P.R.O.P.H.E.T

Chapter 2

Chapter Two: TimIt was Saturday morning. No school today. And so O.P was actually keen to get up and out of bed. He gave a stretch and a yawn. A sudden burst of birdsong just outside his window swirled into a thrilling crescendo, then almost immediately faded off into the distance. A swirling chittering-chattering of smaller birds raced up and over the rooftops. He imagined joining them. From up where they careened and darted, up above the worries and cares of the world, the rows of town houses, all virtually identical to O.P’s, would seem to ebb and flow down the road on some sort of asphalt and concrete tide.

He got out of bed, had another stretch, and a wide yawn that left his eyes watering. In a gloriously delicious half-sleep he stumbled down the stairs to the kitchen to make some breakfast. He was glad to discover that he was first up. This meant he could put the kettle on to make coffee for his Uncle. He enjoyed being able to do things for his Uncle. He'd never taken his Uncle for granted, like most kids took their parents for granted. Then again, most kids had never lost two parents. You were not likely to take anyone for granted after that.

Just like that people disappeared. One moment you might be arguing with them about some trifle, and the next they were dead. You would never get to see them again. Never get to tell them how important they were to you. So O.P was quick to let go of grudges or complaints. There was not much he could do for his Uncle. He was the kid, after all, and his Uncle was the adult of the house. But still, any chance O.P got, he let his Uncle know that he was glad he was there. It was the truth. O.P couldn't bear the thought of being left alone again.

Through wet, blurred, still half-asleep eyes, he looked to the clock to check the time. It was still quite early. He heard muffled noises from his Uncle's room. ‘Either his Uncle was getting up or dying’, O.P joked to himself. Apparently waking up became a much bigger deal the older you got, O.P mused. So O.P got busy preparing some coffee and toast for his Uncle. He enjoyed being the one taking care of his Uncle for a change. His Uncle said he was 'full of good will'.

The truth was that O.P just felt good about helping others. It gave him a real sense of satisfaction, to think he had made a positive difference in someone's day really buoyed him up. It gave him a sense of self-worth. It was not about the size of the contribution he could make that mattered. It was about the intention. He knew there was little he could really do in this world that would make any real difference. After all, what did he, O.P, really have to offer? Life was so big and so full of troubles. And O.P was just a kid. And not even a ‘regular’ kid at that. Not like all the kids he saw out spending money in shops, buying flash clothes and cool sneakers, and going ‘out’ to the movies and cafés. Kids with parents. Some even had two parents. Kids that went to private schools, or at least good state schools. Kids that would grow up to be someone. Go to university. Get good jobs. Make a difference in the world.

His Uncle stumbled into the kitchen, more zombie than man. O.P knew to leave his Uncle to himself until his second cup of coffee. Long ago he had made the mistake of trying to relate to his Uncle as a human being before this second cup. It had taken O.P days to recover the courage to dare approach his Uncle in the morning again.. He had taken it too personally. That was typical of O.P. He tended to take things personally. Things he had no responsibility for.

But then Uncle Roy had explained to him that it had nothing to do with O.P, or anything he had said or done. It was just the way he was. He was not a ‘morning person’, was how his Uncle had phrased it. He actually apologised, but then asked O.P to ‘understand’, and to just leave him be in the mornings, until he, Uncle Roy, sort of gave the ‘all clear’, basically by approaching O.P himself. So O.P would not tempt fate again, and waited until after his Uncle had at least begun his second cup before venturing to speak to him.

! O.P looked out the window and was greeted by a glorious golden day. It was the middle of autumn. Everything glowed with a bright, moist, golden wet sheen. The bark on the trees. The soil where the grass had worn away in patches. Even the asphalt was a lustrous moist black. 'A perfect day', O.P smiled to himself. Without thinking he quickly went upstairs, threw some clothing on, and raced out, calling out, 'I'm just off to Tim's’, as he pulled the front door closed, taking care not to slam it.

First his Uncle considered how conscientious it was of him not to slam the door. 'Typical O.P', he reflected. But then suddenly he remembered something. Something terrible. His face was etched with the terrible memory. He suddenly got to his feet to follow O.P, to try to stop him. But then thought better of it. O.P was long gone by now. 'Tim', he said aloud, shaking his head sadly. 'Poor O.P'.

O.P ran up the road, taking the fast and 'wide', almost finding himself in the front yards of the semi-detached council flats that crowded in close to the footpath, like onlookers in a street parade. In his joyful enthusiasm he felt as free as those birds that had woken him that morning. His feet ran automatically, along a route he had taken so many times he could have done it blindfolded. And so he reached the gate of Number 35 and was carried by the momentum of his flight up the path and to the front door. He rang the door-bell full of positive expectation and eager readiness. Tim's mother answered the door. She looked at O.P with a face full of confusion and great sadness. O.P felt a wave of empathy radiate from her and engulf him. Her sad eyes held his a moment, full of questions. But what were they asking?

Just then a shock suddenly hit O.P. He was visibly shaken. He looked as if a ton of wet sand had just fallen down on him, crushing him. Smothering him. He could not breathe. It was as if his memory had just caught up with him after his race down the road. He had been still half-asleep. But now he was suddenly fully awake. Complete sober. Tim's mother could not help but realise what had happened. O.P had gotten up this morning as he had on countless other Saturday mornings, and come straight over to her place to plan his weekend together with her son, Tim. Only there was no Tim waiting for O.P today. There wouldn't ever be any Tim waiting for O.P, or anyone else, ever again. There would be no more weekends with Tim. Not ever. It was too final to grasp. Tim had died the month before.

