Eventually as time passed I became apathetic towards those glances at me. I just didn't have the energy anymore to show emotion. As the days wanned further on, I would occasionally see people I knew pass by me, many of them were once my closest friends back when I was in school. I would look towards them hoping that they would recognize this sad pathetic face of mine, but they didn't. I would be angered because they ignored me. They all looked happy and doing well and here I was, sitting half-dead against a concrete block begging for change. I would begin to have paranoid thoughts about why they did not come to my aid when I was in need of help, but in reality I was just too ashamed of my current situation and to prideful to ask any favour of them.
However, one day my parents happened to pass by me. When I saw them I felt a surge of emotion through me for the first time in years as tears began to form in my eyes. I do not know whether I was crying in shame at what I had become or tears of joy at the hope that they may take me home. Either way I was left crying on the streets and as I mustered up whatever strength I had to make my way towards them they took notice of me. I held my head down in shame as all I do was crawl and drag myself towards them. As I was about to look up, I expected a warm smile and greeting from them, but instead there came a shreik of horror from my mother. Even through my tear filled eyes I could see the look of fear on her face and as I looked into her eyes I could tell that she no longer recognized me. To her, the son she remembered had died long ago and all that kneeled in front of her was just another crazy bum on the streets. My father pulled her away and threw a mean hook to my jaw. I landed square on the pavement, I tasted blood in my mouth and I could tell that my father had knocked out a couple of teeth. During this whole commotion a police officer came into the fray and handcuffed me. As I was being pulled away by the officer I saw my mother crying into my father's chest as he coldly stared at me. That was the last image I saw of my parents until years later.
A few days later I was released and thrown back onto the streets. I decided here and then that I had nothing to live for anymore. I decided to commit suicide. I began to make my way towards the bridge as I had decided to jump off it and drown in the water. Slowly I began to make my way towards the bridge, fear began to settle into me. I had no idea what death would be like and the very thought of just nothingness began to make me feel queazy. I began thinking to myself, "if just one person smiles at me... I will live on no matter what else happens". However, it was late in the night and I had passed by very few people. The few people that did pass by me shoved me out of the way or simply j-walked to the other side of the street. With the little strength I had, I could not walk straight and so I swayed back and forth. Finally I had reached the middle of the bridge and no one had smiled at me. I thought to myself, "this is it". As I stumbled to get on top of the railing I slipped and bumped into something. I couldn't tell what it was, but it was warm. I figured it was just someone taking a late night stroll and that this would only aggravate the person. Perhaps their anger would be calmed if I had jumped then and now, but to my surprise the person helped me on my feet and asked me, " are you alright?". I looked up and it was a woman and to my surprise, she was smiling at me. That is when I met her.
I do not remember how I first responded to her kind words of worry for me, but I can never forget what would follow. After she had gotten me straight up she noticed that I was a bit pale in the face and had heard a small rumble coming from my stomach. She told me to sit by the railing as she would return with some food and water. I reluctantly did so as I had no energy left to move. The fear and adrenaline that had fueled my body to jump was all but spent. I barely had enough energy to keep my eyes opened. I really wondered why, now of all times, did someone choose to care about someone as insignificant and hopeless as me. Upon first glance at myself all one could see was a weary, time worn face. Heavy bags under the eyes, a long unshaven beard, long greasy hair under an old baseball cap and old torn up clothes. I was nothing more than a typical bum, so why now would anyone show the slightest bit of care? These questions constantly pounded my head like the repeating sound of a jack hammer on pavement until she returned.
As she promised, she came back with some food. It was nothing spectacular, just a jr. burger, some fries and a small drink, but as I bit down on that burger I could feel tears flowing down my cheeks. It wasn't that the food was spectularly delicious, but that I was just so grateful for this one act of kindness shown by this one woman. My gratitude could have only been expressed through those tears streaming down my cheeks. Even as the tears mixed with the oils of the burger's meat I continued to chew the burger slowly, savouring every bit of it as I could. Slowly I would chew a few fries after ever bite of the burger only to wash it down with the drink. Eventually I finished the meal. There I sat, in utter shock and amazement To find such a person in this cold city was nothing short of a miracle. Among the tens of thousands of cold stares that I received daily, I had somehow managed to find this one woman who would give me a warm smile. Not even a baby would smile at me! I felt a sense of joy and for the first time in years I could proudly say that I was happy.
