The
Invisible Man
By Chia De Zhong
He never knew when he became
invisible, for he was already invisible to even himself.
Dressed in suit and tie, hair done in
a subdued waff and a pleasant smile lurking behind a stony exterior, he was
ready to impress. Leaving at exactly 7.45 as with all weekdays, he waved a
silent farewell to his mother and father still stoically consuming their
breakfast in the dining hall. He left his breakfast uneaten that day. Walking
past grandmothers watering plants on pale yellow corridors, and the occasional
schoolchild late for school, he grasped at his chest, an old pain: surfacing
more those days with the ravage of pressure. A slow lift carried him down 9
floors with one or two other unsmiling faces before he began his fast trot
toward the train station, 3 blocks away.
As he quickened his pace to catch the
8.15 train, he walked past tissue sellers crouched on soiled floors, chanting
their daily mantras; past scores of wrinkly faces and wrinkly clothes pulling
rusted trollies; past well-dressed marketers with plastic faces, an obstacle in
an otherwise perfectly orderly routine. He never saw their faces. The station glowed
in the morning Sun, as always, and within was a cold white uniformity which
permeated through dimpled skin and sweat stains on freshly ironed shirts. But
he felt something different that day. Was it a certain longing for release?
“Next station. Next station. Next
station.” A composed voice of unknown origin recited his daily dose of
positivity, as he inched closer to the silver castle; and an occasional mutter
from a faraway phone broke the constant drone of an old engine. That was not
welcome, he thought to himself, as he tried to get a little shut-eye. Such was
his life, where he only lived when his eyes were closed off from reality.
Collared shirts and dark pants dotted
the station as he alighted, a morning just like the other mornings, as he
noticed the other corporates shuffling around with Styrofoam cups of brown and
white. A straight line he walked, oblivious, up the grey escalator, past
shopfronts displaying fancy dresses with colours unsuitable for work, past
stone images of men and children from another time. And then he heard the bells
toll. From a distant place they sounded, gentle wind chimes from the beckoning
sea. Where were these bells, and why did they sound? Was it the church from
down the street? Or the bell on top of the old city hall? But he was never
curious for answers. As with the call of his own heart, it was all but white
noise. He had work to do.
As he entered the large glass doors
into his safe abode, he stopped, heaving, short of breath and short on rest. A
vacation in a faraway place would suffice for his wellbeing. 7 days out should
be fine. But then he pictured the long queues of employees with stacks of files
outside his office, awaiting his approval. He then pictured the long faces of
his superiors as they measured his very being, each turn of the page a possible
negative appraisal on his work. It was a long war, but victory was imminent, a
promotion probably due. There will be no vacation.
It could have been different if he
slept in one of the days. He could rest for longer, finally, and avoid his
heavy dependency on the awful black coffee which he consumed every day to keep
his mind focussed. Perhaps, the bitter taste in his mouth could be switched
with a nice glass of champagne, bubbling on the top, as he looked out upon a
vast blue ocean. Then he would be free. Should he get a day off? No one would
notice. But he had a heavy responsibility. Looking out of the window, he
clutched at his chest and felt its constant beat, it’s thump quickening with
the thought of a free life out of those glass windows. Then he looked at his
desk. A lone laptop stared back at him through a large, glossy eye, lines of
text dictating what had to be done. There was much to be done.
It could have been different. His
parents had always commented on his slender hands, seemingly suitable for a
future in music. He could have learnt more of his scales, he thought. As he
thought of that alternative reality, the palpitations within his chest
increased in intensity. There was so much longing, but he had a long day to go,
here, within the grey walls of this silver castle. He was a knight in shining
armour, protecting not an honourable damsel, but the dollars and cents so dear
to his organisation. Looking at his hands, he thought of what could be. He was
interested in music from the time he heard the gentle tinkle of notes on the
piano in the restaurant he was brought to frequently at a young age. It was a
long time ago, but its image was ingrained in his mind like a vivid painting.
The piano was mahogany, and it had oily keys, from the countless patrons who
pressed tentatively at the keys, as if in indecision of whether a certain tune
should be played. Black and white, black and white – it was a monotone
instrument which gave off an intriguing and invisible colour. As he listened,
he always noticed patterns of call and feedback in those classical pieces, akin
to a mother calling her child. It was mesmerizing when the occasional maestro
visited and delivered a beautiful tune free of imperfections. The quick fingers
would run through beaten keys, a chorus of angels singing without words. It was
a wakeful dreaming, he recalled, but he was the tune that he would never play.
It could have been different. He had
met the girl of his dreams during his exchange in university, in faraway
America. She was from Eastern Europe, a damsel with luscious curls of red and
brown enveloping her soft face. She whispered sweet nothings, a heavy accent
promising a life of new beginnings. He listened, intoxicated by what could be.
They held hands on the Californian beach, the summer air consuming all the
fears they ever had. They could be married in Las Vegas. Starting a life there
may not have been easy, but it was the American dream. But with all dreams, it
was over. 6 months passed, and they returned to their homes. But with all
dreams, there remains but a beautiful memory, and this memory was play like a tape
on loop on difficult days. On many days.
