The Invisible Man - A Short Story by Chia De Zhong

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.

//

Dahlia - A Short Story by Chia De Zhong

Dahlia

By Chia De Zhong

“She was never mine to begin with.”

An old house stood by the banana tree, the evening glow revealing new faces within, curiously peering through grilles of iron and age, inspecting its livability. Were they going to live within cracked walls, whitewash flaking, mildewed curtains hanging proudly on tinted windows —all but a testimony to someone's legacy? Polka dotted dresses hung on a skeletal frame, stationary, waiting to be claimed by a jealous love, as an old lady peered reluctantly through a door slightly ajar. She was claimant to a glorious past, reflected in the porcelain scattered on shelves throughout, phoenixes and peonies aplenty in stone. But nothing could be seen within her room but the semblance of a whirring fan. It sent silent whispers across shadows, with hints of incense, mahogany and fresh secrets permeating through the freshly painted corridor, a last attempt in luring new tenants and new money. An old house — a kept woman, and empty drawers spoke of triumphs days and days before the sun set on perfectly pruned gardens and smiling faces from just a while ago, just before — 

"I met her only in my dreams. She was already all grown up, a handsome lad by her side, a baby in tow. She laughed a hearty laugh, just like I did, and arms flew up as she moved in for an embrace at last. I really missed her. I posted advertisements in the local paper, asked around in orphanages about where my Dahlia might have gone. It was a mistake. At that time, I had no choice. I was betrothed to be married to my distant cousin in Penang, and I couldn’t be a mother. Not yet. I had my honor to maintain, that unadulterated innocence that kept me on the shelf and marriageable. 'I’ll come back and find you', I told those beady little eyes staring into mine, stubby fingers grasping my little finger in a gentle caress. She smelt of fresh talcum, months of care under a nanny I secretly hired to care for. And then it was time for her to go. If I had only chosen to be brave. If only… But I can only create measured fantasies within the confines of my circumstance, for I am but broken.”

But something was growing within her, a pregnant hope permeating from the irises of dull eyes. For nothing is forever, and that includes misfortune, too.

“For years I posted the same advertisement on the papers. Lost child, Dahlia. Left at the orphanage. Would be a young adult. Chinese, a birthmark on her neck. Please call. Lost kin, Dahlia.  Left at the orphanage. Would be middle aged. Chinese, a birthmark on her neck. Please call. Lost kin, Dahlia. I miss you terribly. Please call. Lost, Dahlia. Always in hope, Mom.”

The sun set, and tungsten lamps cast a warm glow on the many faces walking on the street beside, the occasional vehicle causing an eye to dart momentarily, as if in hope. But the house remained shrouded in apparent darkness, lights remained off to conserve electricity. Instead, the dull wisp of kerosene wafted around the long table in the hall, elegant furniture enveloped in a dark cloud. Still the old lady remained in her room, rocking gently in her chair, a radio crackling a familiar tune. Her mouth echoed those words she heard so long ago, but the air was still. The deal was signed, but the tenants would only move in in a week. They were moving in from town, finding that the rent was too expensive there. It was a good place to live in, they said, but they wanted a good price instead. But what could these crisp bank notes offer? She was old, and she longed for a familiar hand to guide her as she hobbled down those steps she had taken every day, alone. She longed for the familiar hand to work her stiff muscles, to conjure delicious recipes she had never managed to pass on. She had given it up seventy years ago, though, when she became the familiar hand, mouth silently pursed in agreement, gentle hands molding dough as her mother lectured down that very same hallway. 

"I never wanted to give her away, but our family owed my cousin’s family our survival; especially after the war which ravaged our business and left us mere shells. I was young, and my youth oozed out like an abscess from the gaudy, old-fashioned and scratchy clothes my mother wanted me to wear. I had broken out of the dirt, beautiful and free, and nothing was going to stop me. Not the circuses where I was paraded around for old fogeys to see. Not the days where I see mother weeping in vain, for days gone by and our forgotten legacy. But she too, is long gone and forgotten, and I am here alone, my heart but charity.”

It was a few hours into the night, streets slowly quietening as pedestrians opened rusty gates and entered their little abodes. The murmur of voices begun as television screens lit up from within the half-curtained windows. The old lady opened a window and a small insect flew out into the open air. See, even insects can be free, she observed. From the faces of the remaining pedestrians she recognized a familiar face. It was her daughter, yet again, apparitions of her longing, reflected on the vessels which sailed past her port. The old lady gazed, silent sighs but a habit from long ago. Wringing her hands, she savored the breeze, lifting strands of curly grey in apparent glee.

“I got married, and shortly after, my husband died. I never shed a tear; he was on a holiday when a freak accident took him and his parents away. It was but a short agony, the hospital explained, the car plunging many meters down into a fiery hell. I was a rich woman now, with his inheritance safely parked in my bank, no will written but mine. We never learnt to love each other, anyway.”

