When a Man Falls in Love

by Amelia Lee

  The next day, I heard that for the next few days one of my math teacher will be replaced by another teacher. It was Dorris. He was completely out of my school. And I have absolutely no regrets about what I've done to him, which made him lose his job. And know that I will never said sorry for him ever again, I realised I was such a bitch to him. To Dorris.

  Emmerich

  May 10, 2006

  Time’s passed, my love towards Iris increasingly growing in. She was a caring woman and motherly. I did not say she was good, she was more than good. And I thought the term 'good' is human nature that is shared by everyone.

  She told me about James yesterday, she threatened her father that she would not get married if not with me. I was touched and happy to hear it but also sad at the same time. I was sad because I may not be able to be a good husband for her. My academic status was not clear, whether I was a student before, or perhaps just graduated from high school, or even worse, I was expelled from school.

  I dug my brain, like digging in a ground with a shovel. I have not been able to remember anything.

  I ventured to go to the crime scene where I had the accident. The street was not passable, it only fit three cars and beside this street was a canyon with steep bottom. I touched the huge tree which was located right next to the canyon, growing right beside the road. I remember it was raining, the road was so slippery. I drove quickly penetrating chill of the night. I continued to explore the memories that remain.

  I remember him, Daniel, he drove in the opposite direction to me on a motorcycle. It was dark and raining, I could not see him clearly because the windshield was wet rain washed. I almost hit him, but succeeded avoid him. I saw him fall to the road and because I wanted to avoid him, unconsciously I turned my car toward the right, exactly where the canyon was located. I plunged down the ravine.

  My memory stops there. I held my head with pain. My head ached every time I tried to remember, it was because I was too forced it. I hate my current condition. I just wanted to know where I went earlier and one of the unsolved mysteries in me: who I was before?

  I return towards my flat with faltering steps, almost falling. I no longer cared with views from people around me were looking at me with a glance and think I was drinking. I opened my room and saw Iris there, she was putting foods on the table. She approached me, her expression turned into worry when she saw me. "Are you okay?" She asked me. I just nodded.

  I walked to the fridge to grab a plastic bottle of water. I want a drink, I was thirsty, but my hand was so weak and the water spilled. Iris saw me, it looks like she feels sorry at all to me.

  "I'll clean it up." She said.

  I beat my own head numerous times using my hands. Stupid. Useless. Trash. Asshole. Who am I? I just want to remember, I just want to know who I was before. My body collapsed instantly. I cried, whined like a baby on the floor. I kept hitting my useless head with my hand.

  Iris saw me and ran toward me, "Gee, what are you doing? You're hurting yourself! Hey, did you hear what I said?" She hugged me and stroked my hair with her hand. She said as calm me down, "Everything’s going to be alright, okay? You'll be fine, do not force what you can not do today. You'll remember it later at the right time,"

  I cried in her arms, "I'm useless. You can get the better of me,"

  She took off her arms and move, "I've had to accept the consequences. And I never regretted it earlier because I love you,"

  "No! No! No! Help me, please, I can not, I'm afraid I will not be the best because I now that I’m not the best,"

  "Love is love. You do not need to be the best for everyone else you just need to be the best for yourself." She woke me up and invited me to sit on a wooden chair at the dining room table, "The past is in the past. All you have to do now is how to organize your life back and starts from beginning. And I'm willing to organize it with you,"

  I smiled at her, "Thank you for helping me always. You were always there for me." She smiles back.

  I did not want to fantasize too high, because I was afraid I would fall. I did not want to boast other people to things that may not necessarily be mine, it was because I was afraid of something that did not come true. And I was afraid I can not be the best for her or myself.

  I asked Iris why she likes me. She answered my question with a very small voice, almost like a whisper. She said in front of my face, "I've never been in love with you as soon as I know you, because love does not grow that fast. I'm sorry for you, I feel sorry for your situation and imagine how loneliness gnawed yourself every day. That's what makes me care about, and my concern that led me falling into love."

  I wiped my cheeks with my hands, "Do not ever stop loving me."

  Two months later, July 28, 2006

  I sat in a wooden chair at the table, staring at the writings written on a small paper. I feel the warmth of the sunshine through my body, the morning sunlight watering my skin. It was seven in the morning, and the place where I work was being closed. The owner of flower shop where I worked died of a heart attack. He was Iris’ friend’s father.

  I managed to write it after the night before undergoing a great battle with myself. I had a nightmare yesterday, and when I woke up I was rewarded with a small hope. I remember the date when I was born.

  Eighth August, nineteen eighty-six was the day I was born. That meant I was twenty years now. I turned to see a reflection of myself in a large mirror hanging on the wall. I saw myself. My face, it seems young. I did have little wrinkles, but my face was still looks like a high school student. My chest felt tight, sore. Where would I stepped my foot to spend and live the rest of my life?

  But I have a belief in me. Belief that I can remember all the events of my past without having to force myself to remember it, because time will tell. And slowly but surely I will definitely remember it all, even though now they look blurry.

  Even though my past may be kill me.

