Start your story with the line, “Three more days of this.”
Three more days of this.
From afar, the house resembled my own; curtains drawn, garden of blooming flowers in front and a thriving vegetable patch in back. I assumed spending a weekend here would help with planning a yoga retreat for a reunion of distant classmates and friends. We haven’t seen or heard from one another for about five years.
This house, the Gilmore Steep, or so the neighbours eagerly informed me the morning after I parked moving vans stacked to the brim with green, durable Frogbox storage boxes on the sidewalk.
The story behind its name still remains a mystery to me as I couldn’t dig any truths from the people I’ve met, but the real question (well, to me at least) is: what happened to the late tenants? The sudden death of a family of five haunts me, my soul as I torture my brain to figure something up. Nothing clicks, none of it adds up.
I poked and nudged the neighbours and real estate agents until their hairs stood on end and even then all refrained to provide any insight, but one. A slender male in his forties who spends his days chopping wood and cutting down trees and his nights writing poetry by the noisy television. I admire his character based on the stories I heard the night I hosted a house-warming weeks ago. At first, I only caught a glimpse of his portrait but later that night, a stranger I could not recognize pointed him out and essentially shared his life story. I wasn’t one to judge but he blended so well with the tree trunk in his brown tee-shirt that I could’ve sworn his body became an camoflaged reflection of someone who was, but no longer remains a part of this world.
Fast forward to tonight, I worked out a deal with the neighbouring home owners on both sides of the one I stand in. We came to a consensus. But now, I wait.
Three more days of this, I tell myself. Only three more days.
I keep replaying the memory of myself leaving my own apartment in the core of Downtown Vancouver. Leaving behind a notebook and a pen.
My short-term memory dominated and even forgot to bring the jacket I had slouched on the back of my favourite chair by the door. The shortened version of Sherlock Holmes I intended to bring along on this three day experiment has already gone downhill. Within minutes, I can only sit back and stare out the window. Beyond the darkness, I couldn’t much, not even the slender male who lives across the street.
Should I initiate a conversation with this man, of whom I will refer to as James from this point onwards. There is something different in James that I don’t see anything comparable in anyone else in this neighbourhood. At first, I couldn’t pinpoint the root cause but with time, I began to feel an electrifying connection, one that resembles the connection I felt with my late parents. They died a horrific death, an accident. One that shouldn’t have even happened.
I can’t do this any more.
My breath quickens.
I need to calm down.
I need to gulp down a breath of fresh air, helium, oxygen as much as my throat is resisting the swallow.
I need familiarity.
I need the companion of someone that knows me better than myself.
Who do I turn to on this lonely, starry night.
I can almost see the end.
Jenny Wong
