Mariko

The shadow. It’s a rare refuge in an endless corridor filled with a light emitted from everywhere and nowhere at all. Surrounded by a delicate sprinkling of daisies, it could easily be something taken from a child’s fairy tale. The light is unable to entirely penetrate the darkness cast by a wall that has fallen against one side of the corridor. On each side of she shadow stands a tree – a timeless fir on the far side and a strong cedar on the near.

People fill the corridor from wall to wall as far as the eye can see – laughing, gossiping, chattering, as people tend to do. But the girl always chooses to hide in the isolation of her dark refuge. She is safe there; even the few who might wish to go to her cannot trespass its boundaries. She watches silently, too shy to speak or bring attention to herself. Though she is alone, she loves this place, as she stares at the people from its depths with bright eyes full of innocence. Here she can think, sheltered from the constant distractions of the hoards of people outside. She is unaware of the troubles her safe refuge may one day bring. This girl is but a child, happy in her solitude, not realizing she is pushing away all who might otherwise love her. Yet she is far from your typical little girl – something nobody would realize until she had long banned all humanity from her peaceful oasis in this desert full of noisy, oblivious, inconsiderate people.

****

Years have passed, and her oasis has become a prison. The beautiful flowers that grew at the base of the wall are long gone, withered away along with her innocence. Strong bars block both escapes, and few traverse the corridor these days. Peach blossoms entwined with blue flowered wax wrap around the bars, trapping each other as they and her fate imprison the girl. She has spent forever weeping silently at those bars, praying for some way of escape as she watches the occasional passerby with wary eyes. Her tears form a pool at the base of the bars, slowly seeping into the dirt floor.

The few strangers who still traverse the corridor pity the girl; they have an understanding of her sorrows. They reach out to her to try help her in any way they can but are stopped by the impenetrable bars surrounding her. There is nothing they can do for her; they do not know the truth about the child. So each goes on their way.

****

The bars are long gone, deteriorated away in times long past. The barrier still stands, looming in its invisibility. The masses of people are back, smiling, talking, gossiping endlessly in their ignorance. They are oblivious to the girl, move unconsciously around her prison. She stands silently, leaning her left shoulder against the cold, bare stone wall, watching, waiting. She has long since run out of tears; her heart has become cold, hard stone like that she leans against. As she coldly observes her surroundings, she slowly gains the knowledge that will someday liberate her from her lonely prison.

The few who have the understanding to truly see her shy away after meeting her piercing gaze. Her eyes hold the knowledge of eons of thought in solitude. With a glance she can strip them to the core, see all that they have hidden away from even their own conscience. They see that she knows the truth, a truth that even they fear. Perhaps they are cowards, or maybe they are just smarter than they believe. Whatever the reason, they know that this girl could drive them to insanity with the knowledge she has stored away from her eternal shadowed imprisonment.

Like a statue she stands waiting for the one, the only one who will not shy from her penetrating stare. She likes to think of him as her prince charming, a knight in shining armor come to save her, though she knows he will be nothing of the sort. She knows very little about him, but she will recognize him when she sees him. This man will be the only one in the multitudes of ignorant strangers who knows the truth about this strange place and its unusual prisoner. These two are a step above the empty drones who fill the corridor – they know they will not only accept this truth, but in the end, escape it.

****

She knows he is near – somehow she can feel him coming. She wonders how he could possibly be any different from all the rest, how one man could free her from the prison she has trapped herself in, the prison that was once her only protection against the cruelties of the unsheltered world outside the shadow. She stares at the crowds with a grim determination not to allow herself to become distracted or doubt herself any further – she learned long ago that to do so would be a grave mistake. What comes will come – she tries to convince herself that there is no way to prevent it; pondering will provide her no aid in this.

As he approaches, he develops a slight squint in order to try to make out her features, for she continues to lean against the wall, deep in the safety of her shadow. She gives him the same cold glare which she bestows on every other passerby, yet he watches her, unfazed by her stare, yet regarding her as he might a dangerous animal. He is an arrogant man and she can see he has been arguing with his conscience. She knows he is brave; he is the one who will bring her freedom. She knows she should be overjoyed at his arrival, yet deep in her heart she feels a mixture of feelings, the most prominent of which is fear.

As she schools her face into neutrality, she stands straight, regarding her liberator-to-be. He is more than she thought he would be. She can see the knowledge which they both share in his eyes. She sees that he has journeyed long and hard for her, yet she fears to submit to the only thing which can save her. For all her knowledge attained throughout her imprisonment, she has no idea what will happen to her once she is freed, and she fears this uncertainty more than anything.