A doorbell rang, and ears perked up in anticipation. It must be the social worker with her dinner, the old lady thought. Calling out in response, the old lady took small but sure steps down the hall and unlocked the door. An unfamiliar face, dressed in suit and tie, looked in with a curiously cordial disposition. The old lady blinked in surprise, her voice buried in chords of suspicion. He asked if she lived in the house. The old lady nodded, eyes crossed, wrist clenching the door pensively.

 “That opened the door to happiness. Free of lock and chain, I went to the orphanage, then I found out she was gone. And for years on I know she was gone. That thought entered my dreams many nights, and the pain rushed in like burns on mucosal membrane, each revelation a new tear shed. So much to have, but so much to lose. Orphanage after orphanage I visited, and the newspapers bore my name and testimony to my loss for months to come. Months turned to years, and I faded away, a lackluster jade broken from the inside. But how else can words describe my poetic tragedy? It was my choice, but I had my name to bear.”

They might have found her daughter at last, he told her. Someone bearing her daughter’s name, born on the same day, possible child of hers. Or rather, her daughter might have found her, reaching out in tentative recognition of familiar ties. It was a firework. With tears brimming in grey eyes, sweaty palms and wet lips, they were happy at last. Light breaths and a high voice rung above the heavy evening air as the old lady arranged that faithful Day of Reconciliation.

“I have so much to give, but fate had its fill, and I am left a mere shell of my younger days. Days of desperation turned to months of hope, then years of melancholy. I stopped meeting up with friends, an intense grey clouding my judgement. That there could be a better ending to this, than me quietly weeping in my room night after night. Heartache is something one can never get used to. It starts off as a little sting deep within almost forgotten memories. But it grows onto you like a vine on a tree, rooting itself deep within your veins and strangling all semblance of an ordinary life. I too had grown roots within my home, not venturing out in fear of further heartbreak. But nowadays I hear God whispering. It comes in the words of passersby, the laughter of children nearby, the trickle of rain. It will get better from now. I know it would.”

It was morning, as a gentle breeze brought the sun out of the clouds, and onto a beautiful horizon. The old lady opened grubby windows, letting new air into her abode. The tenants had moved in, bringing in new furniture that dotted the ancient territory, and warm conversations which bounced off plastered walls and onto a smiling face. The old lady, dressed in her Sunday best, combed her hair, removing knots and loose threads of grey. With rouge and blush, she never felt as alive in her life, a young woman staring back coyly from within the old mirror. How would she look like? Would she also have the same almond shaped eyes as her mother? The same button nose and square jaw? The pursed lip of a difficult life? The old lady paused in her step, supporting herself on a chair. What would she say to her? Would there even be anything to say, after decades of separation? Would her daughter even recognize those hands that used to hold her, fingers through wisps of hair, fingers at her belly, gently tickling her into oblivion? Would her daughter embrace her with a passionate finality, arms interlocked in a desperate joy? Her palms were cold, lips dry, and mind overflowing with prosperous thoughts. The inevitable had arrived.

“Is that her, my Dahlia? She looks so beautiful in that light blue dress, plump, well fed and… happy. Yes. This is my daughter, and we have so much to do. No more tears from now. There shall be singing and the laughter of children in the house once again. We’ll prune weeds in the garden. Boy I need some color on my skin once again. The sun will do me good. And I’ll hire a little band to play on our porch, while we sing duets from bygone years. If she doesn’t know how to sing, I’ll teach her. She’ll never have to live a life of poverty again. She’ll live out the rest of her days a happy child once again, free of worry, free of the pain from the outside world. What if she’s married? No worries at all, I have more than 18 rooms in my house. We’ll all live together. Now where’s my reading glasses? I may have to read to dozens of running children. How do they look like? Would they look like her? Or (chuckles) maybe even me? They always say I have strong features for a lady. With that square jaw. Oh right why am I still behind that door? There is no time to waste, no more pain to bear, not with that open door.”

An embrace ensued, and time stood still. The old lady could almost capture a hint of the scene of talcum once again as her daughter’s hair met hers. And then it was over. As the old lady stepped back, the light revealed two other faces framing her daughter’s smile. Her benefactors, she thought with a deep gratitude.

“Thank you for bringing her back to me.”

She did not understand, not the accent of her own daughter, seemingly from another world, another time. Not the staccato of a south-east Asian tongue, but a southern American drawl. Not the words of her guardians, a similar twang burning into her ears.

“What are you trying to tell me? I’ve finally found her after so many years, and you tell me she’s leaving? She’s not going anywhere, not without me.”

But they were on their way. It was no reunion, but a farewell.

“What are you trying to say? She’s not going anywhere. I won’t allow it. Stay, Dahlia. Stay.”

But she could not fathom the cries of an despondent old woman. She had a life to live, and a love to enjoy. There can be no forever.

“Please, Dahlia.”

But they went on their way. The next day, the new tenants found a lifeless body in a locked kitchen, charcoal burning on a stove, and a letter written in a pensive cursive. It read,

“She was never mine to begin with.” //