The Sad Side of Happy

2: people

THE CLOCK TICKED LIKE a timer in a bomb. At any rate, Elisa would try anything to stop it—much more, reverse it. But the human mind was only capable of so many things but one: to control what's beyond it. She knew she couldn't avoid it like she could with the plague. All she could do was to wait and wait and wait as her heart pounded with trepidation. Tick tock. Dread was a demon sitting on one of her shoulders, whispering to her words she did not want to hear, 'They are going to find out.'

Marc Khader was sitting beside her with a contorted face. Behind those green, wild eyes were the face of fear, and Marc knew it wasn't the time to play with it. Fear was daggers being thrown at him at once; fear was the scar etched against his warm skin; fear was the girl sitting beside him with her hands clenched in a fist; fear was a five-foot-six tall woman in her late forties, with brown hair coming toward them with a complex expression.

Tyra Max sauntered toward the duo sitting in a settee outside her cabin-office.

She was the head counselor and owner of Garve Campgrounds located outside the outskirts of a small city a few kilometers away called St. George Town. She was also the founder of Garve Camp Catharsis—which got its name from the lot name itself—a considered light medical rehabilitation place that took care of patients facing issues with their biological, social, and psychological well-being. Tyra Max, along with the other counselors and social workers, helped patients suffering from mental health disorders starting from the most common such as personality disorders, eating disorders, substance abuse disorders, anxiety disorders to the most lethal, depression. With Support Groups and numerous programs patients can enroll themselves into, Garve Camp Catharsis became famous for the uniqueness it had brought upon the tough processes of gradual therapy. And Tyra Max was proud of that accomplishment.

She was fixing a pile of papers behind her desk as the two in-trouble teenagers sat across on the thick, wooden chairs. Marc would've commented on how squeaky clean the cabin office as if he hadn't gotten himself into trouble. And Elisa would've commented on the awful ginger smell of her office if she hadn't gotten herself to say it almost every time her shoes stepped on Tyra's mat upfront.

Elisa had known Tyra since her childhood. She was her Dad's best friend and the person he leaned unto in times of distress, and when he acted like a damsel who needed saving. She had turned into someone close to a family. Elisa couldn't let go of her as did Tyra for they both had one thing in common—James P. Ridley.

"I suppose you know the reason as to why both of your attention has been called?" Tyra's voice was strong and clear, the ginger drinks taking an effect.

"Yes, ma'am," Marc answered. And then Marc remembered what his Momma would always tell him when he had gotten himself in trouble with authorities like the police or the office.

Only speak when spoken to. Keep your hands visible. No sudden movements.

"And I suppose you both saw the no trespassing signs along the treks of the forest?" Tyra was patient this time. But her eyes, trained directly at Elisa, spoke otherwise.

"Yes." It was Elisa who answered.

"And I suppose you are aware that you have violated a rule," Tyra stated. Marc was aware of Tyra's open-ended question—more of a statement to him, truly. But, it wasn't that much of an open-ended question-statement because he knew what was next. "What was that? I didn't hear an answer," Tyra was quick to say.

Elisa cut a glance at Marc and averted her gaze back at Tyra. "Yes," she whispered.

"You're lucky Mr. Sully found the both of you. If it weren't for the strict patrols I enforce, I cannot imagine what would've happened if he never found your footpaths!" Tyra paused. "And of course, both of you. On the edge of the cliff." The problem with her was that she was a fire in the form of water. You'd mistaken her as a kind aunt until you do something offensively wrong and or immoral—she will spit fire on you, literally.

Tip: never beg for her forgiveness.

"Mr. Sully who?" Elisa said, aggressively. She didn't need to ask. She knew him. Mr. Sullivan "Sully" Watson. The destined man—or out of choice—to be stuck with Tyra.

Tyra's eyes narrowed but she answered her, anyway, "He's one of our counselors here." The dreadful pause afterward was a moment Marc looked forward to, just to hear the annoying snort come out from the girl beside him. "And he will be your social worker for the rest of your term here." He covered his smirk by sucking his lips in.

"What?" Elisa almost shrieked. "Why him?"

"Why not?"

"He's ridiculous. And weird. And my friends got his phone one time and saw his gallery full of p**n videos. God knows what that man was doing out there in the woods alone! He must've been mastur—"

"That's enough!" Tyra exclaimed. "I do not tolerate this behavior of yours, Elisa. First, you violate a rule. Second, you perform a theft—"

"—We didn't steal it—"

"—you falsely accused him and you invaded his privacy."

"It doesn't matter, alright!" Elisa yelled back.

"Ridley."

At the sudden sound of Marc's cold voice, Elisa immediately quietened, obviously taken aback. Tyra seemed to be just as completely dumbfounded as her. "Please," he said, giving Elisa a pleading look to give Tyra the chance to speak. He shifted his gaze at the woman. "Miss Tyra — let's settle this. I deeply — apologize—"

There it was. That word.