During this whole commotion I had not taken notice of her reaction, but eventually I noticed that she bending over and smiling at me. She could tell just how elated I was for receiving the meal. Immediately to show my thanks I bowed down on all fours thanking her over and over again. Even though I was in such an embarassing position and thought she may have been disgusted by it, she merely continued to smile. I did not know what to say to her and as I racked my mind for something to say to her she asked me, "so, what were you doing out here late at night?". The question left me speechless as I hesistated to answer it with, "I was attempting to commit suicide". As I tried to find a more suitable answer she merely jumped out and said. "Oh, I know. You must have come here to take a look at the full moon tonight!". It was only when she said this that I noticed the full moon above. The sight left me in awe. I had never seen a full moon such as this before. It was truly one of the most beautiful sights I had ever seen in my life. Unconciously my right hand reached out for the moon. As soon as I took notice I immediately drew it back so as to avoid any awkward glances from her; however, it seems she did take notice as she said, "I get it now, you stood on the railing to try and reach the moon. I'll try it too". And as she finsihed saying it, she immediately climbed onto the railing and reached out for the moon.
As she reached out for the moon she slipped, but luckily I caught her as she was falling back. With that I mustered up some courage to speak for the first time in a while. I asked her why she was out here late at night and she merely replied that she wanted to see the moon, nothing more. She said that there wasn't anywhere else in the city where the moon looked so beautiful. I asked why she was so transfixed by the moon. She didn't know why, there was just something about the sight of the moon that stirred this feeling inside of her. Suddenly, I had the urge to draw. Before my days on the streets I was an art student, but after repeated failures to gain recognition I withdrew from the school and found myself here where I am. I old the woman that if she were to bring me a pencil and paper, I would draw a picture of the moon for her. As I said this her face lit up with joy and I could tell just how happy she was. At that moment I felt a sense of pride and embarassment. One I oculd finally put what artistic skills I had to use, but at the same time this was probably the only time I've ever made a woman so happy. Without further word she ran off to fetch the two items I needed and there I was just standing by the railing look up the full moon.
It was about half an hour until she finally returned with the pencil and paper. Upon looking at her as she returned she was bent over with her hands on her knees as she was panting, short of breath. It seemed that she had run towards the nearest convenience store and back. As she handed me the pencil and paper I searched for a suitable place to lay the paper down. Luckily there was a nice smooth surface along the railing and I quickly put myself to work. I only had one sheet of paper to work with and it had been years since I last drew something, but to return the kindness this woman showed me I put everything I had into that drawing. I focused on every little detail I could make out until finally the drawing was complete. Not since my first piece of artwork had I felt any sense of joy and accomplishment at something I had created. As I took one last look at it, I humbly gave it to the woman while saying to her that I was by no means a great artist.
As she took the paper she gazed deeply into it as she held it up to the moonlight. I stood to the side of her and that sight of her holding up my drawing to the moon stirred a feeling inside of me. Even now, years later that scene on the bridge is etched into the very fibre of my being. It was truly a beautiful sight. If there ever was such a perfect moment in my life, it was then with that woman on the bridge. She would continue to gaze at it for another ten seconds or so until she finally fold up the piece of paper and placed it in her pocket. She then asked me if I would meet her here every night. The question startled me, no doubt about that, but she was the first person to generally want my company in a long time and I had no reason to deny her request. As such, I quickly replied that I would meet her here everynight, but then I began to wonder what for and so I asked her. She said that she loved my drawing, that there was just something about it that made it special. She had no sense of art by any means, but there was just something she got from looking at my drawing. She asked me if I would contine to draw for her every night if she brought some pencils and papers. I had no reason to say no as she was the first in a very long time to appreciate my art.
