead.
“I should’ve brought my
hat,” I remarked, shaking my head as I mounted my bike. “It’s such a beautiful day, it’d be a waste
to spend it inside,” I thought. “Maybe
I’ll drop by the lakeside park since it’s not too out of the way.”
I diverged from the road
home, letting my bike hop and skip down the barely-paved route to the
lake. I nearly fell off a couple of
times, but I’d traversed this way so often that I was half-expecting it each
time, and I would grip the handles more tightly and swing my weight to steady
myself.
At the foot of the hill, I
saw the rows of Babylon weeping willows, their braids of leaves draped so low
like Rapunzel’s hair, dipping into the water’s surface to make little dimples
and ripples here and there. The placid
environment swept against my vigorously active body, an antidote to my light
sweat and red cheeks. I parked my bike
aside a light post and started to walk along the thin, rocky shore.
Little children darted by,
playing tag or frisbee; dogs of all shapes and sizes scampered around, sniffing
out their little tennis balls and chewie toys.
I continued on, watching adorable couples walk by, talking about silly
things and snuggling together romantically.
“Ah, Joey, if only I could
call you right now!” I thought to myself, fantasizing about being here with
him, the wild wind flowing through your hair and clothes, our lips brushing
together. I blushed deeply at the thought
but had no qualms about continuing my pleasant reverie. I’m sure anyone watching would have been
creeped out a little as I rubbed my nose and cheeks on my sleeve, pretending
that it was his dependable shoulder.
But who cared? It was my
happiness and my prerogative. He was
mine! I giggled at the thought, sitting
down on a un-painted wooden bench facing the waters.
The seat creaked slightly under my weight, but it seemed sturdy enough. I began following a small line of mallard ducks as they swam past. They weren’t too keen on quacking very often, but they still seemed to communicate to one another just fine. The large brown-gray female in front dove down, and a few of the other ducks in the line followed suit.
I just sat there, voices
wafting to and fro behind me, a few seagulls audible from above, having
traveled a decent ways inland.
Suddenly, I thought I heard a recognizable voice behind me.
“Oh hey, Mike,” said the
voice. Wasn’t that Joey’s voice?
I turned around to see Joey
greeting Mike, another of my classmates.
It was all rather usual – they hung out here a lot together to play
basketball and tennis, occasionally inviting me along for the fun as well,
although I was only proficient at the latter.
I suppose maybe they were more motivated by the fact that I always
brought a simple picnic lunch with me for the three of us, or four if they
invited another friend along.
But something was
amiss. I realized quickly that it was
the presence of a girl beside Joey.
“Hey, Joey, who is she?”
Mike asked.
“This is Camilla, my girlfriend
as of today.”
“Huh?” commented Mike,
looking confused for a moment. “I
could’ve sworn that you were going out with another girl.”
For a moment, I had my hopes
up that at least someone would acknowledge me.
“Who?” asked Joey, equally
confused.
“Er, I can’t remember her
name.” My shoulders slumped, and I
basked in helplessness until another feeling took the driver’s seat. How could this girl take away my boyfriend
like that, steal him away in a moment of his amnesia? I hopped off the bench and walked up to the trio, keeping this
Camilla figure under very close watch.
“No, I don’t think I’ve
dated anyone else for a long while. I
mean, I was single for like a year, but Camilla and I have been pretty close
for months now. It was sort of inevitable
that we’d go out sooner or later,” explained Joey.
“Mm,” said Camilla, her long
brown hair sweeping around her side as she stretched onto her tippie toes to
kiss Joey on the cheek. In desperation,
I rushed forward, trying to hold her back but instead underestimating the added
force of sheer shock at having a ghost, so to speak, suddenly apprehend you,
and she toppled over onto the ground.
“Damn! that was a strong
wind,” she groaned. “I’m okay though,
guys.”
Mike chuckled a little and
Joey bent down to help her up, a concerned look on his face. I grabbed one hand and he took the other,
letting her stand up with ease. She
dusted off her sundress and let out a sigh of relief. She had a few scratches on her exposed legs from the gravel, but
nothing too severe or at risk for infection.
