Last Seconds

I stare at the entrance of Vancouver Island Regional Correctional Centre against the plain white wall. My hair is dancing along with the wind, sometimes obscuring my view. I care less about it and even my breath instead. My knees are shaking uncontrollably. I look like a weird dot of Vancouver’s busy streets, but people who passed me also don’t care. They’ll just take a glance at me and then continue what they are doing and where they are going. “Walk,” I mutter to myself. As if on cue, I’m able to drag myself on the entrance. A familiar guard nodded at me. As he always does when I come here, he guides me to the place where he knows where I’m going without talking to me. And when there’s only one door separating me from the meeting area, he casts me a sympathetic look. Before he can leave, I ask him, “Did they visit her?” The guard only shakes his head in response. My heart sinks at the thought of her patiently waiting for them to come. Our non-biological parents love her, and I can’t understand why that one incident made their backs completely turn away at her. I would have understood them if it was me because all I’ve given to them in trouble, but her, my stepsister, has filled the missing piece of their lives and has given them the joy of having the sweetest child. Why the hell do they leave her hanging like this? They should have given her proper closure. It’s been years now since the incident happened, but somehow, guilt always finds its way into my system, reminding me that I’ve done something wrong in the past that I can’t yet remember. And right here, inside this door, is the woman who suffers because of it. The door creaks open. I can count the few visitors here with my one hand. It isn’t crowded like it usually does. I find my stepsister immediately in the corner. Her shoulder is hunched, and she’s fiddling with the handcuffs on her hand unconsciously. Her curly hair is tied into a messy bun, revealing her slender neck. She’s dressed in an orange shirt with a P printed on it. I walk closer to her. I haven’t even sat down yet when she feels my presence. Her face lit up. She smiles at me ear to ear. She rushes at me and hugs me in between her handcuffed hands. I see a guard near us touch the gun on his holster in my periphery, alarmed at my sister’s sudden action. I hug her back, and she lets go of me with the last tap on her back. I do the same. “You’re here!” she beams, and in a flick of seconds, her expression changes into a frown. “Did you even eat? You look all bones, Gold! I told you to take care of yourself.” “And what about you?” I ask while I pull a chair for myself and sit at it. “I can almost see the bones on your cheeks,” I continue. “Yours is worse!” she answers and also sits down. I sigh and let the silence between us linger a little longer. “Did you meet our parents?” she asks, breaking the silence and turning the situation awkward. Her eyes have a glint of hope in it. I avoid her eyes. “You know they won’t waste their time on me.” “Oh, come on!” she says. “That isn’t true!” “Rae,” I say. I’m grateful that she feels the seriousness and warning in my voice because she closes her mouth before she can continue. Regret is on her face for bringing that topic again. This always happens every time that I am familiar with that face. “We both know that’s true.” “Uh . . . I’m sorry . . .” she whispers. I barely hear it. “No, I’m the one to say sorry,” I say and sigh. She looks up at me. “My visit is a surprise that I didn’t even buy you some food. I’m sorry.” She laughs. A genuine one. “Are you kidding me? I don’t need food. I eat here three times a day. Don’t worry about me.” She’s right about that. She’s provided with food here—all inmates are. Ironically speaking, she’s luckier than I am. Not the part that she’s a prisoner, but the fact that she can eat here than me, who barely eat food in a day, makes her the lucky one. If no one calls me to do something like walking their pet dogs, I won’t eat for a day. I hardly sleep well because of the occasional fights between my neighbors and my landlord. He always knocks at my door when he has time to remind me every day that I’m near to my eviction date and that I must pay my three months behind rent if I still want to stay in his worst room. “How about you?” she asks. “Same old.” She sighs. “Did you enroll for this school year like what I’ve told you?” Here we go again. Every time I visit her, she’ll always bring this topic like enrolling in a university is the most important thing right now. Clearly enough, I don’t have the luxury to go to a university, even if it’s a community college. I don’t have the money, time, and desire. “I did enroll,” I answer. Her eyes lit up, happy to hear this first good news. That’s what she thought. But there’s bad news for her after that. “But I drop out.” “Oh, my goodness, Gold! What have you done?” “It wasn’t my dream to finish college!” I mirror her furious gaze. The guard near us shush us both. Rae softens her eyes. In an instant, she’s heard the word “dream.” She always told me to follow my dreams despite their risks or how people would say to me that I’m an i***t for even dreaming. And when I said that what she’s asking me to do isn’t my dream, this stopped her. “Isn’t it everyone’s dream to finish their studies, find a stable job, and then finally marry someone? Like what a happy life is?” Here she is, obsessed with the concept of a happy life. Even the wealthiest person on earth, those people who will smile happily on social media and flex that they’re living their best life because they’ve finished school or married someone, aren’t delighted at all. You’ll ask them if they are, then they’ll answer that they are, but their eyes betray them. If you observe clearly, you can see “The reason many people go to college is that it reduces the unknown. A stable way to go. It isn’t because it’s everyone’s dream, Rae.” Sometimes, they are forced by their own family or society, even if they have a different calling. “I have no desire to walk with the crowd,” I continue. “I want to follow my own path.” She studies me carefully until she breaks a genuine smile. “At least you have now seen the path where you want to go,” she says. Her eyes turn red, her tears threatening to escape. “I’m so happy for you.” I flash a small smile. “I came here because you deserve to know. And also . . .” I stop, contemplating if I have to tell her my other reason to surprise visit her. She looks at me expectantly. She’s waiting for