Even The Angels Shrugged

A short story on confusion and angst.

 

One time when I was a kid my eyes accidentally caught a portrait of a muscular, bearded, old geezer grabbing lightning in his broad right hand.  It really was one of the most influential images I have ever seen. I’m serious. The piercing, but majestic eyes that seem to trail my movements. Those broad, hard shoulders stacking up like folded mountains. Those divine, oddly disturbing white pillars towering behind the man. Perhaps it had become such a striking image because it was the first time I saw an image of divine entities. Or perhaps it was simply because I had always hated thunders. I really can’t recall a moment when my face wasn’t buried in my mother’s lap during rainstorms during my childhood days. I despised its roaring voice; the sudden, initial strike had never ceased to bring terror to me. Especially the oddly precise timing of its appearance. I mean, really, it always came at such the right moment that it felt damn terrifying. One morning when I was about 5, I saw a clown dancing around on the boulevard facing my house, giving balloons to kids and s**t. I looked at him through the window. That night on the same day, it was raining so hard the raindrops looked like a wall of water marching down the street. The road was supposed to be deserted, but then I caught a sight of the clown I had seen earlier. He was sitting far by the sidewalk, taking off his wig, burying his face onto his palms. From his gestures I could see that he was weeping. His mouth was open so wide I could almost hear him scream. I tell you, it was a horrifying sight. Then right at my frailest point, bam. Lightning stroke. Believe me if you were in my position, you could’ve died of a heart attack or something. Another time when I was a little bit older, at the very moment I saw my father’s fist landing on my my mother’s left cheek, a roaring voice arised from the clouds above. I couldn’t recall if I had pissed myself from shock.

          

But for me, really, the worst part of stormy days weren't the actual lightning themselves. It was the moment of silence after each strikes. It was those moments when you were absolutely clueless when the next strike is going to emerge. It was those moments heart thumping on my chest while I sat there anticipating the next lightning strikes. You didn’t even know whether it will appear again. Truly despicable.

           

It was a habit I brought about until today. As to be expected, my friends always laughed at it; being scared of thunder after having lived for 17 years and s**t must have been damn silly. Maybe I was too old for this. Or perhaps, it was because they understood my fear as well. People always do it. Making fun of someone because they really understood them. It was strange, really, but they do it all the time.

           

Sadly, by the time I completed high school's first year, my classmates were scattered around the globe, each walking their respective paths. For me, I enrolled in a foundation college; a program established to prepare students for university. When it was just my first week, I missed school life already. It wasn't that the college was bad or anything. Actually, it was quite decent. But I don't know, I just missed school, and I am sure I wasn't alone. People can only truly enjoy something once it was over. And by that time, they will start blaming themselves and complaining. It was odd, but people just do it.

          

It was ironic how I had always despised teenagers, despite the fact that I myself is a teenager just like the others. It was like they represented everything I could ever resented, but I couldn't really tell. Perhaps it was the fact that some of them are sweet-talking b******s. Or are zombies enslaved by cultural trends. Or maybe, are self-obssessed think-smarts. I may sound like I am overgeneralizing, but heck, I am just being honest.

           

I don’t know, but perhaps my scorn for adolescents had started to bloom ever since I was small. I was always taught how loathsome and nasty those popular teens are. How smoking, drinking, clubbing, street racing, were foul acts. Or even adding “f**k” or “s**t” at practically every sentence. Especially by one of my highschool teachers, Mr Alan. One time during a school field trip, several students of my school were caught drinking and smoking.  Of course, they were suspended from school for a week. Mr Alan got really pissed, and he always insulted those students at the end of every single class we had with him.  And it was an opinion I agreed on as well, together with my classmates. I mean, as a kid, who wouldn’t? There is no way a primary student, heck, even a high school student, would raise their hand up when a teacher asks the class who would smoke or drink in the future. But again, every human being are hypocrites. Hypocrites. Today, most of my classmates would walk around with a cigar on their mouths. But not me. I did not smoke. I hated cigarettes. But to be honest, I didn’t really understand why. I mean, people always say cigarettes are destroying your life. The thing is, for some reason it does not to apply to things like, you know, fast food. Sweet drinks. Slacking off in bed all day. Why aren’t they as antagonized as cigarettes and alcohols? Perhaps I had never thought of that in the past. Or perhaps I did, but decided not to care nevertheless. I don’t know. Weird s**t.

