CHAPTER 14 – “vigilant Island”

There are many ways to begin a chapter, but I can’t always come up with the best one.

Maybe I just did. Or maybe I didn’t.

Parents. They’re back. I offered to fatch them when they arrived at the airport.

I took the MRT. I should’ve taken a taxi, but I’d rather walk around more.

The concept of trains going from station to station feels like a clear to‑do list.

It took me an hour, but I’m not complaining.

There was a whole family of blonde people in the same section of the train as me.

The toddler stared at me, eyes full of wonder.

Babies always stare.

My vigilance… is a damn baby? Okay,

Daniel, off topic!

Yeah, so I was going to let them get out first.

Because, well… let’s just say the Singaporeans at Changi Airport Station are a different breed of Singaporean. You’ll see.

When the door opened, I stood to the side, hinting for the family to get out.

Before they could, a hand grabbed me by my collar and yanked me out of the train.

I was met with the face of a very unsatisfied Chinese uncle and thrown to the side.

I looked back at the family.

They were rushing, pushing the baby stroller and huge luggage while the uncles and aunties yelled and shouted at them in all kinds of languages, dialects, and broken English:

“HURRY UP!”

I walked away. That’s just how it is.

Old people just rush.

I shall unlock to a common ground when I reach my golden brown.

The place was huge.

It took me 15 minutes to locate the skytrain. There were signs, probably, but I’m blind.

I always try to hide that , not out of shame, but out of,

A Chinese lady, from China. (All Asians dress differently; it’s quite obvious.)

Her long white dress and sun hat gave it away.

She was struggling to get into the skytrain. Two huge black textured suitcases.

I grabbed one for her, pushed the other in with a free leg.

After we were both in the train, she gave me a side eye.

I wasn’t rushing her. I really wasn’t.

But… fine. There’s no “but.” I’d rather not explain.

Countless kids ,or maybe just six ,all sitting at the front of the skytrain, peeking outside.

What a wonderful world this would be?

The train entered, and there went the misty waterfall and greenery.

I backed off to the opposite side as everyone rushed in front, holding up their cameras and kids.

Someone’s luggage flew over.

I caught it.

It did a good number on my toenails.

I recall the first time me and my sister came to fatch our parents.

We took photos, shopped, explored. All fresh and exciting.

I’ve seen it a thousand times now. The enthusiasm is long gone ,just as I expected.

Off the skytrain and into the tunnel to

Terminal 1.

Memories of me and my sister flashed.

We were lost but finally found this tunnel to our parents.

We were laughing, poking each other, tripping on our feet.

Now I just take it slow.

I can’t tell if I want to see my parents or not.

I offered, but not out of longing ,more like a responsibility.

Is this how I’m going to be when they are no longer healthy and need my care?

Not out of my will, just… obligation?

That’s rather cruel.

My dad hits me with, “You should find a real job since you want to lay off your priorities.”

They tried to let me take over their business. Pretty sure they’re still trying.

They plan to take me to different countries, meet some of their pathetic clients.

I am being spoon‑fed the good stuff.

Oddly, my face hole won’t open.

It would be nice.

Reminder, Daniel: you don’t have a future.

A company with a face like yours?

The clients watched you grow up. Most of them religious and ,no offence…old.

I turned from that little girl everyone adored into… whatever I sound like to them now.

Partnerships, orders… where?

There are other grounds as well,

They asked about me, how I’m doing and all, while I know they aren’t here for the answer.

Just the act of asking.

I tell them anyway.

If I didn’t make it clear enough, my fantasy of an understanding mom is just absent.

Perhaps we’ve been apart too long.

Or I just grew up.

Nonetheless, it doesn’t click.

It was easier to love and hear when we were all younger.

I was hurt, but I still loved her like she meant the world.

Not too sure how to describe it now.

My parents are still them, just… strangely, stranged.

I took myself to the library.

Huge.

You know what? Everything seems huge when you are small.

Level 8… yes, I see it now.

Going up the escalator, higher and higher, people become dots. Cars look like longer dots.