Tyra's ears perked up. "Never apologize to someone when you're not the least bit sorry, young man."

"No, no—"

"Apologies," Tyra bit back, "don't mean anything if you keep doing what you're sorry for."

The memories drowned Marc in an instant. The times he had kept apologizing because he couldn't remember a single thing about so many people rushed in front of his eyes in pictures and flashes, it was too quick to notice. 'I'm sorry,' he would often say. And now, there was no way on earth he wouldn't justify his right to say it.

"I — I mean it."

"Marc. Don't mind it." Elisa tried to stop him but he was radiating with a whole new level of confidence that suggested he knew exactly how to make Tyra Max stand on her tippy toes, and for once in her whole existence, mutter an apology. Elisa was terrified for real she could feel the hairs in the back of her neck rise.

"We all have memory lanes in our — our brains," he spoke, carefully, "but instead of — of memories occupying those lanes, what, wh-what if they're blank spaces?" He paused. "Miss Tyra, imagine walking inside an — an art gallery with nothing but soft, mushroom walls—"

"Marc—"

"—bereft of art pieces."

"If you were the artist — would you apologize to your clients bec — because they were expecting something grand?"

"What if it was meant to be empty? It could've been some kind of theft, too. Somebody must've stolen—"

"Nah," Marc said. "That must be — tough. But what if the problem was the — artist? What if he just wants to — to revive that part of him that — died?"

"And what is that he wants to revive?"

"To remember how to paint again."

"I don't understand how this is relevant to — young man, you come back this instant!"

Marc was already headed for the door, and then the next thing they know, he was out of sight, leaving the door to bang itself close. Elisa and Tyra were now left with Marc's faint reminder of his scar that ran supposedly across from his wrist to his elbow, but now straight to his heart.

Tyra looked completely shocked and almost apologetic from Marc's outburst. But Elisa seemed relatively calm—yet, burning from the inside—and faced her Dad's so-called best friend with the same level of confidence as Marc's. "He may not be an artist but I sure do know it hurt him when you said apologies didn't mean anything — Christ! It's not his fault that he's — that he's—"

"—that he's having trouble remembering, Elisa?" Tyra interfered. Elisa wanted to put some sense into her but she thought if anybody needed putting some sense here—it was putting one in hers because everything was driving her insane.

Tyra slumped back on her seat, unusually; she was silent for a minute or two. Neither of them had anything to say. But later, the silence killed Elisa and she wanted to leave. "Do we have to do some sort of service then? Community stuff, was that it?" Elisa rather said as she, on her wooden chair, slumped back in distress.

"Yes," came Tyra's short response as she stood up and sauntered towards her drawers, and read personal information about the staff, desperately trying to look busy.

"You hurt him, Tyra," Elisa bit.

"I knew he would talk."

"And I never knew he was here," Elisa chorused. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew you'd react like this. Rash and desperate."

"I haven't seen him in three years, Tyra! You know very well all I ever wanted was to know where Marc was—if he was safe—after he and his family left! After Dad died. Nobody had an idea. I had no idea!" she exclaimed. Then, in a low and disappointed voice, she continued, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because he wouldn't remember you, regardless," Tyra said. "And that would break you."

"Do I look broken to you now that I know he's here and he doesn't remember me?"

Silence.

"This is absurd," Elisa added. "I can't believe you'd run a catharsis camp—save lives and all, be the hero—and still you're this! You have no consideration, Tyra! You're so selfish."

The woman stared at the girl with regretful eyes and said, "Elisa, dear," she said in a soft voice. "I know you're upset, and I apologize for my rash behavior. But...Marc now is different. Trust me, dear. At this time, he's none of your concern."

Elisa only stared back at her and gave her the look that meant she wasn't ever going to be forgiven unless she does something worth forgiving. "I'm leaving," she said and stomped her feet on the wooden floors. "But when I come back, expect to be bombarded with questions."

Tyra called Elisa's retreating figure. The latter didn't look back but she heard her say, "I knew you would recognize him." She was answered by the loud bang of the door being shut.

The refectory was a huge cabin jam-packed of people of all ages and smelled of fresh vegetables. What the patients loved about catharsis camp was that it wasn't just a camp—it was more than just tall trees and brand new cabins; it wasn't just about the lake moor being pretty or whose bonfires were the largest. It was about being equal. They didn't know each other's stories, but they sure knew they shared the same reasons.

Charles Finn Ridley was frowning at something his friends were saying. They were all mocking him because of the stupid dare Brahm Davis triple dared him to do earlier before lunch occurred. It wasn't supposed to be a big deal, but knowing Brahm, and the girls of their group—Leigh Johnson and Grimmie Pinsly—it's either everything or nothing, and it'd be still a big deal.

"You know what, I'm thinking about the next triple dare," Brahm said, his white teeth sharp and contrasted his dark skin.