          

So I got pretty lonely sometimes. I mean, who wouldn’t? I still hang out with my old friends though, but it felt awkward. The feeling just aren’t the same as the good old high school days. And what makes me more pissed off, is the fact that the popular young men out there are going places smelling like tobacco, getting friends without any efforts at all.

           

Anyways, one night I somehow got in contact with 2 of my old friends, Jimmy and George, whom I haven’t talked to ever since the end of 10th grade. I recall we were discussing about what to get for our friend’s 17th birthday. The two turned out to study in the same university. And they were quite popular there too. It shouldn’t take a long moment of contemplation for one to know what made them popular. But considering the fact that Jimmy was a close childhood friend of mine, it didn’t really matter. Heck we used to be so close ever since kindergarten we were always requesting the teachers for us to be in the same class, and damn, the requests were actually granted. And now after almost completely losing contact with him, we were chatting that night through the phone for quite a while. Finally we decided we would go to the birthday dinner together, with his car. I wouldn’t have done it for I still appreciate the fact that I am still alive. But that night, it didn’t really matter.

           

The night of the dinner, it was raining. Jimmy’s car was waiting in front of my house. It was a silver subcompact car; the exact same car as mine, but one can tell from the sound of the engines that it had been intensely modified. It was pretty impressing. The moment I slipped inside the back seat, I was quite moved. In the driver’s seat sat Jimmy, looking at me brightly with his firm, decisive eyes. Grinning, he offered me his hand. I returned it with a solid handshake, and did the same to George’s.

           

            “Long time no see, you f**k!” Jimmy says, “Is it just me or is your face not f****n’ changing at all? You skipped puberty or something?”

            “Get a mirror, you dumbass,” I laughed, “How you two doin’? Having fun in college?”

            “Not bad, really. You got to do anything you want there. It was swell. But school might be slightly better. Especially our last year there,” Jimmy said, “I heard you joined some kind of pre-college program s**t. How was it?”

            “Damn boring. Seriously. Dull teachers. Dull subjects. Dull class. In the old days I used to look forward to go to school every single day. Now? Hell no. Waking up every morning to go study now is damn torture.”

            “Sure wish I could turn back time,” George said.

            “Couldn’t agree more.”

            “But man, think about it. Back then we didn’t really like school. Now we missed school. Who knows what’ll happen when we grow up? Maybe we’d miss college just like we’d missed school now,” Jimmy said.

            “Wise words, Jim,” George laughed, slapping Jimmy in the face, “Wise guy. You should’ve seen his grades.”

            “F**k you, George. Don’t trust him, Nicky. My grades are damn good now. See his grades instead, Nick.”

            “Why not look at mine instead? Straight A’s look better in paper, don’t they?” I said.

            George cheerfully whacked my head. Jimmy, laughing and looking back, intended to slap me but realized that he is in the driver’s seat. Soon we reached the highway. The road was quite deserted that day; the left lane, where all the slow cars and trucks are positioned, was normally filled just as usual. But the middle and the right lane was unusually barren.

            “Hey George, let’s show Nick some cool stuff,” Jimmy calmly declared.

            George nods.

            “How fast do you usually bring your car, Nicky?” George asked.

            “I don’t know. 40-60 kilos at max. What the f**k are you trying to do, Jim? Don’t mess around man.”

            “Let’s bet. I bet I can reach thrice that speed. What you think, Nick?”

