- Hi! my name is Aiko. In this blog are poetry, and pastel, and pink cute things.
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Monday, January 30, 2017 | January 30, 2017 |
Of Caffeine And Clonazepam
“Would you like a quick bite along with that Ma’am?” The barista asked; gesturing to the array of confectioneries beside the counter. “I think I’ll have a Sans rival please.” She replied; inwardly scolding herself for the apparent impulsive decision. “Great choice, Ma’am!” The perky barista chirped. She resisted the urge to moue. It is overtly polite people— barista or otherwise— that gets on her nerves. Something about the saccharine demeanour strikes her as downright hypocritical if not manipulative; like a con artist out to bamboozle unwitting victims.
She paid for the coffee and dessert without a word. Tomorrow would be the last day of her finals and tonight she was going to pull an all-nighter to study. It is around 10pm. Luckily, cafes like the one she’s in now are open until the ungodly hours of dawn.
All her notes are laid out on the table alongside what she ordered. She pulled out her earphones from her tote bag and plugged them on her smartphone. Her go-to Spotify playlist when studying is Jazz Fusion because she read somewhere that students are able to concentrate more when listening to music that have no lyrics. Around her, the cafe’s muzak eased out softly through the sound system playing mostly Christmas tunes.
It is that time of year again.
Last year, this same season, she lost her boyfriend due to an incident of brutal mugging around the same area where the cafe is located. Eleven stab wounds with the fatal injury being the one inflicted on his liver. He lived for two days before succumbing. Not a word was exchanged between the two of them in those final two days.
After the funeral, she found herself peeing on the loo with her panties on while staring at empty space, her mind blank. A month of erratic behaviour passed before her parents decided to consult a psychiatrist.
She was diagnosed with PTSD or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; a condition of persistent mental and emotional stress occurring as a result of injury or severe psychological shock. She barely heard the psychiatrist break the news to her because she was feeling groggy that day from lack of sleep. The recurring sleep disturbances was taking its toll on her health. She would have panic attacks in the middle of the night and would sometimes be in a state of catatonia. The doctor prescribed her medicines; one of them being Clonazepam to help her with the sleep disturbances. She has been under medications for almost a year now.
Upon doctor’s advice, she wasn’t supposed to be ingesting any form of caffeine but somehow she couldn’t evade from drinking coffee because it gets her through the nights when she needed to study— and forget.
The past few months she dedicated to studying; burying her self in workload just to compensate for the unrelenting pain she felt from her loss. Adding to the predicament too was the delay of the police in capturing her boyfriend’s killer. Knowing this, she merely kept it at the back of her mind and focused on law school.
She took a sip of her coffee. It was getting rather cold. Looking outside, people were walking to and fro; the nearby mall was having a midnight sale. She put down her highlighter and began observing the people outside.
A group of matrons walked by with shopping bags and she noticed one of them dyed the bangs of her hair green. Then a well-dressed man helped his elderly mother cross the pedestrian lane— they too, were carrying shopping bags. Furthermore, there were also many young adults out and about. She readily assumed that they were call centre agents. Another group of people were going to cross the pedestrian when she spotted a peculiar man walking rapidly alongside them.
The man looked like he was around his late thirties and walked with a limp. His right leg was shorter than the other from what might have been polio. He had dark skin and small beady eyes that pierce from beneath two thick eyebrows. He was of average height, and, she reiterated to herself, had a limp.
According to the police who interrogated her boyfriend a day before his death, the man he described walked with a limp, emphasising that he was able to move swiftly in spite of this.
Her head reeled at the sudden realisation. The mixture of caffeine and the clonazepam she took just a while ago made her feel discombobulated. Nevertheless, she got up and rushed her way out the cafe; leaving her things behind to follow the strange-looking man to find out once and for all the truth behind her boyfriend’s death.
The man with a limp moved quickly indeed; he turned left making jerking movements with his shorter leg. She had to jog a little to catch up with him but she made sure she was a safe distance behind. The man with a limp turned another corner into a busy street. There is a night market on this street. For a while she lost sight of the man in the sea of people but was able to catch him again as he stopped to linger outside an eatery. At a distance from the man, she noticed that he was observing a woman eating all by herself.
