Hazardous

Who are you? You're nobody important. You're never smart enough to go anywhere higher than you are right now, not in the real world. Sure you've always had your head stuck in the clouds, daydreaming, your insistence to believe in six impossible things before breakfast right?

Maybe you want to be the store manager, driven by your passion and knowledge, but you could never handle the pressure of a thousand discriminations. Maybe you want to be a poet, but normal people wouldn't understand that overly complex brain of yours. The smallest dreams seem hard to achieve, so good for you that you've never thought of being a pilot or a lawyer or a business woman.

So what are you doing here in the sea of seemingly important people? They're all in their business suits, posture straight unlike yours, you with your spine bent twenty-five degrees. They have wine glasses between their fingers, voices so low and laughter so polite. The only possible explanation for you to be standing here so casually is you're a servant, refilling their empty glasses with every slight raise of their hand.

You grew up believing that the higher the authority, the more hazardous they are. The more their wealth, the less trust they deserve. Of course you want to get out of here, of course; but I think it's your job and you need it, for college maybe, or to pay off debts I can't imagine.

Walking across the carpeted floor in your Aldo shoes, the very pair your younger brother was wearing what seems like a hundred years ago, you spot another important-looking couple coming in. She has a feather boa, I think that's what they're called, and he in a suit of course. They both have their noses raised high, and you watch the existing guests welcome them, patting their cheeks against each other's like your relatives used to do you.

And then they all turn to look at you.

All your life, you've always wanted to be noticed. You were always invisible, just the girl sitting in the corner by herself; when would people realise the gem that you were? But now, with all these men in black and women in their shiny dresses laying their eyes on you, you'd rather the floor open up and swallow you whole.

Their tongues start wagging.
"What do we do with her?"
"She's not very pretty anyway."
"Do you think she's seen too much already?"
"Need to get rid of her, right?"

And then you remember the debt that you owe. You owe somebody their life. You're there as a criminal, you murdered someone highly prioritised in their society. They caught you on the spot, his blood still splattered across your unfortunate white shirt. Rained across your face.

But they want you to take over them next. They want you to be their boss, they commend you for your work, the way you murdered him until his body was unidentifiable. But you don't want to be part of them, with their noses in the air and flawless skin and murderous intent. They close in on you, softening their tones, telling you how you did such a great job! Your work as a killer would be appreciated here!

And you turn and run. You struggle, almost knocking into the glass door and barely escaping the clutches of two or three. You step out of the carpeted room, your stupid Aldo shoes banging against the marble floor. You crash against the doors that lead to a stairwell, run for your life down the steps.

You miss one, and
down
you
go.

Your head crashes against the dusty stairwell floor, and you can't move. You feel a thick wetness that can't be anything other than blood. Nobody's chasing you, probably because running is too low an act for those people; they don't rush. They don't hurry, because they know whatever they're chasing will come eventually to them anyway.

You can't get up, you can't move, not even when you see the man in front of you, tossing his cigarette to the floor and walking up the steps towards you. The man you murdered. You pray you'll pass out just so you won't feel whatever he'll do to you; I guess God exists because everything turns black.

Your first awakening was down a pathway that reminds you of East Coast Park, where you walked with a flower a lifetime ago; but you seem to be floating instead. You see your body being dragged by a suited man, leaving behind a bloody trail that actually resembles train tracks.

You see a woman in a headscarf passing by, and she looks to the man and nods at him like nothing is wrong. You see a family of five, a father and his four kids in their school uniforms. Your body is dragged right next to them, their feet stepping into your bloody mess; but this is nothing new to them. You are freshly killed game, being brought back to the slaughterhouse where you'll meet your fate.

Your second awakening is in your bed, the sound of your 8 a.m. alarm piercing through the walls of your head. The whole dream jolts into your mind like a memory but it's normal to you. Being dragged like fresh meat? Not surprising. Your alternate person is crazy, and her insanity sometimes seeps through to you.

But you know better, so you grab your towel and head to the bathroom. You prepare your lunch afterwards, you run for the bus that takes you to Pasir Ris interchange. You wait for your same old bus 21, the one with the license plate SBS7304D, shoot for your usual seat. You open up Blogger on your phone and start writing.