Monday, November 23, 2015

Chapter One: Awakening

(The Dreamwalker’s) Soul Mate

Chapter One

“I can see the young muscular chest of the sleeping person moving up and down in such a perfect and peaceful harmony. So much like of a baby. Even before I get a better view of the person on my bed, something in the deepest part of my being is telling me that I know so well this person.” —Isagani King

The sound of the raging wind outside our century-old house is like a cry of an old soul looking for its forever-lost mate. It’s very sad and chilly at the same time. So much like of a broken heart.

Every time lightning strikes, followed by an angry thunder, my heart skips a beat. I feel like a weak prey caught in its predator’s paw. Our beautiful five-room house is made of the best concrete. But it’s old. It worries me that the stormy wind might lift up the whole roof, making me so susceptible to the angry rain.

I close my eyes so tightly while listening to the rattling of the roofs. Silently I am wishing for the storm to pass instantly. My hands are shaking and I am somewhat surprised to my reaction. For sure this is not the first time I have experienced a stormy night. Cielo Hills is part of the majestic Mt. Makiling and we rarely experience storms here due to some geographic pattern reasons.

All of the sudden I feel like a child, alone in his bedroom. When I close my eyes I can picture my younger self, around six years old, shaking under the thick blanket, alone in a dark room. Now, it is as if the fear I am feeling now has been inside me for so long. I can remember this very same fear so vividly like it happened many years ago. I am very sure that I felt this before but I can’t remember when and where. Right now, there are two beds in my room. Of course it is. I share this room with my brother Nicolas. Mama said it has been this way since Nicolas was four. No chance of being alone. But I can’t bring myself to believe them. I know they are not lying to me but I can’t just agree.

This is just one of those many times that I want to protest and insist that I know something else but I am so powerless to do that. I lost all my memories of the first ten years of my life in that vehicular accident when I was ten years old. So every time I feel remembering something, they tell me other things I don’t remember. It puts me in an awkward zone—where hate collides with respect.

I peek from my blanket and see my brother sleeping as peaceful as a baby on his bed. How does he do that?

The wind becomes harsher. It sounds so strong and desperate to find its missing mate. I keep praying silently in my head. Please, don’t take our house.

Then the wind stops. Thank goodness. A strange layer of hope and comfort covers my heart instantly.

Tick, tock, tick, tock…

Then it strikes again. This time it is wilder that it whistles. My heart pumps in fear. It is driving me crazy to think that I might be the only one in the whole house awake during this stormy hour. Every noise makes me so jumpy on my bed.

And as if the mad wind wants to tease me more, the box bay window in our room suddenly slams open, crazy rain showers in. I don’t know how the wind did that. The center glass lifts up and threatens to break.

I stand on my feet as quick as I can, while I try holding in all the panic in my chest. I put my right hand around the watery handle of the center window and carefully pull it down to close. After I make sure that it is securely locked, I take a couple of cautious backward steps. Then I stop. I watch the wild rain drips on the other side of the glass window. They look like tears. In that moment, I feel an awe of admiration sweep over me at the beauty of it. Suddenly I forget about the storm. I feel very calm as I watch each line of drop merge with the other drops and then they run down together, making tiny pools of water below the pane into the sills.

Using my right foot, I dry the wet floor with the foot rag under the bed of my sleeping brother. I check on Nicolas and he is still past asleep. It calms me somehow to know that he is safe and fine.

I turn around to go back to my bed, hoping that I could still catch some sleep. In the process of nearing to my bed, a quick fear squeezes my heart upon seeing someone sleeping on my bed! A quick rerun of minute-ago memories in my head, but I can’t remember anyone else in the room except me and my brother. So, who is it?

I push the unwelcome fear aside as I pick up few steps towards my bed. I can see the young muscular chest of the sleeping person moving up and down in such a perfect and peaceful harmony. So much like of a baby. Even before I get a better view of the person on my bed, something in the deepest part of my being is telling me that I know so well this person.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I want to hush my heart for beating too loud. My chest expands as I take in enough air, hoping that it will calm me down, pushing all the nervousness away into the deepest pit of my stomach, hoping to kill all the butterflies in there.

Then I look down. Oh no, it can’t be!

I am seeing the exact copy of myself still on the bed—sleeping! I close my eyes and shake my head, thinking that it could just be my imagination. When I open my eyes, I am still there. Or at least, my body is. It’s impossible. Am I dead? Did I just die on my sleep? No, no, it can’t be true. I must be dreaming. I can’t be dead. I am too young to die. I am just sixteen years old!