Yeah. Something up above.

Have a plan for everyone.

Therefore, if I choose to take my own life, I won’t be able to fulfill such a plan.

But as certain as that sounds… my

mission, however, might be to perish by taking my own life.

Just the same amount of certainty.

Reading more books really doesn’t help.

I read about time ,that everyone is important to keep the timeline going.

Everything we do, say, or look at. It all matters.

Will my death cause a collapse?

Or was I meant to die so it doesn’t?

Or am I insignificant to any plot?

But wait ,nobody is insignificant.

Was I supposed to die or not?

As much as there are reasons for something to exist, there are the same amount of reasons for it not to.

What am I doing here? What am I thinking about?

I can believe that I am not in any of the boxes they were looking for…

which didn’t surprise me, because I am

somehow always not being “registered” into anything I was supposed to.

My mind brings me to places of wonder, of endless suffering, of questioning.

My vigilance makes me notice every single thing off about my own body.

Everyone who passes by feels like they are staring at exactly what’s wrong.

And I know most of the time they aren’t ,but I know one or two of them are.

The tapes that bring blisters.

Two layers of compression shorts.

Counting, doodling, feeling, hitting, cutting.

Without dignity. Missing parts.

It wasn’t living.

The doctors kept pushing appointments, dragging important stuff, sugar‑coating the most evident lies to my face.

The different methods they might be using, all listed out, one by one, in my head.

Then I start questioning back ,not to

them, because what’s the point?

Begging for someone to save me? To allow me to be better?

I am not a beggar. I won’t allow myself to become that.

And my parents… they take my suffering and pain, my attempts and cries for help, as:

just a teenager, too immature, just can’t accept the truth, too imaginative, too stubborn.

Just a fancy way to threaten and torment their mental health, forcing them to go crazy.

They don’t think I’ll do it.

They don’t question it.

They know, I hope.

They just… don’t.

They knew me better than I do ,the creature that was pushed out, raised, watched grow.

I should be what they were expecting.

Just identical to the second I came into this world.

But in corners with restricted entry, the corners of my ever‑so‑tired mind,

I am looking for answers. Digging holes.

And when I finally thought I could get out,

I realized I am strangled on an island, surrounded by strong waves.

I remembered going mute for months because my vocal cords gave out.

I couldn’t talk.

Couldn’t complain.

The whole world is acting on me,

and my parents tell me to just keep it to myself, stop mentioning or questioning it,

since the doctor said it’s just a matter of time before I gain my speech back.

Waiting.

For my vision to slowly deteriorate.

For my body to grow out of shape.

For the lump in my right brain to become a tumor.

Or for me to be totally given up on.

I was left in silence with all my thoughts.

I go into that island, start digging back down, deeper and deeper.

And I end up deeper than where I started.

Sometimes I go back up, telling them what I found down here in this Alice‑in‑Wonderland.

Dismissive, again and again, I was told I was being unbelievable and “uncommunicatable.”

My mom says she has run out of words to use on me.

She doesn’t understand why I am so fixed on finding an answer.

While she has totally lost the ability to comprehend my voice.

Why can’t I just be happy with how it is now?

But how can I?

Then I realized ,the waves. That’s what’s trapping me.

The people are the waves.

This world is the ocean.

And I am that very island that trapped me ,that hurts me but also kept me alive and safe for so long.

So I decide to just go down. Keep digging.

I start questioning the base of everything.

If anything is real.

All the philosophical stuff, you know?

They are beautiful and fascinating, but so dangerous once you are all the way into it.

The first few times, I went back up.

But I figured nothing’s going to change.

I dig down.

All the values people never dare to question.

Some say, don’t go down the rabbit hole. You will fall in and can’t get out.

Yes. I can’t get out.

Not because I fell.

But because I’d rather not.

Silent, and digging.

Maybe the bottom is the end, and not up.

Maybe I am only supposed to go the other way from everyone else.

Everyone else that frowns.

Maybe that’s where I’ll end ,physically or in a mental state. I don’t know.

I am not some kind of special being. Just an unfortunate one.