            “For f**k’s sake, Jim, don’t do wei…”

           

The engine roared so hard that my vocal cords went too numb to speak another word. The gas pedal was flat on the floor. George was laughing hard, perhaps not of the fact that the speedometer had hit 200 kilos per hour in, I don’t know,  5 seconds, but of my vividly horrified expression. It was crazy.  The view of surpassed cars through the window became so blurred that time seemed to stop. Through my eyes, I could swear that we weren’t the ones moving forward. It was them; the roads, the street lights, the cars, the trucks, the buildings, that were proceeding backwards. It wasn’t like in the racing movies where everything was loud and rambunctious; the sound of burnt rubber and engines combined with the vision of outran cars and street lights to form a rapid, chaotic harmony of senses. On the contrary it was a calm scene. The intense sound of the roaring engine diminished gently as everything went blurry like the screen of a busted television. Time itself seems to be unable to keep up. It was more of a slow-motioned moment of tranquility. My terrified expression soon altered into an amazed grin. I opened the window, and stuck my head outside. It felt damn nourishing, as if I am giving my soul a long, pleasant meal. I’m serious. I looked up at the sky. It was still raining lightly, but fortunately, I saw no signs of incoming thunders. Feeling the water drops colliding with my face gave me life.

            Jimmy called me with his raspy, satisfied voice.

            “There you go. Buy us some drinks.”

            “I didn’t remember agreeing on the bet, dumbass.”

           

The dinner lasted for around an hour. Almost every of my good old classmates were there. It felt great to gather around with my high school friends, though it was a little bit awkward, for we haven’t talked as a class for a year. But it didn’t matter. We missed talking to each other like the good old days, so everyone was really glad to have the chance to at least recapture some of the past memories. It was quite depressing for me, though. Of course not about the reunion, but about how, as a class, we have basically thrown away what would have been 2 memorable, precious years of high school. People say the high school years were the best moments of one’s life. I am not the one to say this, but I think I might have to say that I agree. It felt damn stupid to have just realized that fact now and not earlier. It’s like one moment during the dinner, when I was unaware of a cake’s pleasant taste until it ended up in your stomach, only to realize that the plate was already empty. But I don’t know. Maybe I am being too pessimistic. Perhaps I am still eating the damn cake right now, but I just don’t realize. I don’t know.

          

It was 8 when the dinner ended. I followed Jimmy and George back to the car. Jimmy thought it was still too early to go home, so we decided to hang out and play billiard. I would’ve bailed out, but I somehow felt like going. So I followed.

           

Just like before, I could hear the engine roar, but this time louder, and the car went fleeting like a damn race car. The peaceful, lively trance was re-experienced; a feeling I further emphasized by sticking my head out from the window. Looking at the sky, I recognized how my face stayed dry. It stopped raining. I don’t think it will rain again anytime soon, or if God would be so kind, forever.

           

That was when I realized my hatred for those of my age have ceased to exist. It does not seem to matter now. I don’t know anymore. Who decided what’s good and what’s bad, anyways? Perhaps, really, I never actually hated them. Perhaps I had always concealed the fact by pretending to be too mature for my age. I don’t know, and couldn’t care less. Overthinking kills.

         

Drowning on thoughts I didn’t realize we have arrived. Upon walking in the bar I could smell the foul scent of cigarettes. But the fact that I endured every day sniffing in the scent of my dad’s cigars neutralized the smell. George spoke to the counter. He and Jimmy offered me a cigar (an offer I boldly rejected) and lit one in their mouths. I can feel my bladder being filled to its brim. I walked to the second level to the toilet. Walking up the stairs, through the glass wall I could see a familiar, skin-headed man with a black pool stick in his right hand. Upon further squinting of the eyes I could finally confirm that he was Mr. Alan. I strolled my way to greet him, but stopped halfway when I saw what he was holding in his left hand. A small, burnt tube of tobacco was exhausting smoke through his fingers. I halted, turned my feet, and headed back to the toilet.

            I returned back to our pool table.

            “What’s the matter?” Jimmy said, “Your face looks like s**t.”

            “Naw. Nothing’s the matter.”

          

I took Jimmy’s cigarette box, took one cigar, and lit it in my mouth. Then I drank. And drank again. Until I got stoned. For the first time.

           

I arrived home at half past 12. I hadn’t expected to come home this late, so I didn’t bring my house keys with me. I wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or nervous seeing the gates unlocked. I entered, and slowly pulled the door handle. It was unlocked as well. Upon walking inside, I wasn’t surprised to see my father seated on a chair in the living room, his troubled eyes fixed on mine like that of a concerned teacher looking at a hopeless student. From his gestures I could see he was impatiently waiting for me. I wished he would scream at me, but instead he spoke in a way that terrified me the most; a calm, resolute voice.