"I don't care and I'm not going to do that so just piss off, please," Charles Finn responded.

"I can't wait until Elisa hears this," Leigh said, laughing, her blonde hair bobbing as her shoulders shook.

"Speak of the devil, she's behind you," Grimmie said in a sing-song voice, pointing her fork at Elisa's direction.

Elisa walked calmly toward her friends' bench—the noisiest in the cabin—and slammed her hands down the surface of the table. "Easy tiger," Leigh, the girl sitting closest to Elisa, said and patted her forearm.

The whole group fell silent until Grimmie started having fits of silent laughter. "What's gotten into you?" Brahm questioned with a smirk.

Everyone except Elisa got the reference. "She's laughing at Finn's depressing joke," Leigh said, motioning at Charles Finn's direction.

"My dear cousin," Elisa started as she met his eyes, "were you having one of your episodes again?" They had the same eye color.

Everyone was laughing as his cheeks started showing signs of pink. "If by episodes you mean humiliating himself in front of a crowd then, yes!" Brahm proclaimed.

"Are you Finn? I'm asking Finn." Elisa positioned herself beside Leigh. "What happened, anyway?" she absentmindedly asked, snatching Leigh's fruit salad in the process.

"Well—" Leigh started but was cut off by an eager Brahm.

"If you were at the assembly before lunch, you would've seen him drown himself in his humiliation." Brahm pushed Charles Finn's shoulder lightly as he snickered.

"Shut up, I'm talking," Leigh said. "So, Finn kind of just stood in front of everyone—as in, he stood behind the podium and went like—"

Grimmie coughed and deepened her vocals in a poor imitation of Charles Finn's voice and intervened, "—why was Cinderella never given the chance to join the soccer team?"

Everyone stared at Elisa in anticipation except for Charles Finn who seemed like he was having some sort of constipation. "I think I've heard this one already. She had glass slippers on—"

"Wrong!" Grimmie yelled and pointed a finger at Elisa. Everyone laughed around the table—except for Brahm and Elisa—clutching their stomachs as if they weren't ever going to stop.

"Stop it," Charles Finn said, shaking his head. "You all are pigs."

"Why is it then?"

"Because—" Grimmie was cut off by another battalion of her silent laughter.

"Because she kept running away from the ball!" Brahm exclaimed.

Elisa watched as Brahm, Leigh, and Grimmie laughed their guts out of their system. This time, Grimmie was slapping her hand against the table as bouts of her chuckles echoed.

"And then everyone just stared at him and he stood there — just stood there and waited for something — like a — like a reaction!"

Charles Finn shook his head in disappointment, and then said in a sarcastic voice, "And then some staff dragged my poor ass out and I was forced to go clean the empty cabins. Go ahead, laugh at me. Oh, and you missed the part where you're supposed to tell Elisa that this was all a dare. I was triple dared by Brahm."

"And you missed the part where you're supposed to tell everyone you found that joke on the internet," Brahm pointed out with a huge grin.

Charles Finn looked like he was about to gouge his eyes out of their sockets. "Jesus, what's wrong about—?"

"Leigh, stop it." Elisa contorted her face in concern at Leigh, who was happily slamming her stainless steel tray against the wooden table, not even realizing whatever she was doing could damage camp property.

The laughter soon died down but the number of dirty looks they were getting never ceased. "Aww, why aren't you having a good time, Lisa?" Grimmie asked, wiping a tear dramatically as she passed Elisa a look.

"The look on everyone's faces at the assembly area was priceless, though."

"It's like they didn't even understand him."

"That's enough," Charles Finn said in a low voice. For a fifteen-year-old boy, he sure did have low vocals.

Elisa chuckled lightly, careful not to show too much emotion. "I'm sorry you're friends with my support group, dear cousin," she told him.

"I didn't know we were a support group," Brahm said. "Are we?" And then there was laughter.

"Obviously, we're called Cinderella's Soccer Support Team."

"It has a nice ring to it."

"I'm leaving!" Charles Finn said. He stood up and walked away as his friends called after him, "Cinderella! Come back!"

When he was out the door, Leigh said, "He'll be fine."

"I have to say...that was pure evil," Elisa said, staring at Charles Finn's retreating figure.

Everyone looked at her with guilt plastered on their foreheads.

"Okay, maybe that was too harsh," Grimmie said, blowing at her bangs distractedly after.

Elisa forked another batch of fruits. The banter continued around the table after dinner. Elisa was almost having a good time when she felt a pair of eyes watching her intently. She could feel it. She scanned the place to search for those eyes that seemed like they were making holes deep down her soul.

And she found them. Standing right in front of the entrance door with his eyes piercing straight into hers was Marc. He didn't look happy. Some group passed by in front of him and then he was gone. The entrance door was swaying back and forth, signifying someone had just opened or closed it.

He just went.