She stood still and watched on. When the woman he was looking at got up to leave, he very discreetly followed her. And SHE in turn, followed him.
They tread on the heels of each other until they reached the outskirts of the city. It was quiet except for the passing vehicles. The man with a limp in expeditious albeit jerky movements, was able to corner the woman. SHE, on the other hand, stopped in her tracks. Her heart was beating wildly. She needed to move fast.
When the man declared a hold-up, she bent down to grab a plank of wood from an on-going construction site and in quick steps walked behind him. She knocked him a good one on the back of the head with the plank. The man’s shoulders shook in surprise but he didn’t fall down. He slowly turned around to look at his assailant. Small, gleaming eyes met with hers. She felt all the blood go to her head like it was about to burst. A pin dropping could be heard from the silence brought about by their encounter.
“Your boyfriend is a sissy.” He said, and gave her a wry smile. Rows of yellowed teeth protruded as he smirked.
It was him. All the months of pain and grieving overwhelmed her until she reached her breaking point. She tightened her grip on the piece of wood and attacked him with a tenacity known only to those who finally had enough. She hit him repeatedly until the plank broke. His left temple was bleeding but he wouldn’t stop sniggering.
“He was weak as a little girl.” Blood was running along his cheek. She hit him again.
“Weak!” She was unsure if he was referring to her dead boyfriend or her attacks.
All of a sudden her head felt dazed and her knees wobbly.
“Weak!"
Everything within her sight was spinning. The man with the limp continued to taunt her but his voice now seemed to her like a distant echo. Above, the stars were swirling in a jamboree of celestial proportions. The other woman ran in the other direction and still the man with the limp mocked her.
“Weak!"
Darkness engulfed her like a predator.
“Ma’am?” The barista was urgently tapping her shoulder.
“Ma’am?"
She lurched forward in her seat stupefied at being awakened.
“What?” She asked, astonished yet mildly irritated.
The barista fixed a ready smile on her face. “My apologies ma’am, but we are about to close."
She looked around and realised that she was the only one left in the cafe.
“You were looking dumbfounded for a while there and we thought something might have happened to you. Are you alright ma’am?"
She tried her best to recall what took place a while ago but she could only remember observing some people walk by and then her mind went blank.
“I’ll be leaving now. Thanks for the concern.” She hastily packed all her things.
Outside, the cool night air hit her face. It was exactly what she needed. In a nearby church, the bells started tolling signalling the start of the annual Misa de Gallo.
Labels: 2017, aiko lactaotao, aiko-lactaotao, anxiety, barista, caffeine, christmas, clonazepam, depression, filipino writers, flash fiction, mental health, philippines, ptsd, short story, starbucks
| January 30, 2017 |
Almost Appropriate
{REC ON}
Tell me ninety-nine reasons to justify a suicide. Illustrate with the power of logic an explanation which appropriates to man the right to take his own life. And pray tell, if men, as such bestowed with free will, how is it that an act requiring one’s volition to execute is deemed preposterous and even forbidden?
I do not suffer from Melancholia nor am I perverse; for many, a variation of these comprise their ninety-nine reasons to vindicate suicide, but I’m afraid these are weak explications.
What about the hundredth reason? Is it any different nor any stronger? We’ll get down to it in a moment.
Let us first consider young Werther.
Werther, if memory serves me right, was what we might consider a jilted lover. He longed for a woman beyond his reach and so took his own life. Howbeit, that wasn’t his only reason. He also made mention that he wanted to, and I quote “come home to God”. Werther was a man of faith. Suicide was merely the means to the end he wanted which was to be reunited in Paradise with his Creator. I too, am like Werther.
I believe in God and in Christ who shed His blood for my salvation but I do not believe in suicide as a sin-
{REC OFF}
The camera stopped recording. I played it back and watched myself. A few seconds into the video, I had to pause it. I hate the sound of my own voice. It was like a machine droning- except the machine made slow farting noises, the kind that sleazy B-list comedians let out in Will Ferrel movies. The voice sounded like a cow mooing and I hated the fact that it came from me.
