50 Years (Farewell)

Bang Bang Bang.  It should be the sound of my head being banged on the wall by those special agents of the Government.  But I am not sure. I did feel ferocious pain a sudden ago, but since then I feel nothing.  Just the sound. Bang Bang Bang. The raucous cursing and shouting of those special agents, against me I guess but not certain, in my home.  The home that June left last evening. I made her do that.  “You must go." This is what I said then.  My brain is now tuning my audio frequency to the sound made yesterday, that I can hear it now, once again. “You must go. There’s no other way now I can think of." Not only sound, but now my vision is also tuned to that dimension. A dimension where I tell her to leave when I am looking out of that only window in my home to the evening sun glaze on the dull black sea.  I glance aslant to where she is. To my right with her back to me, packing up her leafy green bag on the table. Silence. The dimension where she is wearing her turquoise sleeveless dress that covers her till her ankles. Her black straight glowing hair neatly cut to 1 inch above her neck end. The dress armpit line smoothly cuts out her left arm, and the area around her armpit, white under the glowing sun, and the shaded little bulge where her left breast is supposed to be, days ago bare to my eyes, now covered, seductively but splendidly covered.

Clack Clack Clack. What’s left of my nerve and sense of pain brings my audio and vision back to the real now. Being kicked by the special agents. Shit. I still feel pain. Lots of it. Unbearable. It should be the sound of my rib bones breaking by the fierce kicking and stomping. Now I should be on the floor enduring the violence. Yeah violence. A correct word to describe the situation. A correct action to any terrorist. The Government always say. But this now doesn’t take long, as my pain is now catching me unconscious again, leading me back to the sound, and vision, of the yesterday now. “Take the Sony PCM with you." I tell me, lest she forgets.  “This is the only thing that will make you remember my being, a being that will be gone forever." “I won’t forget" she retorts, not with anger. I guess, from her pitch, as I still cannot see her face.  Followed by a minute silence, followed by her “even without the Blackbox".  I can’t still see her face. Just the hair, the turquoise dress, the while armpit, and the tempting  shade inches under her armpit, so beautiful but so out of my grasp.  That my meeting Mr. Sony has left everything, which used to so close to me, out of my grasp.

Plack Plack Plack. Even my consciousness is now out of my grasp. My nerve and sense are once again brought back from that bluesy now to the tormented now.  Holy shit. It should be the sound of my arms and legs being crushed and twisted to angles unendurable to any human being.  But luckily, the pain, the unscalable pain, has subsided. I have been fucking anesthetized by my pain. To die should be the next step. But I have lost my grasp of everything.  Death is one of these everything. They won’t let me die. Not here.  They should resuscitate me a while after, so that I can be brought to fucking something where my evil face can be taken by their devices, so that they can announce to people living in here, and the North, and the Globe, that they successfully, again, to foil a terrorist plot. I will be taken to IFC, a symbol of their determination to crush any attempt to destabilise the regime, and jeopardise the lives and prosperity of their fellow countrymen. A symbol. I am a symbol. A fucking symbol of they win we lose, every time, no exclusion, to ensure the happiness of every decent man and woman. A fucking symbol, which was also what I done to those special agents awhile ago, when they stormed into my house, saying like, where is the Joshua now.  Loud, like howling. An evening, when the sun glow stroke right to the black uniforms of the special agents in front of me. Ha….a little bit of pain, but it doesn’t matter now. Now, the howling dark uniform men. The sun was so strong that I could not see their complexion. Face I couldn’t see. Nose I couldn’t see. Mustache or clean I couldn’t see. Mouth I couldn’t see. Eyes, I couldn’t, except the dead fish eye white glowing.  That made them look and sound like howling dog.  Yeah…in Chinese mythology, there are dogs in the heaven that howl so loud as tearing the heart of spirit in the hell. They are called 哮天犬, meaning dogs whose howling reaches the heaven. A complete opposite. I stood by my table. Silence. Smiled smugly. Or ugly to them the howling dogs. I lifted my arms mid air, palms open to the ceiling.  One of the palms had a coin. Then I clenched and turned my fists leaving them still mid air. I said, Puff. I opened my palms facing the floor. Mid air. But no coin. Disappeared. I made a symbol that what they wanted disappeared. And it’s me who done the magic. Puff. And then Bang Bang Bang. And then Clack Clack Clack. And then Plack Plack Plack. And then.

My audio and vision are tuned to another now. Now, I hear the calm black sea. The rotary waves are pushing a lonely boat. Up and down.  Up and down. The lonely boat covered by an arch roof made of wood, tin, foam board, and bedding cloth covering where the openings are. Up and down. Up and down. June, alone in the boat, with her turquoise sleeveless dress, leaving the Islet for somewhere. The same lonely girl who came to our Islet decades ago from nowhere. From nowhere to nowhere.  Alone. No, not alone anymore.  She now has the Blackbox in carrying the music 50 years, carrying Mr. Sony’s messages, his inheritance, and our memory of being closely but briefly together.  She may even begin to carry my baby now. Or Mr. Sony’s. I just don’t know. Maybe no baby. Prostitute doesn’t carry no baby. But who cares if she has baby. She has some inheritance from me anyhow, which she may lose it when she lands somewhere, just like she lost all her memory when she landed on our Islet. But she should be sent from somewhere.  She should have inheritance at the time. Inheritance doesn’t last. It will be consumed until nothing is left, like candle. Candlelight. Now I see candle light on the boat. Its nighttime in the sea. Ah….it’s beautiful. The moon. The full bright moon. Yeah. It’s mid autumn now. The Blackbox is playing a Chinese song.

Bright moon appears time to time.  I, holding my wine, ask the sky:

What’s the year now in the heaven palace?

I want to take a wind back to the heaven, but I am afraid however delicate the buildings there,

Cold up high. Alone, even the dancing shadow.

How better it would be in the heath with people.

I have not asked Mr. Sony why a Gweilo listen to Chinese songs. And there are so many in the Blackbox. I miss it. Now, whatever, whenever, wherever it means, I cannot know where he is. Nor can I know where I am, and where I will be. Except the last moment, when I was dropped the IFC. My clairvoyance now brings me to another dimension, when I am standing at the edge of one of the floors in IFC. So high. So windy. So prosperous and vibrant when I see the southern most city of the North. I jump off and find myself gliding through the air, like a bird, free, descending. The wood. The most beautiful forest in the world. Its view is getting bigger and bigger. Nearer and nearer. I see myself land finally. The wonderful forest. Slowly I find myself turn brown into humus, and blend with the soil surrounding me. The becalming sea and wave washing up the beach. And then I don’t see anything. I can’t hear anything. Feel anything. Complete peace. A farewell to everyone, including myself, I haven’t expected before. But now. That now. I finally feel peaceful with what I have found. Finally found. But my brain still works. In complete dark do I still remember what Mr. Sony said happened here 50 years ago. A scum. A plot. He didn’t tell me that. Maybe he stored a sound record in the Blackbox, in which all the evidence would be revealed. Clear as sky. A shaz …… sound comes out when we press play, then a man or woman I don’t know clearing all our doubt in one go. That may be the reason why Mr. Sony was chased and shot by those howling dogs. Without weapon. Just the Blackbox.  Maybe it’s the case. But June and I didn’t run through the whole memory of the Blackbox when we were together. But now, from now on, only June can get it out, if she is not dead on here way to somewhere. Hope she can be lucky enough to land somewhere, and pass the Blackbox to another one, who will then become one of us Joshuas, and pass our message, our weapon, our terror, our fate, on and on.

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