Recent Posts

The manner of death was hypothetical. How he died was unknown to him. For whatever reason—he did not know either. Perhaps to die was to be ignorant. In that case, he was sure that he had died so many times before, but this—this was a different kind of ignorance. There was a certain unconditional bliss attached to this uncertainty of all things. He happily didn’t feel weighed down, burdened by scrutiny, or feel appointed by the desire to unravel the unknown.

Breathless.

Rather, he felt buoyant, light, and lifted. The ginger looked around, rubbing the back of his neck weakly as if he was greeting the environment. Everything was pristine white—not the lurid kind of white, but the soft, creamy white one would expect as the color on the feathers of a dove. The man walked forward, sauntering about aimlessly without a clue on where he was going. This was a strange place, a dimension that would never be able to touch the earth’s surface. Here, it was possible to walk without thinking at all—without a thought in the mind, without a worry to lament over, without calculations on the pursuit of happiness, and without precognitive anxieties.

It was pure, white bliss.

Bliss in not knowing, not feeling, and not remembering. The man looked rather chipper as he strode through this seemingly infinite plane. Suddenly, confusion coated those emerald eyes. There were two dissonant vibes in the air, a pair that were strong enough to break his emotional equilibrium. Now, he felt curious as opposed to feeling nothing. The man trekked on… on until he saw a faint square from the distance. Curious, how curious. He approached it with bated breath. What was this disturbance, this anomaly?

A mirror. It was twice his size, towering all on its own. The oak frame had little floral imprints on the side to add to its grandeur. But the center of the focus was not the mirror, but the image that was projected on the looking glass.

Hm! It was himself! He touched his head. His hair was red, slightly tousled, but was neat for the most part—it looked like it had been combed very well. His fingers moved to his jaw. It was defined and masculine like his physical constitution. The man stepped closer to look at himself. He looked passed the pale, slightly freckled skin to focus on his eyes. Green—they were so green with variations of undertones he would never be able to identify. He blinked. Who was he, really?

Then a figure appeared on the mirror. Startled, he took a step back as he frantically looked around. No one was there. He furrowed his brows as the hazy image sharpened, forming the picture of a man. It was a built man with darker red hair, enigmatic green eyes, and a solemn expression. He knew that man… he knew that man. The ginger rubbed his chin as he tilted his head for a better angle. He held his breath.

Yes, he knew that man. The epiphany came to him like a shock of electricity, one that trickled from his fingertips to the standing hairs of his neck.

Iain! Iain was his name.

He pressed a fist against his lips. The memories were seeping in between the cracks. The Scotsman was the oldest with a mix. He was tough and a force to reckon as expressed by merely a look. His eyes were always condescending, always glaring for some apparent reason. The lips were sometimes pressed together, taut. Serious. But ah, there were other times the eyes and lips were full of mirth. Ah yes--! Those lips would curve into a sly smirk as his eyes bend to the will of mischief. Iain was a good man, a protective man who carried responsibilities of the family. His duty was to oversee their safety, their happiness, and their longevity, even if he feigned indifference sometimes by the cigarette clamped between his teeth. He was benevolent. He was sincere.

Oh but he always admired Iain and his resolve. He always wondered how he could do it all. He was like a sentinel, a stone wall that would not budge or crack under any weight. He used to be so afraid of this man when he was a lad, yet they’ve come to a mutual stance of agreement and understanding. Still, he would never be able to match him. Iain had so much strength, so much perseverance. How did he do that?

Then a Welsh brunette ghosted itself into the projection. She kind a kind little face with soft azure eyes delicate facial features. There was painted smile on her rosy lips, one that seemed eternal. The woman stood as prim as a nun with a hand over the other.

Her name was Cerys. He nodded in agreement.

She was always very pretty to him. There was this certain gentleness that followed her every wake. Her tone was soft and reassuring, ambiguous sometimes and sad during others, like a ballad. She was mysterious too. Something was always bundling up within her, something behind her façade. Yet she had always managed to pull off normalcy effortlessly. In addition, Cerys was the image of comfort, the maven of unconditional love. He remembered going to her during times of despair and times of darkness. Tears were not a clear and distinct object of his memories, but he recalled a little bit of that having to do with her.

He used to think she collected everyone’s tears in a little magical jar. Then she’d sing like a bluebird and open the jar so that it could rain. And when it rained, she would coax him by saying that the rain will make the riverbeds flow. That the river will lead to the ocean. That the ocean will lead to the entire world. He remembered asking, “So the ocean is just made up of tears?”