I deleted the footage then threw the camera to the wall. It fell with a slight thud. Looking around, the room was a mess so I decided to clean it before-
Before I do it.
I don’t need a camera to record what I’m about to say. The burden of carrying this weight on my shoulders has gone on for too long and I want out of it.
First let me start off by saying: I am going to hell.
This realization hit me when I was about eighteen years old. I had an argument with my father concerning my future plans; he had it laid out before me, after graduation I was to attend Med School and become a physician just like him. Needless to say, I disobeyed. Disobeying everything seemed to be my forte, I’m ashamed to admit. I have been breaking laws (albeit in petty fashion) since I was young. Wasn’t I the one who disobeyed that voice in my head commanding me to not push that little girl from the swing many years ago in first grade? She ended up with two bruised knee caps and it was the guidance office for me. I tried to make up for it several years after by asking her to the prom only to ditch her during the dance for another, prettier girl.
A flood of memories came over me, one by one, sin by sin. I was like Mephistopheles, but in my case, I had good intentions and was doomed to forever commit evil. My mind is racked with voices arguing back and forth, commenting on all my activities, telling me what to do. Paranoia has been a staple for me the last couple of years. Looking over my shoulder, eyes are always watching me and they can see that I am wont to sin. They follow me everywhere, even in my head. Whenever I aim to do good, the voices in my head won’t stop chattering until I do the exact opposite of what I set out to do!
Although, these may seem trivial to some of you, but if you add one after another, the result is one ginormous boulder of a sin. And don’t argue with me that it’s the intention that counts, not the act.
For, really, was it not said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions?
My hard-headedness gets the best of me. I could never count the times I made my mother cry, poor thing! I refused to go by society’s standards and found myself apprehended by authorities not once but for several. Bad to the bone and going to hell.
I decided over a year ago to end my life. Knowing of my after-life destination, I resolved to commit suicide by shooting myself. Perhaps more than to silence the voices in my head, but rather to consummate the Divine Will of my Creator. The plan was, to record a video of myself to decipher my reasons, afterwards point a gun to my head and have everything recorded on camera.
That was over a year ago today.
Right now, I rescinded my initial plan of recording on camera (once again, evincing my knack for disobedience!) and settled to just clean the room first. Once everything is in place, I took out the gun from the drawer.
As I’ve said previously, I believe in God and in Christ who shed His blood for my salvation, but I do not believe in suicide as sin. Freewill is given to me that I may obey the Lord out of the autonomy of my heart and I know the Lord willed for this day to come.
I am going to hell. Save your prayers for the worthy who need it. The Lord foresaw that I am to be nothing but grime on the surface of his covenant, the dross of all creation, a scum of the earth. Through death, I shall purify the sins of those condemned to hell like I am that they may not suffer the same fate.
It is already night and the wind is howling outside. The curtains swing back and forth excitedly, as if aware of what I’m about to do. I pointed the gun to my chest. I determined not to shoot it directly at my head for that would be too messy. See, even in the last moment, I am disobedient. Such is my kismet.
So it is written, so it shall be done.
[INSPECTOR’S P.O.V.]
He had to admit, despite the blotch of blood on the chest, everything was in order. The desk was neat, the books aligned perfectly on a nearby shelf and there was no sign of any external struggle. He bent down on his knees to get a closer look of the face, it wasn't protocol but he was rather curious; the dead man’s face was serene as a sleeping toddler. Furthermore, he swears by the good Book that there was a smile on the lips-or at least a hint of it, as if what he did to himself was the most natural thing in the world. He couldn't look away; he's had his share of cases like this but this was the only one where he felt like suicide was the right thing to happen. A gust of wind entered from an open window and he shuddered. He wasn't supposed to be thinking this way, afterall, he's been taught all his life that suicide is a sin, an act that will send your soul straight to the pits of hell. However in this case, the young man's room, his outfit, his face- he’ll be damned if it hadn’t looked almost appropriate.
[/END INSPECTOR’S P.O.V.]
Labels: 2017, aiko lactaotao, aiko-lactaotao, demons, dostoevsky, fiction, flash fiction, fyodor dostoevsky, short story, suicide, the sorrows of young werther