And so every night following that occasion we would meet on that bridge and every night she would ask me to draw something different. What she asked me to draw each night varied. Some of the items she requested were as simple as a uniquely shaped rock, while others were a bit more complex with a ship anchored at the harbour near the bridge. I never complained though because I would at least have company, if not for her I would be dead. Whatever she asked of from me, I would obediantly comply as fast as I could. This relationship, if I may call it that, lasted for weeks on end. This very well were the happiest times in my life and I could not have asked for more. Even as she provided me with the necessary materials to complete the drawings she asked for, she would also bring some food for me as some form of payment for the drawings. At first I reluctantly accepted as she was doing too much for me, but overtime hunger can change even the most stubborn of fools. However, even with this new found food source I vowed to never let this get to my head. I would never allow myself to arrogantly rely on this woman for food no matter how generous she is. I simply couldn't, whatever little pride or dignity I had left simply wouldn't allow it.
However, even that pride and dignity wouldn't hold up all the time. Even though I call these times the happiest times of my life, it did not mean that everything was perfect. It was only when I was with her that I felt happy. The days felt like eternity until she came to the bridge. There I'd be on the bridge sitting idle and patiently waiting for her to return, as if I were some lowly yet faithful dog. Though the days felt unbearable I endured for the most part. However, on one such occasion the ever creeping sense of despair and doubt overcame me once again. Fear, anxiety and paranoia infested my thoughts as I tried to patiently wait for her return. As if her return would cleanse me of all these ill thoughts filling my head. I admit it now that back then I somewhat viewed her as a drug to heal me of all these cancerous thoughts in my head, but sometimes her simple presense was not enough as there were times I would put up a front to hide any hint of being down or depressed. So as to not giver her any reason to leave me forever. One day though, I could not hide it perfectly and she could tell. Unconciously as I drew another picture for her a tear streamed down my cheek and she took notice. It was then that she wanted to know my story.
In the short time the two of us spent together on that bridge we would rarely speak about our personal lives, not that I had much of a personal life in recent years, but for some reason she felt that this was the right time to ask. I didn't know if I could tell her. I didn't know if I wanted to tell her, but there she was, probably the only person to ever want to hear my life story. As I began to speak my voice shook as fear crept into my heart. I did not know what kind of reaction to expect from her, but I trudged on through my story. As a child I grew up in a typical nuclear family, one father, one mohter, married of course and myself, the only child. My father was a professional football player while my mother was a member of the city's own orchestra. Seeing as my parents were in highly esteemed professions it was only natural that I was raised to be just as sucessful as them. My father wanted to build his legacy as a family of sportsmen, however I was never gifted with any physical prowess needed to endure and reach the professional level. My mother on the other hand wished that I would follow in her stead and take up music, but even in music I had no talent.
It was not until my early teens that I discovered my talent for art. As I moved on through highschool I gained a sort of fandom and increase in popularity because of my art. Even my teachers in art class were impressed at my work, but I admit I became very conceited with all these complitments as I would often argue with some of the teachers or outwright skip their classes. When the time came to apply for post-secondary education I chose to apply to the top art schools in the nation. It was a lofty goal and so I constructed a portfolio I deemed one hundred percent acceptable by all schools. I was confident in my skills that I would be accepted to where ever I applied. Finally when it came to telling my parents what career I would pursue I confidently proclaimed that I would become a great artist. Though both my parents were disappointed that I could not follow in their footsteps they did their very best to be proud and supporitve of the talent I did have. Knowing this I vowed to make them proud and eagerly awaited for the letters of acceptance. Eventually they did come and I chose to go to the most prestigeous of them all.
On the first day of school I confidently walked through the main entrance anxious for my first class. I planned to wow my fellow peers and professors much like I did in highschool. As the class began I waited for an opportunity to showcase some work I had done during class when finally I got my chance. I proudly displayed it for my professor and classmates to see and as I stood there awaiting cheers and applauds from the room there only came harsh criticism from my professor as well as some sneers and snickers from some classmates. I stood there shocked, never before had a piece of art I displayed been criticized, much less mocked by others. I quietly retreated back into my seat and remained silent the rest of the class. As class ended everyone left class quietly, but I could still hear remarks about what a fool I made of myself on the first day. Finally as the professor left the classroom I stood up and took a look at what my fellow classmates had done. Their work was astounding! Though we all had the same model to work with there was just something else about their drawings that one couldn't find in mine. I was left perpexled as to what it was their drawings had that mine didn't and so I remained in class creating more and more drawings trying to capture what everyone else had. Eventually I gave up and retreated to my dorm room where my thoughts were flooded with possibilities of what the other had done that I hadn't. I couldn't find my answer.
