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[nadhira-hizwani-blog]

Winter melon tea always reminded her of him, where dreams are made and secrets are kept. He made her feel safe and loved – the two feelings most people often only dreamt about. The sound of music and laughter drifted up from the streets below, making her feel worse than ever. After two months in the new city, her euphoria has finally worn off and it was replaced by a new sense of hopelessness and misery. The foreignness of not knowing anyone or anything was making her feel helpless and desperate; she was not prepared for this.

Her tea was getting cold and the wind was blowing bitterly, billowing her curtains and her night gown. She sat at the edge of her bed, her eyes glisten every now and then thinking on the good old days. The clock struck one — loudly — making her jumped; she looked almost startled by the sound. She started padding towards the window, walking with an almost enthralled look on her face. “I miss you,” she murmured towards the open window, her eyes looking upwards towards Milky Way.

 This was one of those nights where the pain of losing him was unbearable. She was always filled with remorse and regrets; it is true that time waits for no one. If she could tell the whole world to not take life and love for granted, she would. Alas, her past has happened and there was nothing she could do about it. Most people don’t believe in soulmates; in the idea that one person is meant for another in ways that indescribable and unimaginable but she did. She found her soulmate in him; and so did him in her she hoped.

 She met him when she was seven —  a boy unlike no other— when his family moved into the neighborhood. They met, they bond and they became instant friends. Their houses were only separated by a white fence adorned with black-eyed Susans, purple coneflowers and white Queen Anne’s lace.  Her yellow bicycle would always be against the fence, next to his black one and they raced to school every day since. They were inseparable.

 Of course at school, she would be with her girls and he would be with his guy friends but they kept coming back to each other. They bonded over music and arts, she would paint the fields behind their houses while he would play his violin, the strings glides smoothly just like her deft strokes of brush. Sometimes she would paint him and tell him stories of her drawings. They bonded over birthday parties, lunch breaks, tuition classes, community gatherings and even family reunions. They were as close as two peas in a pod; he was the best friend she never had.

 Sometimes she felt mad, why did he have to leave her, especially when he knew she was going abroad studying Arts and Modernism in New York. He was being selfish she thought. A tear trickled down her pale, ghastly face. Lost in her own world, he came to her mind again and again — like a record player stuck on replay. He was not here now. She felt remorse and guilt, remembering the last time they had spoken to each other. It was just a few weeks before she was setting off to college.

 He had not wanted her to come.

 He had wanted her to stay home. He had wanted her to marry him; he proposed right after they graduated high school. She could not possibly do that, her dreams were bigger and brighter than the sun. She could see herself walking through the streets of New York, arm in arm with her canvases and art supplies. She could see her own art collection displayed in the numerous art galleries all across the globe. She would be famous and known for her delicate and intricate art pieces. She had her dreams; he had his.

 Little did she knew, he was counting minutes and seconds of his life. He loved her, he really did— in an honest and raw way that is so muted anyone could miss its intensity. He was her protector, her savior, her confidant; he cannot bear the thought of her leaving town and leaving him. He also could not be leaving her just like that. He had not wanted to go to college, despite the scholarships he received from three different renowned music and arts school. He only wanted her; his days were numbered. Yet he did not tell her this. He did not want to hurt her. He could not; hurting her would be hurting himself too.

 Still, she was beyond hurt and shocked. One day he was just gone, no goodbyes no nothing. Only a piece of musical piece he had left for her, the one she kept playing every single night — over and over again. The sound that soothes her to sleep and keeps her sane. All she felt was serenity washing over her, a reassurance that he was his home – her familiar place. Wherever she feels like she does not belong, her thoughts go to him – a reminder that they belong together, always.

  The End.

[nadhira-hizwani-blog]

Ignite

She could still remember the fire. Lights ignited whenever she walked passed tree and homes. This memory is a curse; she had not wanted it. The memory of herself burnt, never again forgotten? No, she would rather have her soul ripped off and taken.

Why can’t she just have burned dead that night? Never again will she wake up and lament. And her epitaph shall read:

“She went up in flames with all her bookly possessions. Flesh and book burnt. The girl who burnt and shone till the very end”

But she did not die; she was still here. Alive. Yet, worthless.        

