“Mom, Dad!!!” I shouted at the top of my lungs as I noticed their full figures appearing in the distance, soon fading into the smoky horizon. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I couldn’t hold in the longing within me. I heard Mom’s voice saying as she sauntered away with Dad, “Baby, listen to your heart and your fears will go.” What fears? How did she know I was afraid? I was getting confused at her words. Then a beep in my head followed, and I awake to white light, blinding track lights that casted shadows at a direction. I looked at the cool daylight bulb on the ceiling lights. Taking in the macro view around, I found myself back in my bedroom. Prompt to retracing my prior steps and situation when I was at the library, I raised a palm over my forehead to check if I was running a fever. Right, I’m neither too hot nor cold to warrant a fever. So why was I lightheaded and tripped out? Suddenly, my stepmother (not the first of my concerns) peered into my door and hollered “You weren't eating at all, were you? School gave me a call, alerted on your knockout. Doc had you checked and you’re fine though.”
As if nothing happened, stepmom disappeared from the doorway, leaving her trail of steps heard going down the stairs. Ain’t surprising, considering I wasn’t really her child. Like always, I got up and changed into my old pajamas to rest in bed. My body still felt weak and dehydrated, so I took a long chug of water from the bottle at my nightstand. There at once, feeling grave and unnerving, it was there. In the water bottle. Several dead white tiny hands swirled around the water, clocking a sudden few spins of water spirals with intricate fingers lifting off every hand. In sync with every other pair of hands, basked in a trance ritual. About seven pairs of these little hands, possibly a centimetre each moving in synchronisation to the circulating water coil in reactive state. Blinking and looking at it again, this time holding it up to my huge eyes up-close, they were quickly gone. Have I gone batshit nuts? Please, allow me to retreat. I dipped back to bed and retired into a nap.
I knew the taste of hurt. Hurt is heavy, drowning your hopes out as it tucks away mind reasoning, body ready to consume more soul. Hurt had an unwelcoming familiarity begetting demise to bare ends. After getting called to dinner, in a huge sweat, I hurried out of bed and turned off the room lights. As the air got cooler, I’ve changed into a pair of fresh jumper and joggers, scuttling along and heading downstairs. I hated dinnertime at home. It was always the same routine of discussing bad news in town on modest Chinese meals. Today, like days before, the main talk at the table was still the coronavirus out up to speed spreading to cities worldwide, and life was not so normal with panic buys, frantic hoarders, and business closures. People were anxious about a pandemic, which the WHO has yet to admit. Stepmom and dad were speaking at disbelief, trying to rationalise the decisions of the authorities and sympathising by folks’ intentions. In between, they reached for the plates in front to grab a piece of chicken and broccoli, distraught at the occurrence of the sweeping health catastrophe. Visualising those hands again in the water glass on the dinner table, I course to remember the water spirals mediated by their cryptic movements. For reasons I know not of, I’m not spooked as I should be. My exhaustion might have nullified the sensing creeps. Hands, what are those hands?
The next day after school, I swung by the ice cream store for work. The new manager, a friendly, burly potbelly middle-aged guy was happy to see me. Being polite, I smile wryly, not so much to be liked but to reciprocate in return. Above the register on the wall attached the arranged schedule for this week, spotting my name on specific days after school hours for duty. Mr. Manager (I’ve nicknamed him Pots) instructed a tour downstairs to a basement where stocks and supplies were kept for the store, so I would be informed of inventory and store administration. At the end, there is a silver door opened, leading to a generously empty cellar set in white bricks on all four walls. Now this got to be a pretty excuse to keep an excellent stash of wines, smooth thinking, in my head. Cursory, my eyes glanced over the spacious cellar and something at the back ensnared my eye. On one side of the walls, rested several pairs of white hands hooked on securely to the brick. Porcelain-coated, some with minor chips and cracks but in the entirety retained its pristine. Not so midget in the water bottle, this time now. Pots intervened at once saying, “Oh those. Decorative indeed. Owner left behind. Quite the taste actually, a bit the sinister. Props for a show probably?” Those hands however, appeared like they had once, twice or more, moved. As I continue staring on as though struck to the ground by lightning at the multiple sets of white hands hanging almost camouflaged to the walls, Pots gave a smack on my shoulder in an abrupt mention, “Get over here and help me with these boxes!” shutting the cellar door behind us. God forbid, certainly, that one of the hands were jiggling on the brick as we ascended the basement.
Disclaimer: All poetry and fiction here are original material written by Vander. Please note that all text references, descriptions and indications are purely fictional (make-believe if you didn’t know what fiction is!) and is in no relation to any actual entities.
