the girl death left behind - a short story.

Death has taken away everything she loved and left her behind. She was the girl death left behind. Emily would often wondered, what would it be like to be someone else. What if she were born in someone else's place, live the life designed for them. Would she have done better in life? Would she have made all the right choices necessary? Would she be happier? Live more?

There was an old man by the cobbler shop, who always seem to be waiting for something. Or someone. She'd rather not know. Knowing is burden. Instead she found herself thinking, what would it be like to be that old man. Surely waiting freezes time, like the rivers are during winter - all solid and quiet. The act of waiting alone is poignant, almost beautiful in her mind. It wouldn't hurt to wait, Emily thought. It wouldn't hurt to be him.

And then there was the silly stuck-up princess, whose grandfather owns half of the town's land. Always with her petty friends, red heeled shoes and white-flowered dress. Whenever she walks among the crowds, there seem to be a sweet, almost rosy scent that she left behind; the epitome of wealth -  for no kids her age would wear a perfume as expensive that would linger for hours. Emily wondered what kind of mother she would have, who harbors great love for her daughter, that would not allow even a speck of dust to touch her daughter. She could live like that. She probably could love the mother more than the snobbish princess ever could. It was a life she could get used to, if given the chance.

And finally there was the stray cat down the alley. Kids adore this dirty old rag. In spite of his haggard appearance, the cat really knows how to purr, Emily noticed. And those big blue eyes were a big help too. The town's people would rush down to the cat and give whatever food they have in hands. Emily had to admit, even when the cat was one of the homeless, he definitely was welcomed almost everywhere. Funny though, no one was genuine enough to adopt him as the family's pet. She figured by now that it was a human thing - to make themselves feel good without overdoing it. Still, if being a cat, particularly that cat, means free meal, then that wouldn't be so bad after all, thought Emily. Better than having to clean the black back of pots for a mere quarter, or sometimes for a pence.

But today Emily found someone new. Someone who probably has been around for most of her life, but for some unknown reason, has never crossed her path. She had a basket of daisies in her hand - Emily's favourite. There seems to be a sun surrounding her being, radiating her light to others as she greet them. She was what you could only find in fairytale, a character walked out of a page in a slow motion. A painting, no - a portrait of a mother. Emily watcher her delicate hands, imagining them knitting a peach-coloured scarf for her beloved daughter. She would take her daughter for a walk in the park during autumn and put daisies in her hair. My hair, Emily thought.

Flashes of her own mother in reality suddenly came to mind - drunken, slurred and all messed up in her kitchen. No husband, only a daughter to put all the blame on. A daughter to be appointed as the breadwinner. Emily quickly retraced her mind. Don't go there, she silently begged herself. It was the life she loathed, the reality she questioned everyday. As she was about to turn around and head back to the lowly shelter she called home, something caught her eyes. The motherly figure with the basket of daisies bent down and put one of her daisies on a girl's hair. She hugged the girl and no doubt in Emily's mind that it was her daughter. The girl flashed a smug smile so familiar it crushed Emily's heart. The girl was now walking next to the mother, hand in hand, with her red heeled shoes echoing and white-flowered dress blowing, leaving behind a scent of rose.

At that time, Emily wished she was that girl, more than ever. Emily wished she was anyone else but herself.

this is how i love you.

When I first posted my pictures onto the website, I didn't know how many lives would be changed. I really didn't. I guess for me, it was simply to suit the weekend amusement mode. There were only two pictures. My athletic lopsided smile when I was in college, and the other one with the bowling-sized belly - taken only last week, fours years after marrying Emma.

The comments were mostly hinted at how round my body proportion in the second picture, as compared from the one in my college days. From my bulging belly all the way to my puffy cheeks. As I was skimming those comments, I stopped myself. And no, not because my television screen just showed Messi made yet another legendary winning goal, though that would have stopped me before. I stopped because I simply understand that none of them gets it. And it's not even their fault.

It's not their fault that they think my sudden body expansion was due to my happiness of having a wife. It's not their fault that they think I gained weight because I am a married man. That a man with a wife is entitled to being happy, hence the bulging belly. Before going further, let me first tell you about Emma.

I met Emma in high school, back when my heart kept urging me that she was the one. And being Emma, she typically kept running away from me. But also being me, I never stopped chasing her. And boy, what a sprinter she was. Somewhere towards the crossing line, I managed to somehow run with her side by side. And to my amazement, she slowed down and let me take over. A woman can't run too fast without getting tired, that's what she said. I took that as a yes. Five years later, she did say yes to my marriage proposal.

Now Emma the sprinter, and Emma the wife are two different people, I tell you. There must be some misprinted manual of Emma somewhere, with several chapters missing when I married her. She wasn't the best cook. But she certainly is the worst. She couldn't fathom why salt cannot and will never be able to replace sugar. That's the only thing I can think of while eating salty dinner. And lunch. And sometimes even tea. Emma would spend hours in the kitchen preparing them. And afterwards, she'll come up to me and said, "Let's eat outside today." And that either means she burnt her food or burnt her fingers.

Emma can't, for the life of god - drive a car. She gets freaked out and started talking about evil driving instructor who failed her thrice. She has irrational fears over animals and insects, except for ants, mosquitoes and flies. She loves literature but studied linguistics instead. She would purposely change sides in an argument just so she could start a bantering session with me. Emma even though she never admits it, suffers from an obsessive compulsive disorder, I must say. I tried to prove my point by purposely facing a photo frame slightly to the left. In the evening, she reminded me that the frame must be positioned in a way that it directly faces the stairs approximately 270 degrees to the left. I don't think a normal husband would want to carry a protractor in his own house.

Despite all these, I've never seen Emma cry. Except the one time when I was outside the labour room, when her cry was a mashed-up of hers and our baby. Other than that, never. When I came home carrying the office problems into the house, she never force me to open up. Not because she was oblivious, but because she knows me well enough to know that I need the time to allow myself to discard my ego before breaking down in front of her. And she won't try to pretend that she gets it, because she doesn't. Banking isn't really her strongest point, you see. She won't try to solve problems that she knew she couldn't, but instead she makes me laugh. She always had this eccentric way that can conjure up my sanity, up to the point that I don't even mind the problems anymore, as long as I have her. And that is enough to remind me that problems would eventually leave, but she will stay with me, by me, for me. Forever and eternal.

And that's why those pictures I posted would never be understood. Even if you sent them all over the world, and they came right back to you, still the whole world doesn't get it. I did gain (some) weight. And I am happy with my life. But it's not because I am a married man. Not because I have a wife.

It's because I am married to Emma. Because my wife is Emma. You see, if it's not Emma, it cannot be. It has to be Emma. Marriage alone does not have the key to make me happy. Any other wives would not get me the way Emma does. It has to come with a package of Emma - with her misprinted missing chapters manual and all. Anybody can learn to cook, drive a car or be insanely filial. But nobody can learn to be Emma.

This is how I love you.


0213 hours.
22.12.2011.
University of Malaya.