She laughed and said something he could not really bring forth. But what she said—whatever it was—changed his life. His breathing became steady as he widened his eyes.

Another woman—who looked almost like him! Her hair was red as his, flowing, fluttering, rippling like the sea. Her emerald eyes shone with such electric intensity, he felt a little bit of him shrink inside.

Aoife. His twin.

He swallowed, feeling a bit of shame compel him to divert his gaze. Aoife had always been close to him. She was his other half. She was the woman that made him want to be the better man… because he was a fool of a brother. They used to be so close—they were the cheeky little kids that grinned toothily at each other. He would be the one with the missing tooth and she would get a piece of rice and stick it on his gum and laugh. Sweet and darling she was, Aoife was also the flame, the fire to his water. She was outspoken, daring, and clever. The girl always went in headfirst and whatever she did, she always made it out.

He admired her spirit. He admired her flare, her vibrancy, her vigor. They were supposed to be best friends but he had failed her. He ran away without a word to spare. He escaped her flames—flames that were supposed to warm him, not burn him. And then he tried to return, only to feel the hot scorch on his skin as a consequence. She was that part of the fire he could never touch—that center, that core that was once so inviting, but was now apprehensive.

Arthur.

Blonde, tall, handsome, stern, and prudent. There was a perpetual frown or look of distress on his face. The countenance of vexation was no stranger to him, for Arthur was always somehow filled with chagrin from the family’s ruses. But with all of the mishaps and miscommunication, the man was always… jealous. The Englishman was the ‘golden boy’, the loved one, the one sure to achieve greatness. He was intelligent and was mature beyond his years. Even as a toddler, his precocity had already predetermined his place in the world. The man felt sorry for him at times, for all of those hard times. He knew that the younger man had a ton of pressure on his shoulders, but not once had he ever tried to alleviate them. There were so many things he wished he could say before Arthur distanced himself away. So many things he could have said despite the pride he harbored within his chest. Maybe a ‘congratulations’ was in order. Maybe a, ‘you did a good job’. Or even perhaps, ‘I’m really proud of you, Arthur’.

Lastly, a young boy appeared. His features were reminiscent to Arthur’s, save for his halved height. The ginger already knew his name the moment he appeared.

Peter.

Peter was a man in a child’s body. For now at least. He was the sunshine, the illuminant figure of the man’s life. He was a little ball of life, a little ball of fire, of felicity, and of all of the curiosities of the world. They had eaten ice-cream together on the London-eye. They had went go-karting on a rainy Sunday evening. In addition, Peter even wrote a little essay about the ginger and why he was his role model. The man felt like a child again In Peter’s presence, as if he was making up for the childhood that had been stolen away from him. There was just something about the way the child puffed his cheeks whenever he was irritated, or the way he pouted just to get what he wanted. But there was something else---the way Peter laughed. The way he grinned cheekily made him feel so alive. It made him feel like he had a purpose, a reason to keep on walking on broken glass without stopping. Life was hard, but the child made him realize that it was worth it.

He furrowed his brows in distress as he clutched his head. Falling to his knees, he doubled over as he shut his eyes tightly. Breathe. Breathe.

He looked at the mirror, straight into his own eyes. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

The epiphany came again, this time like a thousand needles that stabbed ever pore of his skin. Screaming at him—it was screaming at him. The squealing memories came with pain, with agony, with misery. Those people… he remembered… those people. Those bloody faces. Those eyes of terror. The tiger lilies.

So many tiger lilies.

And with their dying breath, the people of his past whispered to him.

“Donald…”

Blank.

“I remember…” Donald muttered as he set a hand on the mirror. The glass broke. The sky shattered. The whiteness faded to pitch black.

“He’s breathing!”

…

His eyes fluttered open. His diaphragm was relaxing and contracting heavily, in and out. Donald’s face was covered in sweat. Confusion was nothing new. He tried to move his fingers but he couldn’t. He struggled—he struggled until someone set an arm on his shoulder. The ginger looked around to see… a white room. He furrowed his brows and then looked in front of him.

It was Monday morning, 9:43AM. He was on a hospital bed. There were wires of all sorts attached to him. Breathing heavily, the man blinked as he stared with a blank expression.

His family… was right there in front of him. Their teary eyes were all on him—well most of them were teary, from what he could tell. Donald opened his mouth slightly as he relaxed. Then, he gave them one of his famous smiles.

“Heya. M’ back!”