CHAPTER 2: STRANGERS IN PARADISE

CHAPTER 2: STRANGERS IN PARADISE

 

                         "Because love is an ambiguous enemy that you should learn to fear it," 

    - Azalea - 

 

 

~*~

 

It was dark. The sky was cloudy today. She can't really be judgemental cause wherever she was, it was almost always cloudy. It was almost as if the sun was stolen from the sky and there was only a single dim light compared to a table lamp lighting up the sky above her. But there was no way she would know it was really a 10-watt bulb hanging in the middle of the sky. With the dry air, she felt her lungs starve for more. She pushed her hair back as she sat on the floor, staring out the large picture window.  

 

The world was so big and full of adventures waiting to be explored. That was what she thought. And it is true still. All the moments, just waiting to be captured into photos, immortalized for this life time. She was just sorry she was too naive and impatient. Too willful and rebellious. Her fingers tapped senselessly. She refused to look around her and see anything that was placed to seduce her more into the stability and the safety she knew was creeping like a thief into her heart. But even when she closed her eyes, she could almost see them behind her eyelids. Everything she dreamed of having. Everything she wanted to come home to after she was tired from walking all over the world.  

 

The white bed. The white walls. The soft brown wooden floor. The scattered books. The sun flowing through the window and kissing her skin. The wide uncluttered haven of her own. But it was so wrong. At the rate, she was slowly dying inside and she knew she can't stay no matter how much her heart wanted to tie itself around everything. Her life was entirely ruined and she shouldn't, couldn't settle herself for these. She had to find a way to run. She wanted more than this. Her legs longed to run. To start over again. To forget that he ever found her and ruined everything.  

 

Everything.  

 

Automatically, pain seared up her right hand to her shoulder when her fist unconsciously punched the floor. She bit a groan and held on the aching hand. 

 

She felt the welted knuckle of her right hand. Numbing pain shot up to her elbow in pins and needles. The scar reopened, baring traces of red. She cried and she knew it wasn't from the pain. Even without opening her eyes, she could imagine the window that proudly showed her the world outside - mocking her failure of to escape. Everytime she recalled punching the glass pane in the wild hope of breaking them down, she die a little bit faster. The evidence of the failure seared her broken faith. She didn't want to stop. She'd tried everything. And she would do it again. If only she could find something hard and sharp enough to crack the strengthened glass-pane, she would be willing to take a leap of faith down that second floor to the ground. She didn't care if she could land wrongly on the cluttered deck-like structure down there and end up breaking her neck. It might be worth it. It would be worth it.  

 

Scientifically, she was already at the brink of madness. Everything was already blurry and she lost all conscience. She couldn't remember much. Is everything too real that she forgot whatever that brought her there? She tried hard to recall her parents, but their image was waning. Smiles were disappearing and sounds become farther and farther away. She tried to remember all the things she used to love; photographs and memoirs, music sheets and endless colors, all of them jumbled up in a shoebox. Nothing made sense. And she was becoming more and more scared of herself. Her fingers started scraping on the floor, writing nonsensicals. She could see them coming to life as her eyes closed with an attempt to resurrect pieces left in her memories. Only to be interrupted by soundless footsteps and motion in the air. She didn't want to open her eyes and refused to acknowledge the presence that made itself so clear. 

 

"Eat," he urged, sitting in front of her. She avoided the sight of him and resorted into straying her vision to her own toes. The cold was suddenly excruciating and her heart suddenly beating too fast.  

 

"Lea," 

 

She ignored the call and turned her back to him, climbing back onto the bed.  

 

"Lea...listen to me," 

 

He can go to hell. Screw himself. She wasn't going to subject herself to receive anything from him. Not yet. It was taking longer and longer for her to recover and now, she felt like an time-bomb ready to explode again. She ignored him and laid down to block him and his existence through a slumber. She'd expected the dip of the bed and his stare on her back like he always do when he can't force her. But she wasn't expecting a rough pull that smacked her into his chest. Shocked, she found herself staring at his angry eyes. 

 

"Don't be stubborn. You're sick and you need to eat," he hissed. She tugged her hand to finalize a rebel against his wants but it only made him grip her harder. She struggled and stoned her face from the pain of his grip on her injured hand.  

 

"Leave me alone," she cried.  