Lena Benoit was at the Kensington Art Gallery, staring intently at an intricate fashion piece by one of the local artist. Naturally expressive herself, Lena was wearing a hand-sewn black dress, black knee-high boots and her strawberry blonde hair was done up in a messy bun adorned with white flowers she plucked on her way there.

Her eyes scanned intently the jagged and harsh lines of the jacket displayed. She noticed how well-seamed the front is, the wonderful contrasting leather with the chiffon lining on the inside. She reached inside the backpack for something. Finally finding her notebook and black Sharpie, she moved towards the next piece; a poofy off-white dress made from tulle and organza.

There was a content smile on her lips. She had plans this year. She was going to go to Paris and live with her father right in the city of arts. She will be away soon; far away from this small town of Kensington.

After half an hour browsing idlily through the gallery, Lena sat down on one of the benches outside. She started writing furiously; oblivious of the loud car honks and bustling of pedestrians walking across the streets. She had her eyes only on her sketch of the detailed jacket she had just seen in the gallery.

A figure suddenly caught her eye from across the street. A thin, bony girl with smooth ebony skin holding a tattered copy of Bronte’s Jane Eyre was walking towards her. Her eyes were exclusively looking towards the ground; a lack of confidence hung above her like bees swarmed to flowers. She must have been only ten or eleven but her features were strikingly enchanting— high cheekbones, peachy lips and structured collared bones —  forcing Lena not to take her eyes off this little girl.

The view was not as odd if not for the way the girl was dressed. She was dressed in clothes way too big and bulky for her petite size. Her tutu skirt was bright pink, clashing horribly with yellow bumble bee stockings and brown shoes. Yet, the way she carried herself portrays a sense of indigence and coyness, quite the opposite of lively Kensington.

The girl sat down a bench across Lena’s. Sha started reading her copy of Jane Eyre, her strumming on the red pavement. The jacket soon forgotten, Lena turned to a new fresh page and sketched the girl.

Later that evening, as soon as she got home from the gallery, Lena quickly showered and changed into her pajamas. At exactly 6 o’clock, she heard her mom pulling her Mercedes in the driveway so she went downstairs to the kitchen.

           “Hey darling, how was your day off from work?”

           A rose-scented perfume wafted in the kitchen as Mrs Anna Benoit entered the kitchen, juggling her cellphone and a few shopping bags. Mrs Benoît works with a modelling agency. So, most of the time, the clothes that her models had worn would be brought back home.

           “It was okay mom,” Lena kissed her briefly on the cheek before heading to the microwave to heat up some leftover mushroom fettuccini.

           “Though, I did saw something peculiar downtown just now. A girl was oddly out of place. She had this great features but her clothes were just so out of place.”

           “Oh, did you snap a photo of her? I could recruit her as one of my models. You know how I am always on the hunt for great models honey.”

           “No mom. She seemed only ten or eleven.”

           “Oh, I see. No need to think of her then. Let’s eat then, I have a meeting in half an hour with Vera Wang’s people. My team and I are going to have a wedding show this coming winter using her designs”

             Dinner was eaten in silence. A garden salad was tossed quickly to go with the fettuccini. After dinner was eaten and the dishes were done, Lena went back to her room upstairs while her mom went straight out for her meeting.

           Lena knew her mom was a busy woman —  she’s a manager after all — but sometimes it would be nice to spend some one-to-one time with her as she’s not always around. Lena was alone most of the time. The Benoîts went separated ways last summer; they just drifted apart after their marriage of twenty years. It was not much of a deal anyway, Lena kind of see it coming.

           Her dad — Lucas Benoit would always be in his studio or at The Hallmark College of Arts where he’s a professor. He also kept himself busy with his sculpting studio downtown. On the other hand, mom would always be with her models and clients; taking care of their every need. After filing for divorce, her dad went back to Paris where he had spent most of his childhood there. Lena did not care, she had her own interests and passions to look after to. If her mom and dad are happy, she was happy as well.

