Meet her on the highest point of this ship
An hour after sundown, when most people will be at dinner
Don't back out
You know it's time
To tell her the truth about how you feel
I hear muffled sounds of the television through the wall when I lay my head against it, and then there's water rushing out of the shower head, cascading onto the steaming white tiles, and is also just as loud. But nothing beats the hurricane of thoughts hammering through my mind.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
There'll be tomorrow, and there'll be the day after tomorrow, and then the morning hours of the tenth day. And that'll be all the time I'll have to… fulfil my mission.
Tell me what the hell am I supposed to do?
A series of snapshots of my life so far come flashing through my brain. Each one triggers a memory, triggers a memory and triggers another, each one less pleasant than the last; a never ending domino set-up, all tumbling down.
Preschooler Harry Evans, dancing hand-in-hand with my parents at a business party; one of my earliest memories. My father had made a breakthrough in his company's plans, had received a pay rise and honorary office upgrade, and all was merry amongst him and his colleagues. He was the centre of attention, but he took the kindness to make me the centre of his attention.
Another memory: Gripping my grandmother's gentle but wrinkled hand, the hand of a woman who's worked hard her whole life, who knows what it's like to live; really live. Wandering far too slowly down the streets of London town, buying bags of sweets one day, steaming buns another day, on-the-go noodles, scratchy paper bags with pretzels or popcorn, or the fluffiest clouds of fairy floss. Some weeks, we'd stop at the dollar store to buy tiny knick-knacks, crank-up toys, or other silly things that would break in less than a week.
Primary School Me: The sky was mostly grey then, and the air was mostly moist and chilling, and I had surrounded myself with my students from school. We huddled together, bathing in the warmth of each other's presence to go on and on about football teams, the most recent knock-outs in the Europa League… what we had for lunch that day.
Smaller, more insignificant memories that pack the most punch when I think about the things that I regret the most: taking my parents and their relationship for granted.
The few weeks when I was first informed of having to move: I threw tantrums, I locked myself in my room, I slammed the grand doors of my father's mansion, and I refused to come to most family meals. Still, my grandma or my mum made the effort to slide a plate of food into my room. I stayed mostly quiet at school, shot unsuspecting people with dirty looks with no remorse, and answered back rudely to teachers; I didn't wanna go. But then we did.
I fell in-love with Australia. The fresh smell of the bush, the dryness of the red earth, the golden grass dried by the sun, the cackling kookaburras, my neighbour's persistent rooster, the briny breeze sent over the Pacific Ocean from the south, the millions of cafés, the friendly people, the packed beaches.
Ben came into my life with his supportive family who helped to settle us in. I had made a new friend who would spend almost everyday at my house or I'd spend everyday at his. We'd run down to the sand dunes, invade the public pool, go too far out at the beach, then burn under the sun with our ice creams dripping on our swimming trunks.
School started for our final year in primary school. I was suddenly surrounded by people I'd come to love, then hate to love. Charlie became a close friend, like Ben.
I saw Tasmin for the first time. Her blue eyes reminded me of the ferocity, calmness, mysteriousness, deepness, of the sea. I got to see our relationship grow in front of our eyes through the half-second glances, classroom partner work, awkward silences when it seemed that either of us had to say something but didn't know what to say. I was perhaps still a grumpy kid at home, but at school… I was at home.
My father became more and more invested in his work. He started to go overseas at least once a month, and mum was left with the troubling task of taking care of me. She had to quit her job, too, and she didn't tell me until after all my tantrums, and I started to feel guilt form in the pit of my stomach. I used to be angry, at no one in particular. Then I was furious with my parents for moving us so suddenly, then consistently at my father for almost never being there.
It seemed that no matter what, my mother wouldn't ever give up on me.
I hated seeing her trapped in her own home, with nothing to do but take care of me. When I asked her if she hated it, she always said that if she were to spend forever with anyone that it would be me. But the weary smile told me otherwise. She cooked for me, cleaned (and I started to help), helped me with my homework, took me on walks, organised my room while I was out, and once tried to organise my dad's, only to be told off for good intentions.
I knew for a long time that my father mainly cared for his work. And although I didn't accept it, I didn't understand how my mum could willingly stay… and for a son like me. A spoilt brat living a spoilt life with the most resilient mother in the world. In the universe.
Then she, too, chose to leave. But not in the way I expected.