sesquipedalien

The phone rings. Ignore. Second ring. Ignore. Third ring. My mother screams, “PICK UP THE PHONE SOMEONE!” Fourth ring. I dash, reach over and pluck it from its stand.

“Hello.”

Had it been my way, I’d have let it ring on. But my way never happens. It shouldn’t happen.

The more I keep telling myself to talk, the less of it I do. The want to say something doesn’t necessarily compel the action. I guess it’s a sort of self curse.

Then, I find myself on a stool. A long list of phone numbers and names at my side, the phone staring back at me, ready to carry the receipt of the numbers punched in.

Of all things to be asked of me, this should be it.

789-9034. First ring. Second ring. Half of a third.

“Hello.”

“Hi, is this Henrique Argentias?”

Wait, was that me?

“Yes.”

“This is Community Pharmacy calling and we’d like to know if you would like the required refill done for you?”

Inside, I am bursting with confusion… who is this voice!?

“Oh yes! Yes, could you? And I’d like it delivered too.”

“Certainly sir. We’ll have it to you by the end of the week.”

My mind is playing a reel. A reel of me doing silent cartwheels.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Good bye.”

I drop the receiver. I cannot believe it. It couldn’t have been me. Where was that voice coming from? I dialed another. And another. One by one, the voice carried the way through.

The manager passes me after my fifth call.

“Professional are we?”

I give her a wan smile.

No. Far from it. I have no idea where it came from. It’s just a voice.

Just a voice.

The latter years of my elementary years were filled with mischievous dealings on the school playground. Tag, kickball, racing, big toy conquering… all those games where the thrill of being it, or scoring a goal, or beating the fastest runner was the only thing that ever mattered. I turned from the quiet little girl who had sat on benches to almost a daring, wild tomboy. It was an honorable thing to get scraped on the knees while pursuing these simple accomplishments…

Then today, I wake up to read this article.

Yikes. What the world is coming to. If there is no danger in a child’s world, when are they ever to be exposed? How long are officials going to strive to hide the concept of pain from their innocent minds?

Although I do understand that it is difficult for schools to handle extreme incidents and accidents, I cannot support the ban of these games at recess. Have more supervisors out there if you will. Advocate safe play too, but not by banning! How can you teach safe play without letting them play dangerously in the first place?

Avoidance never helps.

Be it the truth.

Or a damn lie.

The connotation of the word is likely to bring a disturbing if not a painful image. We watch as children of third world countries lay in their mother’s arms, their faces withered with the meaning. Take this very country for that matter: The signs around most cities hide the victims from the rest of the busy world.

Strange, how we seem to understand the pain of something without ever having experienced it.

Induced hunger is actually quite enjoyable.

One full day of nothing churning through your digestive system. Not even water.

Your lips crack, the tongue parched. Your stomach sinks in, the pangs sharp and concentrated. Your head seems lighter, the temples sometimes pounding.

You suddenly become aware of almost every movement your body makes. Sleep drifts above you like an attacker prone to pounce.

Ever tried it? The elation of a foodless system is rewarding at the end of a most strenuous day.

Hunger is not painful.

Starving is… or rather must be.

I have never starved before.

Scars. So many of them. They still linger. Years pass and they cling to memories, unheeding to the definition of forget. The patch of skin is already wrinkled, leathered, old… how can it not be with its thoughts drenched in the past alone?

I was building a sand castle. I actually hated the rectangular box filled with coarse, filthy grains of sand littered with little bits of its surroundings. But that day, out of boredom, I sat alone in a corner, the soles of my feet slightly aching and my knees sharing the force of my body. The sun was melting into my red, sleeveless frock. I tipped the bucket over and watched the sand crumble down again. Water. More water. I raised myself. I tread a line with my toe. Next thing I know, my palms are holding me up, my leg scraped on the edge of wooden box.

A six year old girl, sprawled half on cement, half on sand. The wood cut.

I remember wincing, and then covering the wound with my frock.

I was not afraid of hurt. I was afraid of pain. Hurt was the blood drops sliding smoothly down my calf. Pain was my father cleaning it mercilessly with rubbing alcohol.

I wandered among the few trees, hiding and worrying. I waited till the sun was almost gone. I waited till my mother called my name shrilly. I climbed the stairs up to the apartment gingerly and naturally. My leg was fine, I wanted to show. I was fine. I flashed a smile.

“T got hurt.”

My face fell. I don’t think I knew how to curse back then. But I could hate. So I hated my sister for that moment.

Pain. That dreaded white bottle of foul smelling burning liquid. I think I cried. No, I know I cried. That potion terrified me.

Time slowly rid the fear. Of rubbing alcohol that is.

Of pain? I don’t know. Physical, mental, emotional: That is all hurt. I am still that child who hides it all. Hurt is hurt. It’ll all come and go.

Pain is sort of lost right now. There is no one that inflicts it. Nor can.

But with it has also gone the gentle blow on the alcohol to soothe the stinging…

The scars remember though…

Scars to mark the forgotten touch.

It could be a striking room. Octagonal, the ceiling reaches twenty feet into the air. The three windows are not dwarfed by much. Fair walls. Gold, ivy printed curtains. Telescope, miniature drum set, treadmill, a long desk with three chairs, a Dell desktop. It could be. But…

“You called?”

“Yes. Sit.”

I place myself casually on the cut Berber carpet. Both of them staring at the monitor.

“So it’s decided?” He looks down at me with raised eyebrows.

“Yes. I think I’ll manage fine.”

“Manage!” She gently taps his shoulder. “She’ll have to! This girl doesn’t even want to marry!”

I look down. “Mother, please…”

“You have no choice.” He studies me, letting the words fall.

“No choice?” I dare to look up.

“Look at me. I didn’t want to either. But you have to. It’s the way of life.”

“The only way?”

“For a woman, yes.”

“You’ll force me to then?”

“If I have to, yes.”

“Even if it would make me a most miserable person?”

“You’d be more miserable without a married life. I should know.”

I stare at him. “What choice do I have?”

“None, except that you shall choose the man you want.”

I smile. “After your approval.”

“After my approval.”

“Alright! Enough! Let her finish her studies.” She rolls her eyes at us and picks up the phone. “It’s time to call him.”

I watch her dial the numbers, imagine the child at the other end, listen to their voices resound against the barriers, and smile when the phone hangs up. We all stare at it for some moments.

“That all?” I ask him.

“Yes.”

Inside, I am chiding myself for asking.

Days, days ago, he had told me.

What have I made myself?

“A guest. Having a nice visit?”

jmsperling, a good friend of mine, posted a rather intriguing article. Don’t, I reapeat, DON”T be discouraged by the length. It is worth reading through.

Discuss!

The Socratic Method