 

"You know I won't," 

 

It was like he snapped a fuse in her head. Her thin patience wore out and tempers flared. She grunted angrily and tried to slap him with her free hand, only to be pinned down and immobilized. Compromised. Kicking and sobbing, she let out all her bottled thoughts in her hysteria.  

 

"What is wrong with you?!" she cried.  

 

"No, what is wrong with you?" he replied harshly as he tried to stop her struggles. Her cries began to make her limbs weak.  

 

"Just leave me alone!" she screamed.  

 

"Why?!" 

 

"You f*****g animal!" Lea screamed more, feeling her body tensed up so much she could just suddenly snap herself into millions of pieces. He straddled her down and slammed her wrists against the bed angrily. His face twisted in deep madness that caused her adrenaline to race faster.  

 

"You wanted this! And I'm giving it to you. Every single one of your damn dirty thoughts and shameless wants, I give them to you," he barked. She gasped for air. 

 

"Shut up," she hissed. Her throat was clogged from her sobs and she struggled harder. Shame smacked her hard across the face. It wasn't her. It was not her fault. She didn't want any of these. "Don't touch me, you b*****d!" she cried, scrambling to pull herself to the edge of the bed. He ripped her hand off the edge and pushed her deeper into the tangled sheets and blanket. She resorted into trying to push him off. "Don't touch me...you sick b*****d!" 

 

"Yes! I'm a b*****d. But you..you're the sick psychopath! Not me. You're the one who wanted me to hurt you. I'm doing everything you want me to. You have me where you want me...what...," 

 

"Shut up!!" she screamed louder through her sobs, cutting him in mid sentence. Her struggles waned and she felt her energy tumbling down like a falling lift. Her throat sore and her skin heated. She gasped for air. Closing her eyes, she just wanted to stop breathing and die. "Just leave me alone," she sobbed. "Please..." 

 

Mercy.  

 

She begged for his mercy. Everyday. Every single minute of the many God-damn days spent at the God-forsaken place. For whatever reason, they go through the same circle of hurricane of emotions. She can't stop driving herself towards damnation. And he won't let her go the other way round. 

 

His forehead leaned on hers and she could feel his heavy breathing. His skin cold.  

 

"What do you want, Lea?" 

 

 

> [email protected]: If u can catch me, u can hav me 

 

connorgordon: Is that a challenge?" 

 

[email protected] : mayb 

 

connorgordon: then, ur gonna pay up once I find u,<

 

 

"What do you want?" he whispered, grazing his lips across hers. It felt so heart-wrenching that her chest hurt even more. What did she want? What was she thinking? Why did she do it? When did she say such careless words? Why promise something she couldn't give? Why ventured so far? Why lead him on? Why let herself get caught? Why tell the truth? If only she'd said no.  

 

No...she didn't feel the same way.  

 

No...she didn't want him.  

 

No...she had someone else.  

 

Why didn't she say no?  

 

What did she want? 

 

"What do you really want?" he asked. His rough palms held her face firmly and she let out her cries. Her hands clung unto his arms tightly - and she wasn't even sure if it was to find the gravity her consciousness or to keep herself from falling deeper into him.  

 

With her eyes wide opened, she crumpled her heart like paper. 

 

"I don't want you," 

 

And he closed his, letting her words evaporate into the cold air. 

 

"Liar,"

 

~*~

 

Connor looked at his face in the mirror and saw a few scratch marks running down his neck. They hurt. He ignored it and washed his face again with the cold water. The heater was not working again. He had to take a look at it tomorrow. For a while, he tried to drown himself in the trivial concern over the temperature of the whole room, picking up the laundry and finding his other sock. But he ended up throwing them against the mirror in anger and storming out of the bathroom. He can't be there. He was going to do something he might regret if he did. Grabbing one of his T-shirt on the one-seater couch, he can't avoid her silhouette.  

 

"I don't want you," 

 

Heartbreak. It tasted sweeter than ever at the thought of revenge. Even when she sleeps, she torments him. And he unknowingly smiled at the memory of her pleas. It hurts to see her cry, but the pain was a pleasure he couldn't refuse. It was like putting salt to the wound; it hurts but he can't stop it. She deserved to be in the hell she was in now. She had it coming and she had her fair share of time to just refuse the misery. But she didn't. Why should she even make a choice? She had everything - his life and everything in it. He won't believe every single lies she'd say to make him hate her. Even if they were true. They've come too far that they can't turn back now. She was as transparent as she was complicated. He would spend a lifetime and never understand her actions. But it doesn't mean he wouldn't know what she was feeling. 