           Since graduating high school, she has been working at a cafe near home. The tips there as well as allowance from both parent were enough to pay for her expenses on new clothes, tickets to ballets, theater performances as well as art galleries. She was also a natural bookworm, like many other art-________ people. Her room was filled with books right from the floor to ceiling. Imagine the library in Beauty and the Beast.

           She was cozily tucked in bed, watching Les Fillers Peintes — a French movie while sipping some peach tea. Some candles were lit up — her room hinted smells of vanilla and pumpkin spice — and her eyes were getting heavier. She tried to keep them awake but her eyes were giving in; she felt drowsier by the minute. She soon fell fast asleep, dreaming of sunshine and green fields.

           Her dreams suddenly turned vicious. She was lost among the trees. Black smoke filled the air. She found herself gasping in the forest, looking for something, someone. A way out. She felt hot tingling in her legs. A piercing pain shot through her ribs.

           She woke up choking and gagging. Her nostrils detected the charcoal smell of smoke. There was an earthy, bitter taste on her tongue and lips. Oh, but the burning agony she felt was unlike anything she felt before.

           Her room was on fire.

           Half-asleep, she only realized. Coughing and spluttering, she tried to move. Her limbs hurt all over. Smokes were all over, she couldn’t see. Her lungs were burning, struggling to gain oxygen. She passed out right on the carpet, hitting her head near her vanity as she fell. Darkness engulfed her.

           Sirens could be heard. The whole neighborhood was alive. The house on 27th Street was on fire. Someone was trapped inside. The firemen were on the way. Would they make it in time? 15 minutes had passed as the fire roared on indulging the Benoit’s home.

             “Lena… Lena… Can you hear me darling?”

           “Lena….”

           “Darling, it’s your mama….”

           Her eyelids felt heavy. She just wanted to sleep and rest. Suddenly, an image came to her mind.

           The fire. The heat. The burn.

She tried to scream. Sweats formed on her forehead, under her arms and back. Drenched with cold sweat, her head was throbbing as well. Too piercing a pain, she passed out again on the white linen hospital bed.

Her parents were there, holding her hands. Both on each side of her bed, praying hard for their precious daughter. Tears formed ever so easily; how could a girl so precious and pretty became a victim in the comforts of her own home?

 Six months passed slowly for Lena Benoit. She was at home now, had been home after her month stay at the hospital. She became sullen and quiet. Everything that was dear and near to her was snatched in a blink of an eye. No more college life; at least not in that same year.

The morning was bright and clear; birds were chirping and whistling out happy tunes. Lena sat near her vanity. A tear dropped as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Someone she did not know stared back at her. She grimaced, flinching away from her reflection.

It took her a moment to muster her courage again before looking back into the mirror. It was worse that she had remembered. There were scarred tissues on the left side of her face and her nose and lips were still in stitches. Her right eye was sealed shut with a bandage — only to be removed at the end of this month. The upper part of her scalp was bald with patches of hair where her blonde hair would never grow back. There were also numerous scars marking her neck all the way down to her chest and ribs.

Ugly.                            

All her life of appreciating the aesthetics of life, the one thing she got back was scars and flaws marked all over her.  All her life of painting and sketching, her slender fingers were no longer reliable in holding a paintbrush. All her life of watching theatrical performances and orchestras, her eyes were in the danger of being permanently blind on one side.

She refused to cry yet the tears came again so easily. Her lips taste the saltiness of her own remorse and fear. All the what if’s and if only.

The doctors had done what they could at that time. At the very least, they did save her life. She was still alive and breathing. She still had her parents with her. But there would always be the scars. No matter how faint, the scars would always remain there. Reminding her how permanently damaged she looked.

Enraged, she hurled her wooden hair-brush as hard as she could towards her vanity mirror. A multitude of cracks spread across the mirror, like a spider web. She screamed and began grabbing anything that she could get hold of — a can of hair spray, a perfume bottle, a book — throwing them all at the mirror.

           “Lena, darling! Are you alright?” Her mom burst through her bedroom door.

           Sobbing hard, she clung herself to Mrs Benoit who soothed her hair and patted her back.

           “Shhhh, it’s okay. I know baby…”

           The chirpiness of the morning was broken out by the wailing of a Lena Benoit. The girl who burnt and survived.

 The End.