However, it was better now. He was
safe, in this cold white uniformity which was his home. Where he sat, he looked
in and saw bishops like him on a concrete chessboard, religiously completing
their duties. Their faces were polished marble, and they were ready to win
every battle. He saw the endless white
blossoming into seas of green, the incessant ringing of office phones a call to
new possibilities. To new money, they proclaimed in unison at every occasion.
But today was a novel experience.
With his heart racing, the possibilities rushed in like locusts to a grain
field. Maybe he would take a day off. It was easy. His immediate superior was
in the oval office, tucked away in a lush corner of the office. He only had to
tell his superior, and the deed would be done. He had 28 days of leave, and
this work could wait.
He measured the words to say. Would
it be long drawn, with a lengthy explanation on how he would be up to task
despite taking that holiday? Or would it be a sweet affair, a smile signifying
his superior’s generosity? His superior had always been somewhat of an enigma.
They barely even exchanged pleasantries in person, but sent emails which
ricocheted through thin plaster walls, to the many secretaries down below. What
would his superior even think of him then? Would he think of him as lazy? He
had worked hard, and he deserved this rest.
He measured the words to say. The
words grew in his mind, and he gritted his teeth. His words could wait, he
thought, as he massaged his forehead, a heavy throbbing emitting through
vessels in his brain.
He measured the words to say. But he
had long forgotten how to speak.
He thought to himself: he would
follow his heart this time. His heart rang a heavy thump day by day, calling
out in yearning for a tomorrow not like all other tomorrows, and today it rang
too like a solemn bell, every beat a loud toll, reminding him that he, too, had
a life to live. Getting up from his desk, he walked slowly to his superior’s
office. It loomed closer like a dungeon with every step. His heart raced,
seemingly against the force of his body, its inertia pressed in earnest against
his internal organs, an imaginary escape from the confines of who he was. He
will follow his heart for now. The din from within was unbearable this time.
And so, he reached the doors of his
superior’s office. But there were no heads turned, no triumphant sounds of
victory, no garlands of flowers. His superior’s head remained bowed, as he
typed furiously at the keys.
“May I get the week off?” The words
hung from his tongue at that moment. It was barely a whisper.
The toll of bells was too much of a
burden to carry. But the pain was now gone. He looked around and could almost
see a beautiful beach in the horizon, awaiting his footprints on the fine sand
that encompassed the entire locality. He was ready. The beach he saw was a beautiful
place to be, the endearing silence reflecting a peace desperately needed;
granted.
And so, he went on his way. It was
evening, and he noticed the cry of young birds in the distance, their mothers
swooping in with crumbs for their young. He noticed hints of red and purple
creeping through the sky like drapery in an elegant home. Lights from the
nearby shopping malls lit up in colours too much to take in, a strain on eyes
used to only the glow of new money. He passed vague shapes of workers sitting
on benches, consuming cold sandwiches, a foot out, ready to begin their brisk
walks back to their offices for overdue work. They faded away, as if in a
looking glass. He saw the smiles hidden behind weary faces, wallets full, and
hearts empty. He saw children in tow, parents gently pushing the strollers,
smiles on weary faces, hearts alight with love. He saw what could now be.
And then he was home. He looked at
the white door, an anomaly in the pale-yellow vicinity. There was a large,
vintage sign on it, and it read “Welcome to our home”. Those words were always
inviting, a gentle prod into another world within. A world where there would
only be love.
He heard his parents murmuring from
within, and without pause, he opened the door.
The bells sounded again. It now rang
brightly, each toll sending a current through his being. It was evening, and
each toll took dreams from the sleeping into the sky above. Was that how dreams
were answered? He had never known what it really was, but he had always
dismissed those hallucinations as mere distractions from his work. He was at
where he really belonged, and nothing would stop him from being so.
The bells were louder this time. It
was coming to him, a new world beckoning. Maybe he should become a musician. It
wasn’t too late to switch careers. He was nearing 30, but some become masters
at 50. He had some experience learning the piano, stopping at Grade 6 when his
studies got affected. He had enough money now, perhaps to start taking lessons
again. Maybe he could become a gig musician. He had a nice voice, people used
to say, before he fell silent.
But the bells were louder this time.
Was it an old injury he sustained years back, falling from a bicycle and
hitting his head? Or was it the many rock concerts he used to go to before life
begun? Perhaps he should see a doctor. It had been a while since he visited the
doctor. He had no time to be sick, working days and days to no end. Perhaps he
had to rest. But ever since he began his stint, work found him before rest
begun, resulting in sleepless nights and darkened eyes, where life had left
him. But now he is free, and he will now dream.
He entered the living room. His
mother was in the kitchen, cooking. A delicious aroma filled the air, though he
remained oblivious, eyes fixated on the strands of hair falling gently on his
mother’s weathered face. He entered the kitchen and greeted his mother. But she
had nary a turn.
Then the phone rang, and she answered
the call.
He could barely make out the callous
words his mother exchanged with the caller, and the heated discussions which
bounced off the walls of his house, shrill cries entering the homes of his
neighbours like steam escaping from a kettle. He could barely register his
parents leaving their home, door left ajar. He could barely see now, for the
bells now rang as loud as day, each toll a deafening revelation for him: that he
will no longer dream.
He never knew when he became
invisible, for he was already invisible to even himself.
//
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