 

Hate is not the opposite of love.  

 

And she knew that.  

 

A single beep snapped him out of his thoughts. Fishing a phone out of his jeans, he glanced quickly at the text message that came in before slipping it back into pocket. He was running out of time. He shouldn't even be there today but his stupid mind wouldn't stop worrying.  

 

He looked at her weary figure claded in his white shirt. She'd cried and fell asleep without touching her food. It only made him more determined to come back as soon as he finished his errand. It was good that she could escape to places he doesn't know in her dreams. Only at moments like this that he could catch a glimpse of the girl he'd fell so hard for. Her long dark brownish hair spilled like ink across the white pillows. Her skin was so pale that he could almost see her blue veins. Pulling the blanket that fell onto the floor, he covered her under them. He wished her the sweetest dreams and for a moment, wanted so much to believe that somewhere in there, he could be in them - and bring smile to her face. It was impossible. But he won't stop. Taking one last look at her, he left the room. And locked it behind him. 

 

It took him almost half an hour to get to his destination but it was not something he wasn't used to by now. He was used to driving far for long hours. Minus the snow that sometimes fall in that secluded region of Southern Russia. But today the winter snow stopped falling since 10 am that morning. It was already 3 pm and it wouldn't be much problem getting back before dark if his job is done by 4pm. Driving his car down the un-tarred road, he longed the familiar sight of buildings and wet ground of the town fringe, eventhough that wasn't his intended destination nor was it his favorite sight. As soon as he saw the familiar shack of a local bar there, he parked at the nearest faded red truck and got out. It was still too early to hear the sounds of people making merry but it wasn't strange to see heaps of people in the bar this early. There is a para-gliding club nearby and Ilya's was one of the most comfortable place to hang around. Stepping into the bar, he saw a few people already piling in at the bar counter and some others sporting a good game of billiard. Making his way to the bar, he smiled at some of the familiar faces that he had been seeing since 2 months ago.  

 

"Hello, young man,"  

 

Connor smiled at the lanky middle-aged man behind the bar and raised a hand. Ilya was a jolly old man who had snow white hair and twinkling grey eyes that spoke understanding beyond reasons.  

 

"How are you, Mr. Gordon? Having a nice drive?" he asked in his thick Russian accent. Connor nodded. "Coffee? Usual?" 

 

He nodded yet again and took a seat there. Glancing at the wooden clock near the alcohol cabinet, he felt impatience building. He didn't plan be out this long.  

 

"Here's your coffee," 

 

"Thank you, Ilya," he gratefully said. "How's business?" 

 

"Quite alright now that people aren't out para-gliding much. They come here instead," he replied jovially. "How's your missus, Connor? Is she still ill?" 

 

He halted and took a sip as Ilya watched over him. For a moment, he felt the threat of the old man seeing through him. But then, he had nothing to lose here. Not in a place where strangers ask because they want to make conversations. "Unfortunately, yes. She didn't quite recover from her headaches and her stomach is always upset," he confided. They were truths anyway. "Other than that, she's quite fine. She's not a weak person," 

 

"Ahh...alot can see that. She'll come around soon enough. It takes alot to get used to this weather. Even I get sick when I went to vacation in Hawaii last year with my wife. Our body takes time to adapt to exreme climate change," 

 

It would've been true if she wasn't preoccupied with something more than just the weather. He doubt she even noticed that it was snowing outside. But he just smiled at such simple thoughts. How he wished things were just as Ilya said. But they were not. While she turned him into a maddening obsessed criminal, she wither down into nothing as well. And things were not in the brightest light that cloudy sky could offer. "I told her that and she just slept through the whole explanations," he joked. Ilya laughed and excused himself to the back door. Connor watched the news as he waited. The muted Russian news greeted him with an explosion of some building. Deciphering each of the soundless foreign words coming out of the anchor's lips, he'd tuned out to the story. 

 

"So hard to go around without being afraid for your life nowadays, eh?" 