another good news. “I dream again of what happened that day.” Her smile drops, eyes widen, jaw hangs open. I can’t understand, though, why she’s exaggerating her expression. She looks surprised and then terrified—a weird mixture of expressions for her. “What is it this time?” she asks when she’s composed herself. “I’m driving the car. You stopped me, but I didn’t listen. Then I see the man. I can’t remember his face, though. Then it changes. You’re the one driving.” My voice comes into a breathy explosion of words. It’s as if I’m back in my room, gasping for air, drops of sweat rolling down from my forehead. The fragments of that dream are replaying on my head like a broken CD. “Your mind is messing with you. The real one is I drove the car. You got it, right? Don’t beat yourself up because of that dream which clearly isn’t true.” Of course, I’m a fool of even considering that dream. Isn’t that even better that I’m not the one that killed the man? I frown at myself. What do I want anyway? Turn me in because of that dream to stop this tugging feeling of guilt in me that I don’t quite understand. Why am I even feeling it? I don’t even know that man. What his name is or what he looks like. I’m afraid to know about him because it might trigger something in me. It’s a miracle that I even avoided that for two years. “I’ll get going now,” I say. As if on cue, the guard guides Rae back to her cell. Rae waves a goodbye. Then only a matter of minutes, I find myself walking through the dark street of Vancouver. This is the farthest, darkest, and dirtiest part. It’s the street that leads me to my apartment. But I’m not planning to go there yet. Mr. Welly, my landlord, will be there in front of my door. For sure, he’ll stick another eviction note to it, so when I come home, it’ll be the first one I’ll see. There’s a bar that I will pass before my apartment. That’s my destination tonight. Maybe a few drinks will somehow help me erase this guilt feeling to whoever I’ve done wrong. There are drunkards outside the bar, but they care less about my presence here. I just glance at them before I enter the bar. A blinding neon lights welcome me. It takes me seconds to adjust my eyes to this sudden shift. I see men and women locked in intimate dancing when I get a clearer view. But some of them are just here enjoying themselves alone. I manage to walk past the dancing bodies and settle myself on the farthest seat of the bar’s counter. “You’re here again” is the first thing that the bartender says when he’s seen me. A small smile creeps on his face. “It’s good to see you again,” I answer, not meaning what I’ve said. “Here we go,” he says and sighs. “That’s always your way of saying you need a free drink again.” I roll my eyes. I know him only by name and some fragments of his life that he’s chosen to share with me. We aren’t friends. But because he’s given me a drink for free on our first meet, I take advantage of coming here again and shamelessly ask him to provide me with one. I don’t have money to buy drinks. I can barely buy food. “Are you losing your job because you always give me a few drinks?” I ask him. This time, seriousness is evident in my tone. “Nope,” Rog says while shaking his head. He reaches for the Boston shaker and starts mixing different kinds of liquid. “But just one drink, then you’ll leave, okay?” I frown. “You don’t want me to be here?” He chuckles. “I want you to go home early because there are big bad wolves out there.” He places it in front of me with one last shake of the shaker. He reaches for a small glass and pours the blueish liquid on it in a swift move. “Here,” he says, wearing a smile on his face. I reach for the glass. “Thank you.” I drink the wine in one shot and wince as the bitter taste sticks to my throat for a while. The wine isn’t so strong that it feels like I haven’t drunk at all. “Give me strong ones!” I hiss. Rog shakes his head. I frown even more. If he wanted me to go home early, he should have given me a strong drink to knock me down in one shot. “Wait for me here,” he says. “I’ll walk you home.” I glare at him. I’m about to say something when someone pulls the chair beside me in a cruel way. Now my glare is on the man. He’s wearing a black hoodie printed with a skull and cropped jeans. “Vodka. Bitter. Strong,” the man says without even looking at Rog. Rog’s gaze falls at me. I also look at him and shrugs. “Go!” I mouth to Rog when he doesn’t move. “You have a customer, id—” I stop when I notice that the man now stares at me. He has cold, dark brown eyes. “Hey,” I say, awkward that I catch him staring at me, but he seems like he doesn’t care. The man nods in response. When I gaze back at Rog, he’s now done making the drink for the man. I only sit here, watching the man drink the liquor. He winces and holds up two fingers. Rog makes him drink again. When it’s done, the man pushes one glass near me. He doesn’t say a word, but I know he wants me to take it. I flash a smile, but it quickly drops when Rog pushes it away from me and back to the man. “She had enough, dude, thank you,” he says. I glare at Rog. Before the man can retake it or Rog to push it away, I slap Rog’s hand and reaches for the drink. “Thank you!” I say and gulp the drink in one shot. The world around me seems to stop. I hear a ringing noise in my ear that makes me dizzy. I only get back to reality when Rog shakes me. “Hey! Are you okay?” I smile ear to ear despite the liquor getting in my whole system. “I am!” “Let’s go home!” Why is he shouting? I can hear him clearly. “I’ll go home! Thanks for today!” I didn’t wait for him. I walk through the crowd. All around me are moving slowly. I shake my head a few times in the hopes of stopping the ringing noises but to no avail. I just continue walking. I’m still completely aware of where I’m heading. I’m not that drunk. But then I lost my footing and tumbled on the ground. I hear a manly laugh near me. Still on the ground, I spin my head to find the man who mocks me. I first see the short bridge that reminds me I am now close to my apartment, but on the edge of it is an all-black man sitting on the bridge with an umbrella. I meet his eyes, and that’s the only time he stops laughing. I feel like I’ve imagined things when a black iPad magically appears before him, and it’s floating. His fingers frantically type something on it. Then after a few types and scrolls, his jaw hangs open. “You aren’t dead,” he says. There’s that rough, Australian accent on his voice. “Why’d you see me?”