Only once she knows her face will not betray even her strongest emotion does she dare step into the dim light that is able to penetrate her darkness. She knows that although they are unrelated save for their shared knowledge, both have the same piercing eyes, which he now considers her with – the kind of eyes no one else would be able to find their way out of. Though she is quite tall, she has to look up to meet his gaze. Both give the impression of looking down their nose at each other, though they are equal in nearly every way.

In their eyes they each have a silent respect for each other, an agreement to get to business and get over with what he came here to do. He slowly lifts his hand to brush the barrier. She raises her hand and presses it against his hand through the barrier. His hand penetrates the barrier to grasp hers. She resists the urge to pull away and hide in the shadows. With the aid of his touch, she is able to finally pass the barrier, out of the safety and confines of the shadow. She falls to her knees, unable to bear the pressure of the sudden light and noise she has long been sheltered from. He helps her up and leads her down the corridor.

Throughout their passage down the corridor, not a word is exchanged between them. As they go further down the corridor, fewer and fewer people pass them. She is frightened to realize that throughout this silent journey, she has accepted her greatest fear: falling in love with the man who saved her. She knew this was inevitable; she knew that he did not love her back. She knew that with time he will accept her; with time he will learn to submit to his love for her. But that will all come with time.

They are all alone; people no longer pass the couple. In what she thought was an endless corridor they have reached a door at the end. Neither has uttered a word. they have a silent understanding of one another. He glances down at her; she looks away. She is ashamed to admit she did not expect this end. He opens the door, guides her through. They step out onto a field of green grass, into the real world. She is finally free from the confinement of her own mind.

****

She knows someday she will return, to visit the imprisonment of her adolescence. She realizes there is no longer anything to fear from the shadow – she has found love and cannot be trapped so simply. Though she fears she will be caught in the tangles of love, she now understands the way to escape. She is free, and will not allow herself so easily caught off guard in her innocence.

The endless corridor still stands, eternal in its survival. Her shadow has been lost, the fallen wall now crumpled, no longer held up by her invisible barrier. The people are gone, but they will be back; they always come back. The light has finally triumphed over shadow, pushing away all the darkness she loved so dearly. Even the two trees which have stood the test of time cast no shadow. So on shines the light, a light emitted from everywhere and nowhere at all.

This short story was originally written in June of 2004, as the final project for my English class in my senior year of high school.

There was never a time when he wasn’t there. From the day my parents bought our little yellow house, to the day I was born, to the day all of us kids were grown up and had moved out. He was always there.

I remember visiting, when we were very young. He had a beautiful backyard, where he actually grew things – fruits, vegetables, beautiful flowers that were quite a contrast to our simple backyard, often overridden with weeds. Every now and then he would call us up, even though we lived right next door, and tell us to meet him at the adjoining wall between our properties. A bag of tomatoes, some zucchini, a box of See’s candy. He was the best next door neighbor one could ask for.

I remember standing on his front porch, eating cookies that his late wife had given us young kids. Just me and my sister; I don’t think my brother had been born yet. We made a mess, as young children are apt to do. My mother got mad at us, for making such a mess. But Mrs. Rodgers didn’t mind. We were very young when she passed away. I hardly remember her, but for a warm smile.

He always bought Girl Scout cookies from us. Always came over to watch the fireworks we set off on the Fourth of July. And always, always loved it when my mother made peanut brittle for him. Oh, how he loved that peanut brittle.

His big, white trailer always sat in his driveway. He loved to go camping, fishing perhaps? I never really knew. We used to (accidentally) hit that thing with handballs so often. He never minded. Always a hearty laugh, a bright smile beneath that head of white hair.

He was getting old, though we didn’t realize it. To us kids, he had always been old. I can’t remember him without that bright white hair. But he started forgetting to close his garage, his son began visiting more often… though he never forgot to say hi to us when we visited.

His age finally caught up to him. Our dear friend and neighbor passed away Sunday, April 18, 2010.

Rest in peace, Bernie Rodgers. You were loved.

March 18, 2005.

Five years ago, today.

Things were so different, back then.

I was a freshman in college. I thought I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I was going to be a ballerina, dancing in a professional ballet company, spending all my days rehearsing and performing. Or I was going to be a physicist (a ballerina physicist?), doing cutting edge theoretical particle physics research. Okay, so I didn’t really know what I was going to do with my life. I was single. I was dabbling in all sorts of things, trying to figure out where I fit into UC Irvine, into life as a whole. Trying to make friends. Trying to get through classes.

Just your typical freshman.

