Memento

[First Draft]

I dropped out of school, just to 'recover'. I could not sleep. I could not sleep even if my body ached with fatigue. There was no rest for my weary mind and bloodshot eyes. Six days a week, every week, never a hope for sleep until the seventh day, I gained a short night of fitful sleep.

I could not study because I was too tired; I would not understand what I wrote nor carry a coherent train of thought. Slowly my grades fell... the 'A's turned into nothing. Neither could I sustain any exercise because my body could not rest. Every day began without any purpose or joy or relief, on and on it went day after day, week after week, month after month. I became a Sisyphus on an uphill climb without a goal in sight. It never occurred to me that hell could be boredom until this happened. I couldn't even play the piano - I'd suffer panic attacks playing for my teacher because I felt so... useless. Worthless. Everything I worked so hard for I lost overnight because that one doctor decided it was time to play with my pills.

Then the drinking started. Fifty dollars a week, one hundred, one hundred and fifty. The alcohol, growing in quantity and potency to help me earn a few moments of blithe happiness amidst days of endless drift. Sometimes I mixed liquor and beer to get an extra high until my heart began to beat so hard and fast I thought I would die there and then and all would be well. I went to school a few times to see my friends but the damage of absence was done. Out of sight, out of mind, out of date. Our rapport was gone. I envied them. They wore their uniforms with a purpose, I merely to relive what purpose I had while aimlessly haunting the corridors. I wanted to die, I prayed to die, but the usual silence pervaded. So many times I wanted to take it myself, yet Hamlet was right - I feared the stakes of Pascal's wager.

But at least she was there. At least there was someone I could talk to. She would always be there when I called, when I messaged. X gave me kind words when when closest friends judged me. She came to see me when all I saw were the same four walls of my home - by now a prison. In her I found some hope, some joy, someone who actually gave me something closest to love. But she was always clear that we were only friends, nothing more.

I promised her I'd stop drinking but failed to keep it. I remember that night when I had drunk more than usual an couldn't find a cab back. I remember walking home from the neighborhood bar, stumbling along the way. I remember wishing I had taken just one more drink, one more elixir for the euphoria to keep me buoyant before I sank again. I dropped to my knees once, then again, then a third time. I remember my eyes began to blur as much as my head until I realised I was crying and asking why I had to suffer through this. On her birthday I told her what happened that night. I told her I couldn't keep the promise, and from then I swore I wouldn't fail her again.

I went from psychiatrist to psychiatrist. The Freudian psychotherapist, the cognitive-behavioural psychologist, a third psychiatrist. None of them could give me a working diagnosis, but at least Dr. Samuel found the right mix of pills to send me to sleep. The pills gradually increased in kind and strength just as the drinks had but at least they gave me a sound sleep every night. I began to regain some function during the day and started studying again, hoping to catch up. As the new year came I fell into terror. I didn't want to face the strange faces, but I did eventually. Even so, I could not stay. The pills gave me sleep at night but left me drowsy in the day. The nightmare soon started again: I stopped going to college, once more confined to the same walls.

The days soon became aimless again. I'd trick myself thinking I was studying when all I did was peruse the same notes to while away the hours before night came and I could go online without guilt. There were no more drinks; I soon ran out of money had didn't have the cheek to ask for more. But sometimes I'd flare up over the smallest issues: the punctured wardrobe doors testify to that. My knuckles were cut by splintered wood as were my feet - yet they couldn't compare with the scar that fate and time had left on me. No matter what I felt, no matter the time of the day or issue on my mind, it was always there - the fragments of broken dreams like shards of shattered glass that pierced my trembling hands as I tried to pick up the pieces.

So many nights I cried. I wish she was close by to pick me up. I wished she could hold me. I wished I could hold her so that I knew without a doubt that she was truly here with me. I didn't want to be alone - never alone - but all I had was her voice at the other end of the line. I loved her, because she loved me. But did I love her? She was always so distant, so... cordial. I couldn't have loved someone I didn't even know. I knew she would never want us to be more than friends and my love was therefore somewhere between the platonic and the romantic, or so I reasoned. Yet I still thought of her everyday. I thought of her warm smiles which shone in her eyes whenever we met. I asked to hold her hand one day because I needed the reassurance, and she held on to me with a strong grip. Her warm, soft hands and slender fingers invoked a poignant sentiment that I couldn't name. She held on to me longer than I did to her. I regretted letting her go the moment I did so but I couldn't lose her - never lose her - and so I've never asked to hold her hand again.

I still think of her everyday, praying for her happiness in some way or other. I wish I could be so much more to her. I love her. Is that really so bad? I remind myself it's not healthy to be so addicted to her. I made my own snares, she been nothing but sweet to me. She never talks about herself unless I ask, and then only in passing. X has left an indelible mark on me. She has become so special in so many undefinable ways. Sometimes I think she's lost too. She'd join clubs but never stay in them, or make plans to join more but never does. She studies - that is all she's ever done since our secondary school days. I'd always see her at the atrium, textbooks out with paper ready. Sometimes I wonder if she's as lost as I am without knowing it, or refusing to face it. I hold back my sentiments, knowing full well that I will crumble if I lose her. Perhaps I just want someone to love. Perhaps these years of abject loneliness have simply made me desperate for someone to love and be with.

For the first time, I told an old friend how I really felt about her, what she's helped me through. "duuuude... don't say that; I want to cry..." I'm not surprised; tears are all that seem to come despite all the hard work and tenacity. Cambridge will grade it as it sees fit. Regardless of the score, I can proudly say I made it through half of my 'A' Level education on my own and stunned many teachers with a performance that exceeded those who had two full years. I have walked through tears and heartbreak, solitude and despondence, the deprivation of sleep and depravation of mind. I can never have the same spunk and zest for life I had before. I understand that I still hang by a thread. Above all, I wish I can love her still because she's loved me.

[In a small blue case, a music box that sings over the rainbow]

"To Xue Wen

My beacon of light

My fountain of hope

BenLow 2009"

A note, folded in three, lies below the music box:

The first fold reads "I", unfolding the second layer, "cherish", and the third reads "you" with stenciled flowers, stars and snowflakes drawn all around.

When will she see it?

Will she see it?