  Stephanie

  October 27, 2004

  I put my index finger with a plaster to hold back the aches and pains. I accidentally sliced my own index finger with a knife while cutting onions for dinner earlier. And with my injured right index finger it only means one thing: a nightmare.

  My school will hold a performance of the opera drama just right before Christmas, and Ms. Alice, my art teacher, assigned me to take part in this drama. I was assigned to playing the piano. I practicing piano since I was eight years old and until now I was seventeen, I can not fully play the piano like Beethoven or Mozart.

  Before I was elected by Ms. Alice, my friend, Elisabeth, had already become the first candidate. There are three people chosen to play the piano, and finally I was the one chosen because, according to Ms. Alice, I am the best at playing the piano as well as more experienced in this regard. I was pleased to participate in these activities, even though I know there was one person who does not like it.

  "What's wrong with your finger?" Asked my mother who was coming from the kitchen. She just finished cleaning utensils and washing dishes, because Daisy will be home before six o'clock.

  "Just cut onions earlier."

  My mother looked at me and let out a long breath, “Listen to me. I know things are not good now, but believe me, everything will be fine, okay?"

  I did not answer her. I met her gaze. She hugged me and rubbed my back, "I love you, Steph. Always. You will always be number one in my heart,"

  "I love you mom." I took off her arms and saw her tears. She cried. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. "Mom? Why are you crying?" I asked. I looked around her body and saw a bruise on her left upper arm. I could see the pain in her face when I touched it. "Dad did it?"

  "It’s okay. It was my fault. I bothered him while he was working,"

  "Working? What do you mean?"

  "I saw him yesterday, with a woman at a restaurant. I know who she is. She was your father’s ex. We accidentally met when I had meeting with a client yesterday,"

  "And then?" I asked, curious.

/>   "I only scolded him and told him to go home, I was ashamed, very ashamed of myself. He makes me ashamed of myself, Steph. When we arrived he beat me, he said that I embarrass him in front of his office mate and said that I’m too possessive,"

  I stroked her shoulder, she cried in front of me. "Why did not you tell me before?"

  "I do not want to hurt your feelings, I do not want you to hate your own father,"

  I hugged her and comfort her, "I’ll always be here no matter what." She took off my arms shortly after seeing my father came over to us. He put a puzzled face. My mother wiped her tears with the back of her hand and walked toward the kitchen.

  "What is wrong?" He asked.

  "Nothing," I said.

  It was eleven five p.m. as I laid pensively in my bed. The sound of crickets and the darkness of night fill in myself. One thing that I was aware of all the time and I can think of was the fact that my family was falling apart.

  I have parents who are still complete, and I was grateful for it. My father had a special relationship with another woman, who was not only with Daisy, and I hate it. The fact that my mother was too in love with my father until she could not let go even though she should be whipped a thousand times for her love and she will do it, I hated it. Something exaggerated will not going to end well.

  I stared at the ceiling of my dark room. Moonlight becomes the only source of lightning. I want to be like night, decorated with stars and moon, whose light and beauty can be enjoyed though everyone. I shed tears without knowing when I said to myself about one thing, the thing that was always taught by my mother since I was a child that life will not always beautiful. And when I think about it, I cried silently.

  I heard a knock at my door. I saw her, it was my mother. "Can I sleep with you today?"

  I smiled and nodded, "Of course. Whenever you want."

  Next day

  I was not wrong when I think with my injured right index finger it just means a nightmare. I had to force myself to practice playing the piano and feel the pain in my fingers every time I pressed the keys of the piano. I can not possibly play using only nine fingers.

  "Dude, what’s wrong with your finger?" asked Robert, one of my classmates who will also appear in this opera drama later.

  "Chipped with knife while cutting onions yesterday,"

  He gave me grimace of pain, "I hope your fingers get well soon."

  The day before the performance, November 4, 2004

  I walked quickly penetrate the circuitry measures of the snows and the wind that blows. It was cold enough to froze my bones. Today was the last day of preparation for the staging of tomorrow’s drama. It was twelve past seven a.m. Actually I've been able to return home a few hours early, but I decided to go outside for a while along with some friends and went to a mini market. I bought a couple cans of soda and some snacks that I brought in a white plastic bag.

  I walked through the darkness of the night alone. Not so many people hanging around now, especially now that it was snowing. The chill gives me the creeps, not only because it was snowing, but also because I felt someone was walking behind me. I walk with a thousand steps, I could feel someone behind.

  I looked back and saw him. A man, he looked down, I could not see his face, but from his posture I was convinced that he was going to do something to harm me. I should have accepted the invitation of my friend who offered to come home along earlier. He was wearing a black jacket complete with an orange hat covered his head, black jeans and matching sneakers. His face was immersed in the dark of night and the color of his clothes. I grabbed my cell phone to contact Sebastian. His number was not active. Shit.

  I switched presses the digital numbers to call my mother. My mother replied a moments later, "Hello? Stephanie where are you? Gee it’s late,"

  "I'm on the road, can you pick me up?"

  "Sure, where are you now?” My mom sounds worried.