O.P hang his head in sadness, and turned like a sleep-walker, dragging his feet back down the path. But then he felt Tim's mother's hand on his shoulder, and heard her gentle voice. 'O.P? Would you like to come in for a moment? There are some things of Tim's that he would have wanted you to have'. He felt himself turn and walk back into Number 35 with Tim's mum. He was distraught beyond words. It was as if he had just only then received the impossibly incomprehensible news of Tim's death. And so he followed Tim's mum up to Tim's room. The room felt so familiar. Surely any moment now Tim would jump out of the closet, or emerge from under the bed, or come in from the hallway, laughing, with some joke or idea to share with O.P.

The room was pretty much as it had always been. Only there were a few boxes on the bed. Tim's mum moved them to make place for herself and O.P to sit down on the bed. She had her arm around him, comforting him. There were tears in her eyes as she looked down to him. 'I know Tim would have wanted you to have these things.' She gestured to the box. O.P put his hands in the box and touched some of the things, like an elephant caressing the bones of a dead relative with its trunk. He somehow felt a connection with Tim in doing so.

O.P looked up into the warm, loving face of Tim's mum and, seeing her pain, and not wanting it to be there, thanked her, and let her give him a big hug. He took the box, as his eyes took in the room around him, so familiar and yet so utterly and irreversibly changed. His mind could not grasp it. The facts just slipped out of O.P's grasp each time it tried to hold them in his consciousness.

Psychologists would call it a sort of denial. His mind just did not want it to be true. It couldn't be true. Tim was dead. How could that be? It just wasn't possible. Tim dead! How? No. Yes. It was true, but that truth had absolutely no weight of, well, truth, to it. Old people died. After a long illness. Or maybe in a war young men might die, or a bomb might drop on your house and kill your entire family.

But there had been no war. No bomb. Tim had just died. As if fate had slipped a cog, left a gap in the scheme of things, and Tim had just slipped through it. He was 13. He was blazing with life like a new sun. It was impossible to think of that bright flame suddenly going out. How could it? Where could all that life that was contained in Tim have gone? It would have taken a planet sized hole to take it all. And yet, there it was. He was gone. That much O.P's brain could grasp. But dead? Forever dead? No. O.P's brain just would not, could not, even begin to accept that. Let alone to deal with it? How could you deal with something of that magnitude? How? What did you do? How did you respond?

O.P could just not manage to somehow assimilate that utterly unconvincing fact. It just did not fit with anything else that did make sense. No matter how O.P tried to re-sort all the pieces of his life, that fact just would not fit, anywhere. He could only mentally mouth the idea. Tim dead? How? No. But yes. Tim dead. It meant nothing and everything. Too much and then nothing.

'Thanks Mrs. Ridley'. O.P could not stay any longer in that room. It was just too much. He expected Tim to arrive any moment, even though he knew, as a fact, that Tim was not going to arrive in a moment. He was never going to arrive. He would never see him again. And he had no way of processing that information. It did not solve any of the riddle. It did not answer the question. It did not add any sense to any of this.

And so O.P got up, cradling the box in his arms, and went out of Tim's room. He lingered a moment on the top of the stairs, feeling the familiar smoothness of the wooden bannister. Then he slowly felt his way down the stairs, one stair at a time. In a few moments he found himself outside in the golden sunshine. He dragged his feet down towards the park without thinking. After a few minutes he found himself sitting under the huge old tree where he and Tim would often sit and just enjoy each other's company, joking, laughing, and dreaming. He could barely bring himself to touch Tim's prize possessions. The silver scale model Mercedes gull-wing convertible. So beautiful. A treasure. And the New York cap some relation had sent him from America. O.P put the hat on. He felt full of a sorrow that must surely eat away his very heart.

Just then he heard a pretty female voice softly caressing his ear. It took a moment for his mind to register the voice, like a drop of water falling down to the bottom of a deep well, and then echoing back to the light. Only then did O.P's mind manage to put a face to the voice. It was PRI.

O.P felt his sorrow fall away like a wave falling back into the ocean after its crashing drive up the sand. In the time it might have taken to re-launch its assault on the beach, PRI managed to build a weir, damning it up, breaking its momentum just long enough for her to replace its dull dark weight with her own cheerful, life-giving, joyful, blossoming lightness.

PRI was life. O.P wondered if he would ever be able to explain to PRI what she meant to him. He wanted to touch her. To fuse with her. To become one with her. One big bundle of electricity. He felt a longing to become part of her somehow. He could barely restrain the impulse to kiss her. He had come so close so many times. Today however there was something deeper in his need to be with her. It was like she had known he had needed her, and she had come. It felt like some kind of magic. He just felt so glad that she was there. And he wanted somehow to let her know what it meant to him. He looked at her and was about to say something lame when she gave him a look that said 'yes, I'm here, don't worry, and don't you dare make a big fuss about it', so that he didn't say anything. He just sat quietly next to her. So close to her. He just looked into her eyes and felt his face breaking out into a big smile. And just then, as if only with her there could he feel strong enough to do it, he felt some hot tears roll down his cheeks. He wiped them off and smiled at her, not at all embarrassed. She didn't speak either. Everything that needed saying was expressed in their communion of silence.

All this time Uncle Roy was home worrying about poor O.P. But what was there to do? It was just a terrible fact. Life is like that. Life is dangerous. We take it for granted when we have it. And then all at once it is gone. And where does it go? Where did it come from? Who could possibly have an answer that could soothe the heavy, aching, sorrow filled heart of a 13 year old boy who has just lost his best friend to that incomprehensible fact called death?