Things didn't get better as the school year went on. I had begun skipping classes out of paranoia that my professor was just out to get me, that he and my fellow classmates couldn't handle a genius such as myself. But, as I stared more and more into my artwork I began to realize that there was nothing special about my drawings. I became disgusted with them. One night I took all of my drawings and burned them all to ashes. I did not care for them anymore. After that event I withdrew to my dormitory where I remained in bed, I believe during this period I became extremely depressed. Over the course of a few weeks I lost a large amount of weight and became addicted to anti-depressants. Those around me began to worry and soon the dean took notice of my situation. The dean found my situation as unfit to continue schooling and as a result expellemed me from the school. What was I to do? After I proudly proclaimed to make my parents proud I was now an depressed, expelled student with an addiction to anti-depressants. I couldn't bare the shame of telling my parents of my failure. It was then that I decided to turn to the streets and the rest she could make out for herself.
I sat on the ground motionless, taking deep, heavy breaths as I held my head in my arms on my knees. I could feel the tears that were streaming down my cheeks drying, but the few tears that made their way into my mouth were salty. I swallowed them down as I thought it best not to spit it out in front of her. For a while both of us remained silent. During this time I couldn't tell what was going on in her head. I feared that maybe she would have gained a lower opinion of me. I began to regret ever telling her my sad, pathetic story. Yet, at the same time I felt a sense of relief as I had earnestly reflected on my past and come to accept that where I was then, was completely due to my actions and no one else's. Just when I wanted to end the silence there came a faint hum. It was a song and as I listened to the lyrics I felt a surge of emotion as she sung the song.
"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me....
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see.
T'was Grace that taught...
my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear...
the hour I first believed.
Through many dangers, toils and snares...
we have already come.
T'was Grace that brought us safe thus far...
and Grace will lead us home.
The Lord has promised good to me...
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be...
as long as life endures.
When we've been here ten thousand years...
bright shining as the sun.
We've no less days to sing God's praise...
then when we've first begun.
"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me....
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see.
I hung on to every word as I listened to the song attentively and silently. Like pretty much everyone else, I had heard this song sung many times by many singers, but this one time was different. This one time I felt something inside me click. Fresh tears began to flow from my eyes. By no means was I a religious man. I never had the slightest bit of faith in an almighty God, but at this moment I began to think that maybe there was someone out there looking out for everyone, even someone like me.
As the song finished I looked up at her. She was staring at the moon as she sung. The moon's light illuminated her face, she was very beautiful this night. Perhaps it was just the atmosphere around us, but I could swear she looked like angel. I couldn't help but look on, but as she lowered her head I moved quickly to regain some composure. I tried to wipe my eyes on the sleeves of my dirty jacket but then I felt her poking my shoulder. I looked up and she was offering me some tissue she had brought. I graciously accepted the tissue and slowly wiped away the remaining tears.
After I was done, she asked me if I liked the song. I nodded slowly to show that I did like it. She smiled. She told me it was the first time she had sung in awhile. I felt honoured to have been given the chance to hear her sing. She began to cough. I moved towards her to offer some extra tissue. She motioned to me to stay where I was and quietly said to me she was alright. When her coughing stopped she asked me if I could draw her another picture and I gladly replied I would. I asked her what she wanted me to draw tonight, and as she looked at me she gave me a melancholic smile and simply said, "me". Her smile left me perplexed but I did as she asked.
The picture was of her leaning over the bridge's railing as she stared at the moon. As I finished the picture I moved to hand it to her. She held her hand up telling me to stop. She said she wanted me to keep it and that it was time for her to go back. As she turned I said goodbye to her. She turned to say the same to me and as she turned back I thought I saw a tear in her eye. As she ran off something fell from her pocket. I went to pick it up and give it to her but she was already far away. I figured I would give it to her tomorrow. Then I took a look at what she had dropped. It was just some more tissue she had, but there was blood on it. It must have been from when she was coughing. I wondered to myself if she really was alright as I stared off into the direction she left from. And that was the last time I saw her.
By: Paolo Miguel Maquiraya
10/07/09
Hope you enjoyed reading it. Epilogue to come soon!
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