  My cell phone died shortly before I showed her my address. Shit, I forgot to charged my cell phone this morning. The battery was five percent remaining when the time I used to call Sebastian and my mother earlier.

  I kept walking, I can still feel this guy following me. Who the hell was he? I can say he was stalking me because I felt he really catch up as well as any road and turns where I went through. Supposedly a normal person would turned or through any other way, except he live right next to me, or at home with me.

  I kept walking, faster and faster, until finally I decided to run. He followed me behind. I looked back as he ran, he was still following me. Was he a robber? If yes, then he was wrong to make me his target. I did not have any money left, only ten cents left in my pocket jeans, except a mobile phone that I hold with my right hand. Was he want to rape me? If yes, then I was in a big trouble.

  He ran and caught me, then smothering my mouth with both his hands. He took me to a narrow alley, the alley that ends a stalemate, which was dark and no one there. With no houses around. I cried there. He covered his face using masks that used by the robbers when doing crimes in their victim’s house. A black mask, which showed only his eyes that were brown. I did not recognize him.

  He stroked my jaw line, telling me to be quiet. "Shh, I'm going to do it for a while, just seconds, it will not hurt." He switched kissed my neck once he said so. I struggled, trying to shout over his hand. "Yell, yell as loud as possible, no one will hear you here."

  He took a cloth from the pocket of his jeans and tied my mouth with it. He then took a knife. He grope my crotch with his left hand and holding my left hand roughly with his right hand. He then stared at my fingers, like a lion staring at its powerless prey. My eyes were bulging, want to come off as he did it.

  He cut my index finger and my little finger with a knife just like slicing onions. My hands bleed very much like a leaky water pipe. Fresh blood drenching the shirt I wore. My index finger was almost severed, while the other finger was broken, falling to the chill of the snow-covered asphalt. He then kissed my neck and my stomach, then left me alone in the dark of night. I was sick, I was really sick. I fell at once. I did not remember what happened afterwards.

  Emmerich

  A few years later, June 7, 2014.

  It was Saturday, I did not go to work. I worked in a large library which was also a bookstore, after previously worked in a flower shop for nearly a year by 2006. I moved to London after stayed in the Cambridge area previously, working while waiting for my wife's college graduation there. I moved into a Victorian-style house along with my wife, Iris. She was a year older than me, was twenty-seven years at that time. That means I have known her for more than seven years since 2006.

  She continued her studies and earned a master degree majoring as psychiatrist. She worked at a clinic located in the city center which was open from nine in the morning until seven in the evening. Sometimes I helped her as much as capable as I can. Maybe there will be no time left for us to simply relax or spend our time together outside Saturday and Sunday as well as outside seven in the evening, or to take care of the child. I did not blame her, she did working to continue her living. Our living. Me, on the other hands, did not want to just laze around and sleep at home like a hibernating polar bear. I want doing something useful not only for myself, but also for others as much as I could afford.

  We did not need any special time to take care of children, because we did not have children. Not because the delay, but we did will never be able to have children. Iris was diagnosed with ovarian cancer three years earlier, precisely when the fall of 2011. The illness forced her to remove her uterus, and the doctor did not want to take risks at any time if the cancer got worse and spread to other vital organs. And I did not want to lose her. Then in the winter of the same year, we decided to perform the surgical removal of her uterus.

  Days after that we went through as if every day is a bad weather decorated with wind storms and hurricanes. She became more silent and moody, sometimes waking up in the middle of the night and cried until dawn. She refused to eat
, her weight dropped precipitously in just a few weeks. She still could not accept her situation at the time. And I understand that, because of which women will not be sad when diagnosed will never be able to have children from her own womb?

  The climax was on Saturday, November 12, 2011. She woke up at twelve o'clock at night and threw a large mirror that hanging on the wall with a glass. Sound of shattering glass broke the stillness of the night. I was shocked and saw her slumped on the floor. Shards of glass strewn around and scraping the bottom of her left eye, just a few centimeters from her eyeball. She cried, her face scratched by the broken glass that she threw. She cried and whine like a child.

  I walked over and hugged her, she thrashed in my arms. "Shh," I reassured her. I spoke again shortly after she was calmer. "Why did you do that?"

  She paused before answering my question, "I can not. It hurts… I'm not perfect, I can not have child, I’m sp sad, it hurts,"

  I went back to calm her and wiped tears from her eyes, "You know one thing? I'm also not as perfect as you think. I was not able to know who I am by myself, I was not educated like you, I do not have a family like you, I do not have friends like that you've got,"

  She paused. I continued my words, "You do not need to be perfect for me. You will always be number one in my heart, all will be fine. I do not need a child, to me it's just you that is more than enough."

  I helped her up and took her sitting on the sofa. I helped clean the wound on her face. She paused, staring at my face as I was cleaning the wound. She grimaced slightly painfully when I stuck a plaster on her face. I get up from my seat to clean up the broken glass just before she held my left wrist. She spoke to me in a tone that was very small, almost like a whisper, but I was able to hear, "I'm sorry."