 

He almost snapped his neck as he turned to his right. Sitting beside him was a red-haired stocky guy. He raised his hand to call for Ilya. His eyes too green and his skin too flushed to be exactly healthy. The glassy eyes spoke of casual ice user.  

 

"Vodka," he announced to Ilya who gave a well-trimmed smile. Connor adjusted his seat to face the bar. "Connor?" the man asked after a few seconds of awkward silence. Connor nodded and felt up his pocket for the reason he was there in the first place.  

 

"Moisey?" 

 

That got the man barking up a laugh that could shake the whole building. It was annoying but there was nothing he could do about it. A mistep might cause him to accidentally park his fist into that red-head's mouth. What the hell was so funny, he couldn't figure out. People were watching them he cursed his luck. If this fat version of Russian leprechaun don't start talking, Connor swear he would bail out and never look back; whatever may happen.  

 

"Aaah...didn't they tell you I got another better name? Stupid people," he humorlessly laughed, slapping his hand onto the wooden bar counter, causing some of the other customer's to jump in surprise. Not a good one from the frowns that formed. Ilya was already glancing his way. Connor thinly smiled. An uncomfortable one-sided conversation between him and red-head was fishing unwanted attention. "It's Maxim," he announced, chugging down the strong spirit like water and gave out another snort of laugh. "Parents...(scoff) You have no idea how crazy they can get at naming their kids. Moisey? I mean, if they were so sure that they were gonna make a life in America, why bother giving me a name that rhymes with mousy?" he rambled. Seemed like 'Maxim's mom must've been smoking pot when she named him. Cause there's no way anyone could pull off such relevant conversation with such serious drug-symptoms. "Seriously. Parents can be so stupid. Think before you name your kid, Connor boy. Or they'll curse you to your grave,"  

 

OK. That's it. He was so going to leave in 5 minutes Maxim/Mousy/Moisey doesn't sober up. 

 

"So tell me, you got my write-ups done?" he asked, making Connor perked his ears after tuning out to the endles nonsensicals. He eyed Maxim's face and...it clicked. The faceless client showed himself finally. He nodded absently and opened a file he had been carrying with him since he entered the bar.  

 

"Here' the article you asked for," 

 

"Soft copy?" 

 

"I'll email it when I get my money," he replied lazily. It was back to pure routinal deal. Something he had always been used to. Maxim eyed him but finally, his eyebrows loosen and he sat back. Going through the printed papers, he nodded. He closed down the black plastic file and gave a brown envelope in return.  

 

"29th September 2013," he said and swiftly slapped some cash on the table. "Cool chapter. Didn't know you knew so much about drugs," he commented with a smile that showed his bright white teeth. "This is gonna score me some asses," he laughed lecherously. Connor glanced at the clock and took out some cash but Maxim shook and tskd. "My treat. We might be seeing each other soon,"  

 

He bid Ilya off and by the time he got into his car, he saw that Maxim was already hoisting up another stranger that took over his previous seat into a conversation. The new guy didn't look too pleased.  

 

Done. One thing done. Another one tomorrow. He was tired. And in pain. But he can't stop and rest. If he did, he'll be seeing the coming failure. Tonight will end the transaction for this month and tomorrow, he could send the money back to Malaysia. The thought of the home he left behind gave him no sentimentality. There was nothing good enough to remember. There was endless pain and broken relationships. He won't go back to that. Even if it kills him, he won't return to the place that bring him so much pain. Taking out his phone, he dialled a familiar number. 

 

"It's gonna be sent tonight," he shot out immediately when the call was picked up at the third ring. Just as fast, he hung up. There was no reason to linger. Guilt was flushed out of his system a long long time ago. And he had no intention of walking down memory line trying to remember. Then he called another number down the speed dial list.  

 

"The number that you called cannot be reached at the moment," 

 

He let out an irritated sigh and waited for the beep before hitting the voice-mail. 

 

"Jenna, check your account tomorrow around noon. Take care," he simply said, detaching every word from any emotional tone. Emotions used to be a big part of himself. But now, it only flicekered like a brief candle. Solely there for one heart that was never his. But this time, nothing was going to stop him. Not distance. Not poverty. Not anybody. No one can stop him.  

 

His car roared to life and he swerved dangerously fast down the unpaved road towards a home in a stranger's land.