Ruth’s Story

Dried blood stained my wrists, tears left that sticky sensation on my cheeks and my throat was parched as I woke up from my failed suicide attempt. The lacerations were mostly superficial, I know it was more, a cry of attention than a genuine try at my own euthanasia. Everybody was crowding around me as I came to, concerned with my own state of health. My mother cried as she hugged me, my aunt reprimanded me for trying to take my own life, she was stopped soon enough by my uncle who got into a quarrel with her for not consoling me instead. Bah.. they did not understand my anger, I hated everyone, I hated my parents, I hated my siblings, I hated everybody in school, I only liked Avril Lavigne and her music, oh and Adam Lazarra from Taking Back Sunday.

I was kept in a ward for observation, the doctor’s diagnosis revealed “stress” and “depression” after a quick psychiatric evaluation. The time alone allowed me quiet moments to write some goth poetry.

<>A razor is unlike a scythe
Turning into my crimson reaper
A midnight soiree
A morning release
Remnants of last night’s disease
Nobody loves me anymore, Nobody… Nobody…

That was my ode to self-mutilation, it belonged to my personal diary where I scribbled paragraphs of angst and hatred. I was discharged the next day as I had to grudgingly make my way to school. Nobody knew where I had been the past few days, they thought I was down with chicken pox, obviously covered up by my mother. A classmate, Joshua, said hi cheerfully to me, unaware that I found him disgusting. He was such a poser, he yearned for acceptance by the more popular crowd in school and everybody knew of the torch he held for Farah, that bitch. She thinks she’s “more Avril Lavigne” than me, she’s such a goth poser and what I would give to drag her face a few hundred metres in gravel until is is cut up beyond recognition. Everybody hates me, I am so misunderstood.

The fluidity of our choreographed synchronization translated itself into poetry, the thickness of the make-up on our faces concealed the unbottled passion we had for this art form and the hugging contours of the traditional dress we had on promised a thousand pairs of male eyes on us. I had my eye on this particular alpha male who fronted the school’s dikir barat squad as the swoonsome “juara”. To those in the dark, being a juara in dikir is equivalent to being the lead singer in an amateur rock band, in terms of chick appeal, maybe even more they say. Never mind the fact that ostensibly, they were there to promote their race’s traditions and culture, and that truthfully, it was all about the sex. Ohhhh… I knew.. as did the numerous other female groupies who flood the halls in the annual Mega Perdana, otherwise known as the Champions League of Dikir Barat.

Anyway, we finished our piece and left the stage beaming in pride, both of our performance and the newly acquired attention from the Dikir Boys. We were the guest performers at the preliminary rounds of the Mega Perdana competition and boy did we grab that opportunity by the hairy bean-bag.

“Siti Farah isn’t it?”, he enquired confidently in his handsome grin. I deliberately paused to tease him with a little anxiety before answering, armed with a pout I had practiced in front of the mirror for hours at a time in the run up to this day. I had it all planned out. “It’s Nur Farah actually”, I replied, ending it with a girlish giggle, absolutely convinced that the pout absolutely melted his heart and stored itself in my dresser drawer. We then looked at each other in a way that Harry and Sally would have been envious of.

I bagged it, his number and very soon, bragging rights to a desirable male escort. Fuck. Now I’m hungry and with nary a cent in my purse, “I better call Joshua”, I thought… “Oh, and better make it expensive, teehee..”

Meal’s covered, now there is the sliver of guilt to deal with (years of exploiting him led to the current desensitized state). I was well aware of his feelings, so blatant, the gleam of delight in his eyes everytime I raised his hopes. Like I said, I’m a little dim, but not overly so. I knew the sweet little guy was in love, he wouldn’t have spent that much money and time on me, but… he just wasn’t as good-looking as that Juara I just hooked up with.. or any other guy that I hook up with anyways.. Mmmm.. I stopped myself just before drool dribbled down the side of my half-opened mouth and renderd me flushed with embarrassment. I quickly slurped in the offending glob of enzymic fluid and looked around to make sure nobody had witnessed that terribly inglorious moment. Then I called Joshua. Toodley doo..

A Teenage Adventure!

It was surreal that someone from the “in” crowd found me cool enough to acknowledge my presence in the visible, stratified school social structure that I was currently trapped in. “So, what kind of music do you listen to Joshua?”, was the next line that followed the greeting pleasantries. My fading glee was quickly replaced with clammy anxiety. The ice-breaker, the measure of compatibility, the thousand and one psychological analysis teenagers come up with according to the varied replies, alas, the polite but disappointed dragged “okaaaayyyy” response that usually ended the conversation instantly when I gave my honest answer. “Errr… The Mr Bean opening theme?”, I quipped jokingly, stalling for time to recall the in-trend bands of the given time. “Haw Haw… Cmon seriously muddafucker!”, he persisted as my mind raced to come up with something credible to quote.
“It definitely has to be The Killers, especially their latest single, Mr Brightside”, I tried my luck, getting ready to wince at the impact of realization that I made a wrong move.
“Awesome dude! I thought you would say something gay like Simple Plan!” I hid a sigh of relief and smiled politely, feeling guilty partly because I lied and mostly due to the truth that Simple Plan was indeed on repeat in my discman. Additionally, I condemned the use of homosexual references to depict something as inferior, but I continued to talk to him anyway. Hey, I’m a teenager.

The polyphonic tunes of my favorite pop-punk band alerted me to a call coming through. It was the one love of my life whom I cherished as much as my naïve, teenage heart can. The only trouble was, she does not know of it, 2 years as “best friends”, superficially platonic on my part, purely so on hers. I am her sugar daddy minus the groping benefits, I am her unwilling emotional crutch in all the past relationships, feeding on scraps of cuddles and hugs, I am her biggest and longest serving secret admirer, heck, I am her “Platomon”. A term I had coined myself to add a certain amount of humor to the pathetic romantic plight I am perennially in. Platonic Pokemon in full, lending to it the suggestion of caged pet enslaved by its own over-reliance on its owner for food, unable to escape even if there was a chance to do so. Now, substitute food with emotional fulfillment, however warped and one-sided and the clear mental picture of the relationship is projected.

Lengthy shit, Well, she called to say that she felt like some Billy Bomber’s, so I happily obliged, strangely, influenced by some muddled emotional impulse, a mix between happiness and the hammering on my conscience of the unhealthy covert obsession I had on this single girl. But-oh-how beautiful she was. Damn. There goes at least, 30 dollars in American-sized western food.

With every reason to be depressed, I moped around before deciding on some Neopets to cheer myself up with. I was in my element, for a few hours at least, invincible and a multi-millionaire, I’d be able to get Neo-hos anytime I wished to. Unfortunately, I’m just making things up, what the fuck are “Neo-hos” anyway? I laughed at the absurdity of my self-sought consolation to the bleak scenario I was in. Then I moped again.

The next morning saw the usual early train commuters witnessing my listless trudge to school. “I’m sorry, I can’t be perfect…”, the lyrics or my heart, I couldn’t tell, sang to the uncaring world, in the best-sounding nasal voice ever. Sparked perhaps by the presence of a guy in my school who would come close to being called a “jock”, to quote American media, in the same cabin. He looked like what I would want to be, good-looking, athletic build, healthy tan, great hair… I trail off here to consciously dream of the stuff I would do if I were him. I stopped to hold back a hopeless tear, Curse genes and their physical pre-sets.

(to be continued)