            “Where have you been?” he inquired.

          

If there is one thing I regretted doing the most, it was lying to my father. He was so damn acute at spotting lies, that I suppose if he had exposed his skills, the police would work their a*s off just to get him hired. He had one of those pressuring eyes that made those who opposed him, or even more, liars, felt hopeless like s**t. I felt like a dumbass, doing all those things while having in mind that my dad was at home. But what the f**k can I do? I told him everything.

           

Surprisingly, he didn’t unleash his wrath like he usually does. He did something worse. He stood up immediately and went into his room, but left me a simple warning that made me shudder.

            “This happens one more time, and you aren’t going to leave home for the rest of your life.”

           

Before I dozed off, as usual, I looked at the black sky through the windows of my room. I always hated how one could not see any stars from the area where I lived. But still, I watched. I watched every single night. The only thing that keeps me gazing at the desolated sky above me every night was the hope that one night; one cloudless night, the smoke or the fog or the vapour or whatever the s**t that floated between the stars and my eyes would disappear. And then those sparkles I have always yearned to look at would be exposed. Too bad it usually happened only after a storm. Maybe it was God’s way of comforting people like me. The reason He created storms in the first place, though, was beyond my capacity of reasoning. It was a mystery I could never solve. If only mankind is intelligent enough to understand God. Everything would then be much simpler.

           

The next evening George texted me. He told me he would pick me up at 7 to hang out with Jimmy and some of his friends. With an excuse of going to the gym, I managed to get my dad’s permission. Turned out if you were confident enough, lying would be as simple as breathing. George picked me up earlier, at half past 6. I told him not to ride fast in front of my house, fearing that my dad might be in front of the window scrutinizing. So we moved slow, and as we leave the housing complex, we dashed off as fast as we can.

          

We were on the highway when the black clouds started to appear.  It made my quite anxious. Then I found myself thinking about my dad. My mom. My old friends. My new friends. My teachers. My position in this world. The role I’m supposed to play in this drama called life. And all the decisions I have made in my life. And the problems I have faced in the past. And all the problems I have yet to overcome. My head was aching with all these thoughts. Goddam annoying. But at Ieast I knew I wasn’t alone. Very likely.

 

           

It happened so fast. I heard the sound of smashed steel, and shattered window. The car rolled around frantically like a boat colliding with waves, and the guys inside had no chance to scream as pieces of broken glass impaled their soft skins. I felt as if something is going to come out of my mouth through my guts, and my head felt heavy but oddly buoyant and loose at the same time. Weird things sure happen when one faces death.

           

The things I have always feared finally happened. As I, for a reason I don’t know, managed to contemplate on the tragic situation I am in, hanging upside down with my bleeding nose on the airbag, I gazed around to find George and Jimmy. Jimmy’s bleeding head was resting on the steering wheel, his jaws unhinged, his eyes staring blankly. So was George’s. The feeling of chatting with a friend heartily in one minute and looking at their lifeless body in the next; it’s just impossible to describe. Amidst of all the mess, the radio was still turned on and working perfectly well.

           

I managed to escape from the car before nearby people gathered around it. I didn’t want those damned phonies to look down on me. Then I ran as fast as I could in the rain, towards the forest on the side of the highway. I recalled pleading to the Old Man up there to either stop the rain, or to immediately send the loudest lightning strike He could ever create. I don’t know why. Sometimes you do weird s**t spontaneously. But I couldn’t recall what happens next. Maybe the rain stopped. Or maybe thunder roared. I don’t know. I don’t remember. Then I thought about what I was going to do after this. Surely I can’t go home. I reckon I’ll just cover my wounds with leaves until the bleeding stops, let the rain wash away my blood, and perhaps build myself a little nice wooden hut deep in the forest. Yes I would love to do that. If I could do that, I definitely would. Of course I would. Definitely.

 

Author's Note

Since I am just a newbie, I would really appreciate any constructive advices and reviews. Especially on the dialogues. Really unconfident with the dialogues :D