It was the first day of final’s week, at the end of winter quarter. A Friday. Odd, but that’s the way it worked out. I had one final that day. It was my modern dance class, in the morning. I was to drive home afterwards, spend the weekend rehearsing for an upcoming ballet, then drive back to school on Sunday for the rest of my exams.

I never made it to any of my other finals.

********

Four days later, I woke up in the hospital. All I remember are fragments, little bits of memory that seemed to have all happened consecutively, but probably occurred over the span of several hours, or even multiple days.

A car coming toward me. The world spinning out of control. Choking, panicking as someone forced a tube down my throat. Relief when they finally removed it.

I remember standing, getting out of my hospital bed for the first time after the accident, walking over to the bathroom with the help of my mother. I saw my reflection in the mirror – my face was heavily bruised, one eyelid completely swollen shut and laced with stitches, my hair a matted bloody mess, my nose crooked and my forehead slightly bashed in. I laughed weakly (which hurt a bit thanks to the broken ribs), and joked to my mother, “Damn, I’m ugly!”

Visitors. My mother, constantly by my side. A doctor, tall blond and handsome, who seemed familiar but whom I can’t recall ever seeing before, or after. An ex-boyfriend who still cared. A good friend who I was delighted to see, gently kissing me on the forehead.

Unrelated welts, on my arm, that eventually fell away to leave faint scarring that still remains today. Apparently I was allergic to the tape they were using to keep the IV in my vein, in the crook of my right elbow.

“Bird-poo bruises,” as my sister liked to call them. My shoulder was spotted with them, from various shots that I have absolutely no recollection of.

I finally went home a couple of days later. As far as I was concerned, I was fine. Out and about just days later, though my injuries were somewhat awkwardly mistaken for abuse by several strangers. In a way I suppose it was sweet, that complete strangers would go out of their way to show such concern for my situation, though they were entirely mistaken.

********

The police stopped by, while I was in the hospital, to ask me about the accident. I remember so very little.

A car cutting me off when I was changing lanes. Gray, perhaps? I hardly remember. But I do know I was using my turn signal. The other car was not.

I swerved to avoid the car, and that’s when I lost control. We wonder if a lack of maintenance on the car could have had something to do with it. No way to know now. But I do know my little 1990 Honda Civic saved my life. No airbags – they said I’d probably have been hurt worse if there had been airbags, as small of a person as I am. And almost all of my injuries were from my face slamming into the steering wheel. But it could have been so much worse.

I was the only person injured. After losing control, I slammed into the center divider at 60+ mph. Though I’m told I bounced off and hit a Japanese tourist in a white rental car. Poor guy. I feel bad for him. Apparently I also caused quite the traffic jam… in the middle of rush hour. So if any of you got stuck in traffic on the 405 North that day… sorry about that.

My mother tells me I was conscious after the accident. I don’t remember. My mind completely blocked all that out. Probably a good thing. But it seems I was able to tell the paramedics my name, and that I was alert.

As much as I hate that I have such a big chunk of time entirely gone from my memory… I’m glad I don’t remember the crash.

********

A week later I was back in another hospital for surgery. After all, my nose was broken, my forehead was caved in… it was decided for me that all that had to be fixed. My surgery was the first day of spring quarter. I didn’t go back to school until summer.

Those memories, again, are fragments. Do recall I hit my head rather hard. Memories from that time, and much of the time surrounding the accident, are fuzzy at best.

I remember arriving at the hospital, checking in, going up to my room. They gave me socks. Brown, with white rubber bumps on the bottom. Quite comfortable, actually. I still have them. They’re still one of my favorite pairs of socks.

I remember them trying to put an IV in my arm. Multiple times. Until the lady just gave up, because she couldn’t find a vein in my small arms. (Unfortunately, this isn’t an uncommon problem, for me.) Instead, she sent me to the anesthetist to do it. (I remember thinking he was kind of cute. I don’t remember a single other thing about him.) He got the IV in my arm, and then I smiled goodbye at my mom as they rolled me through the door to where I was going to have the surgery.

Going through the door backwards… it’s the last thing I remember.

That night was hellish. One of the worst experiences of my life. I was alone. In the dark. My eyes swollen shut. I had to go pee like you wouldn’t believe, thanks to the IV constantly dripping liquids into me. And damn it, where in all of hell was the nurse? She didn’t come when I pressed the button. So somehow I unplugged the IV from the wall and, feeling my way with one hand because I couldn’t see a thing, I made my way over to the bathroom, dragging the IV stand with me.

Have I mentioned that I hate hospitals?

Few memories beyond that, aside from my mother trying to get me to eat disgusting hospital food. I had to eat, or they wouldn’t release me. So damn it, I ate. Jello, I believe. Red. Or maybe it was blue. I can’t remember.

