I saw him today.
He was having breakfast at his favorite local diner, where he takes one order of full-house pancakes, a cup of brewed coffee that he always preferred black and an extra maple syrup that he intentionally puts on it. I don’t know why he puts maple on his coffee, I just knew he loved it that way. He always does. He’s a little weird alright, especially if he reads the newspaper upside down. I would stare at him for so long without ever, not thinking how he could read in that manner. And he would just sit there, eating his pancakes and reading the newspaper like he was really reading it. I’ve always believed in him, so maybe he reads things like that. It made it easier for him, I guess. I still looked at him though, and observed his hair. Well, he doesn’t have much hair to begin with, but he has so much on his eyebrows. They’re so thick and dark, they looked like caterpillars, but they always made him look radiant. The eyebrows made him glow. Those eyes wouldn’t be so misunderstood if he kept them steady. His eyes couldn’t stop moving, like they were chasing every dancing letter on the paper. How I would trade the whole world to have one moment, where his eyes would lock with mine again. Not too soon, but not too late.
Before I could even begin moving my eyes towards his limbs, he moved an inch away from the table and got up. Leaving his fork stuck through the remaining pancakes, he rolled the newspaper and put it inside the mug he just emptied awhile ago. And he started walking away. I think he didn’t pay. Maybe that was okay. The employees didn’t stop him, you see, maybe he’s a friend with the people, that his breakfast came as free. That would be possible, he comes to the place almost everyday. And he was friendly all the time.
The door disturbed the peace of the chinese bells, hung on top of it, when he opened the door to exit himself out into the world. He stopped to touch those bells and calm them. He didn’t like the sound of bells. They somehow made him uncomfortable, as how dogs howling at night would make me. But he liked the howling. He always thought that those dogs were trying to call out the spirits of the houses they lived in, to beg them to stay when those spirits leave the houses to hunt for food. Unfortunately, he can’t keep a dog. He’s allergic. It would kill him. But his subjects were always dogs. He loved to paint them and clothe them. Put their heads into a human body and draw them in haunted landscapes. It’s strange but he’s really a very brilliant artist. I just wished I could tell it to him always.
I followed him.
At a flower shop where he complimented the old lady who tends the store, while her gardeners were busy trying to pull out the weeds. This way, he could grab a rose, stationed near the counter, without paying. I think he’s broke. I mean, he could pay for anything a month ago but he started cheating, stealing and lying, so he could get away without giving a single dime. He would hide the flower inside the sleeves of his sweater. A whole rose with thorns still attached to its body. He would just react a bit, even though he’s already bleeding. I’ve always known him as a good guy, the boy-next-door, crowd’s favorite. He could just ask the old lady to permit him to have one of the roses in return for the compliments he gave, but he never did. I think he just liked the adventure of it. The thrill of stealing. The rush of excitement every time blood runs out of him with the red so vibrant, it disturbed the dullness of his pale skin. I couldn’t blame him, he’s just like that.
I stayed with him.
Until he got out from the flower shop. I kept my pace with his, so as not to lose track of him. What would I ever do if I lost him? I wouldn’t find my way back. He has always been my ‘light at the end of the tunnel’, my ‘sweet escape’ and my ‘taste of redemption’. What would I ever be without him? I just hope he knows that. With every step he made, came a roaring sound of memories from the past that I’ve always bet he already forgot. But he never did. He was still the same person. He hasn’t changed. Not a bit. He still wears mismatched socks. I remember, he always loved my pink socks that he took the other pair and gave me the other one. That way, he told me, we could have the best in both worlds. We could share things and be equally happy. I’ve always thought he has the most unusual but very convincing philosophies, so I didn’t argue much.
I can’t keep myself anymore. He needs to know that I’m here. That I didn’t forget. That I still find him beautiful among all the other wonders of the world. That I still think about him. The way he used his brush to paint me a canvas of the sunset. The way he stroked my hair at night while I’m sleeping.. well, half-sleeping because if I was really sleeping, I wouldn’t know that he was stroking my hair and tracing every inch of it.
Sammy, I’m alive.
Wake me up.
((Ghost note from a coma patient.))
(I was inspired by the movie: Ghost Town and Will Donner of Waiting For Forever and…. Sammy, because I am watching Supernatural right now. I preferred to be casual, so not Dean. You’re still my favorite brother, forever.)
alien making earthly notes 