I check my arms and as if on cue, I notice that they are getting paler and paler the longer I look at them. In fact, my whole body, well, the one that is standing is all getting paler. This other me must be my spirit? Or soul? I don’t know the difference.

I can’t die this young. It is so unfair. There are so many things I have to and want to do in my life. Just few nights ago, I think it was last Wednesday, I made a list of things (in no particular order) I want to do before I die.

Number one in my list is to graduate from high school and that’s this year’s main event. I have been waiting for that day since my first day in Cielo Hills High School. My parents promised me of a huge gift for my graduation. If I die now, someone else would take it.

Number two is to buy Mama a restaurant garden on her 40th birthday.

Number three is to study Literature in Mt. Claire University. Which should lead me to my fourth goal and that is to become a published writer. And if tonight is my last night, obviously it won’t happen and I’ll be the saddest boy who died in the history of the world.

My number five is, of course, to get married. For number six is to have three children. I want two girls and a boy. Their names will be Graciella Dan, Cielo Nicola, and Zephaniah Markus.

Number seven is to build my own house near the Cielo Lake.

Number eight is to live for one year in El Nido, Palawan, and another year in Batanes.

Number nine is to record my own songs.

Number ten is, the most special in my list, to remember all the memories I had before my tenth birthday. I’ll make a book out of it. I am still choosing which of the two titles will be better for the book: Forgotten Past or Under the Clouds.

And, oh no, Hannah Kharis does not know that I have her copy of the Teng Diaries! I was planning to return it to her when we meet in Paint House later today. No, no. It can’t be true. I can’t die, not at least tonight.

I look again at my sleeping body on the bed. He looks so alive. If I block out the noises of the crazy wind outside, I can hear sleeping noises coming from my physical mouth. My chest is breathing, that can’t be dead.

Now, it’s weird. It feels uncanny to be seeing yourself from another state, like I am a different person watching my other self. Of course, I have seen many pictures of myself, I have seen myself in the mirror and I know that I look good. But this? I so admire the shape of my perfect pouted lips right above the handsome curve of my chin. Even my sleeping eyes look very attractive below its beautiful brows. My nose is the perfect Indonesian nose. Every detail, every part of my face, is making me wonder why I still effort to have enough confidence every waking day of my life?

Enough of narcissism.

I try to collect all the remaining logic in my head. I have to stay focus. If I am dead, why am I still in my room? Why my physical body still breathes? And I don’t feel dead. Well, I am not sure either how it feels being dead. But no matter what, I am sure I don’t feel dead.

Therefore, I am NOT dead.

If I am not dead, and my body is sleeping on my bed, and this…what do I call this other part of me? Is it spirit? Is it soul? Okay, this soul-ish me is here thinking, analyzing. What do we call this whole thing?

But being not dead does not mean I am still alive or, am I just about to die? How long can I do this? Am I bound to time-limits? Oh no, should I return back to my body now? How do I do that?

There was a movie I saw but can’t remember the title where one of the lead casts returns back to its physical body in the same act of lying down on your bed. I position the same. I sit on the bottom of the bed, push myself a bit more to the center, then I lie down on my back.

My soul-ish body is shaking. I have realized that the panic did not go but hid. As I hit my pillow, I almost smile for the assumed victory when I feel my head phase through the pillow and then through the thick bed, then rest of my soul-ish body falls into the floor under my bed. It must hurt but it does not, thankful that I am not in flesh right now.

If I could go through solid things, why then I stop phasing through, ending up on the floor? This is kind of interesting now. I sit up; half of my upper body is showing on the top of the bed. I stand up and re-position myself at the bottom part of the bed. Then try it again, resulting to the same ending. This happens for at least eight times. Right there I am convinced I am doing something wrong.

I stop doing anything for minute to think. There I realize that that storm is finally over. It is broad silence everywhere. That’s it, silence. I need to relax so that my spirit could join my physical body easily. I do that, still a bit nervous of the result, eyes are closed. I feel my spirit seems to match every detail of my body, like putting your two hands together in a prayer. There is a thin line that I have to pass through. A little bit of a push, I almost hear a click sound, feeling like a battery being put into its container, my spirit parallels to my physical body.

Snap. Then an infinite space of emptiness which I am quite sure now a part of a dream.

(The Dreamwalker's) Soul Mate is the first of the five books which the author refers to as Soul Series. The next book will be entitled (The Dreamwalker's) Soul Rival. Please support by liking