Then the ride home. I couldn’t see a thing, though I remember it being unpleasant. I wore my mother’s white hooded jacket, with the hood pulled up. My face was so swollen, it was almost a perfect circle. I probably looked like quite the terror. Apparently I scared the crap out of a couple of teenage boys. Man, how I wish I could have seen the looks on their faces.

Never mind the car accident. When asked what the worst experience of my life was, that surgery always comes to mind. For that reason, I just cannot comprehend people who actually want to get plastic surgery.

Never again.

********

The next few months were a complete blur. I remember very little.

Sitting on the couch, for hours, days, weeks even? I have no sense of how long. It seemed like forever. Sitting there, my eyes swollen shut, unable to focus on anything, plagued with terrible headaches. Sleeping as much as I could, spending the rest of the time in the dark because light hurt my eyes. Because that one eye, the one with the stitches, couldn’t close. It still doesn’t, unless I squeeze my eyes shut.

I couldn’t read. I couldn’t watch TV. I couldn’t do anything, really, except for listen. My sister made me a CD, full of songs that I loved. I still have it. Another good friend who I had only known for a couple of months before the accident burned the entire Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series of audiobooks onto CD for me. People called, visited, posted their concerns on Facebook and MySpace. People who I didn’t even think knew who I was were asking if I was alright. There is no measurement for how valuable friends are in times like these.

Gradually healing… getting the splint off my nose, the stitches out of my eyelid, the staples out of my head. The swelling gone. The bruises fading. Ribs healing enough so I could laugh again without debilitating pain. Hair growing back, ever so slowly, along the strip of my scalp they had shaved to do the surgery. Scars healing, as much as they ever would. Getting used to the nerve damage that will never go away.

Going back to school, making up those missed finals, dating a man who I had met just before the accident who I would soon fall in love with.

Getting back to normal.

********

March 18, 2010.

Five years later.

Done with school. Not a ballerina or a physicist… instead I followed in the footsteps of both my parents and that man I fell in love with, and became a programmer. Still in love with that man, even more so every day. Still trying to find my place in the world, though I know myself, who I am, what I want, and where I belong a little better these days.

I still don’t have a car, after I totaled my little old blue Honda Civic five years ago. I drive, but not freeways – changing lanes on the freeway still freaks me out, though I haven’t exactly made much of an effort to get past that. The man I love doesn’t like the idea of me driving, and likes the idea of me on freeways even less. He worries that I might get hurt again.

The scars are still there, and always will be. The one on my eye is the most obvious – if you look, you can easily see it. There’s another that goes from in front of one ear to the other, over my head like a headband. It’s hidden by my hair, but you can still find it if you know what to look for. There is metal in my face – wires in my nose, and a plate in my forehead. No, I do not set off metal detectors.

My head is numb from just above my eyebrows to the back of my head. The entire crown of my head. It’s not painful for the most part, but incredibly uncomfortable when someone touches it. A very odd sensation, to be sure. I avoid hats as much as possible, and shudder every time something (or someone) touches my head. Amusing, to say the least. My left eyebrow is extremely sensitive – I fractured that eye socket in the accident, so it’s still painful. When my nose gets cold, it hurts too – probably residual from the broken nose. And I get both sharp pains and dull drilling pains in my scalp, completely randomly. Thank the nerve damage for that.

Even so, I’m okay. I’m happy. I’m healthy. I have damage that will last the rest of my life, but I can handle that.

It could have been so much worse.

The world is not a perfect place. At times, unfortunate things happen to the people who deserve them the least. Take, for example, my brother. Sure, he may not get the best grades, and yeah he’s a bit of a rebel, especially compared to myself and my sister. He’s a teenager, and boys will be boys, right? At the same time, he’s a very smart kid, and at the very core of his heart is a very good person. Perhaps at times, he’s even been the type of kid who can get in trouble with the law and not be phased by it. Yet no matter how much mischief he causes, he didn’t deserve to get cancer.

No one should have to have cancer, and certainly never twice. Unfortunately, that is just what my dear little brother has had to go through. At age six, he was first diagnosed with acute leukemia. At the time, I was only twelve years old. When you’re that young, the gravity of the situation doesn’t really hit you. Of course it was horrible seeing him in the hospital, or gaining weight from the medications, or losing all of his hair from the chemotherapy. Still, at such a young age I couldn’t quite grasp the concept that my brother’s cancer was a really, really bad thing. The doctor told us he would be fine, so I was inclined to believe that everything was okay.

For a while, everything was okay. After a few years of treatment he went into remission, and we figured his leukemia was something we could put behind us. We mistakingly believed this was something we would never have to worry about again.