“Sorry,” I said softly, not
intending to let my jealousy go so far as to really hurt somebody.
Tears sprouting out of my
eyes, I turned around and ran all the way to my bike, pedaling home without
bothering to put on my helmet or make sure my purse was snugly in the basket.
Once I made it into my room,
I slammed the door shut and locked it, opening my drawer. In it were some photos of Joey and myself,
unadulterated from before. I shoved
them to the side, although it was a relief to know that at the very least, at
some point, some time, I had still been with him. But what I wanted was below all that: an envelope and a pad of
stationary paper. I set these
ingredients on my desk and began to compose a letter, the same way I always began
them when writing to my one and only true love:
<i>Dear Joey, my sweetheart~
I love you, too!
I don’t know if you remember me at all anymore;
maybe everyone has just forgotten me completely. Or maybe it’s a big conspiracy and everyone has decided to ignore
me. I actually hope it’s the second
one, because then at least you still have a memory of me, no matter how tainted
it may be. At least I would still exist
to you.
I’m including a photo of us together. It’s when we went to SeaWorld together, do
you remember? It was like a year ago or
something. Anyway, that girl in the
photo is me, and until today, we would always meet up face-to-face because we
live so close together.
I hope that somehow I still mean something to you.
</i>
I
bit my lip, not sure what else to write.
Sighing, I decided that was enough and quickly scribbled down my
signature. My hands deftly folded up
the letter and slipped it into the envelope along with the photo I had selected
from my enormous pile.
“I
guess this is it,” I said to myself bitterly.
“I’ll know for sure after this.”
I
exited my room once again, envelope in hand, and hopped onto my bike. Scarcely a minute later, I was at Joey’s
door. I knew that he probably wouldn’t
be back yet, but I wanted to wait for him like I always did before. Waiting for him used to be almost a hobby of
mine. I’d of course bring a book to
read or something, but that anticipation of seeing him again was such an
inspiration that I could feed off of it all day long.
The
sun continued its lap through the sky; my shadow elongated accordingly until it
fell across the entire porch. It wasn’t
until I could barely make out my shadow, though, when I finally saw Joey
walking back up his driveway. I had
left the letter where he’d expect it, sticking out from under one of the straw
welcome mats.
He
crouched down and lifted it out.
Without opening it or disturbing it in any way, he pulled out his key
and walked into his house. I snuck in
behind him before he closed the front door and proceeded to take off my shoes
to get rid of any physical traces of my presence. Feeling somewhat like a stalker, I followed him up the stairs to
his second floor bedroom. It was actually
a little bit exciting and nostalgic.
Already, what should have been “just yesterday” felt like so long ago.
He
sat down on his fluffy comforters and opened the envelope, straightening out
the sheet of paper inside as the photograph dropped out from its paper-clipped
roost. Joey read the letter over once,
then a second time, then a third time, finally putting it down. Out of the corner of his right eye, a lone
tear dripped out – or maybe it was only my imagination; he certainly betrayed
no other hint of emotion. It was the
kind of tear you shed after watching a soap opera, not after reading a real
letter.
He
slid the letter back into its envelope and placed it in his drawer, which I
noticed had all of my old letters in it.
He had neglected to replace the photograph, though, and it was still
lying on the bed.
I
stared at the little glossy rectangle, wondering if maybe I should hand it to
him. But I decided against it and left
his house silently. As I pedaled my way
back home, I started to cry, realizing that I was completely alone now.
To
be cast aside like an old purse, replaceable and expendable, to be thrown so
far away and buried so deep that no one can be reminded of you, until finally
no one can even say that you existed – if this happens, then you suddenly
vanish from the world’s eye without a trace.
<i>Erased.</i>
You know, there’s this age-old question that everyone’s been asked – I’m sure you’ve heard it before. It goes like this: “If a tree falls down in the middle of a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” Well, I don’t pretend to be wise enough to answer that definitively, but my hunch – this is pure speculation, of course – is that it doesn’t. Because no one heard me fall or cared that I fell. And I’m beginning to doubt that I ever made a sound in the first place.