#12. better days

We continue on our little journey. Becky has now walked beside me as the White Misty Thingy’s misty hand held onto mine. The same thin and long fingers with a soft touch of skin that now has turned cold. A spring rain comes pouring over us and little wildflowers are blooming everywhere.

Say, will he return to his true form after we finish the journey? I ask.

What are you saying? He’s always been in his true form since the start. It’s just that you didn’t recognize him.

I can hardly recognize you anymore, I scream at The Lover as he throws vases, bowls, dishes, and everything else on the floor.

WhyI’m always me. You are the one who has changed. You promised me, he cries and kneels down on the mess of glasses that he made, you promised me you will see me on the other side of the war.

But this is not the war that I meant.

No war will be the war that you meanthe suddenly bursts out laughing, After all, you only want to be on the side that benefits you.

Honey, that’s not my version of the truth, is what I want to say. But as The Lover crouches on the floor and curls up in a ball and glasses and sharp metal pieces are everywhere, I find the courage to say it slips out of my lips.

Let’s talk about it on your better days.

Say, when will the better days ever come, you know, I talk to Becky, who listens to the story with a boring yawn and a bored-to-dead pair of eyes.

Me, I think there’s no better day or worse day, you know, Becky stops in the middle of the road and slowly licks her thick white fur, For a cat like me, it is either a sunny day or a rainy day. I don’t mind either, honestly. After all, she looks at me, what does it even matter?

What does it even matter? The Lover says, You will go on living. I’m merely a memory you will want to forget.

Why do people always assume automatically that their version of the truth is the universal truth? I tighten my grips on the misty hand and it turns into a cloud of fog around my wrist.

Because it’s impossible to focus on anything else when you are in pain, Becky says, And the more extreme the pain, the more impossible it is for you to think of anyone else but you.

That’s not true.

Really? Then what is your version of the truth?

I swirl The Lover around our tiny apartment. The kitchen is too small for two people and the bedroom is in plain sight. Anyone who comes over that door frame will see the entirety of our apartment but we never care much for it. We don’t have visitors that often for it to be a trouble.

One of these days, I will build us a house, I say.

And a garden full of thorns.

Yes, I’m far too deep in his shining hazel eyes to realize what’s wrong.

And bury me there.


Bury me in the garden full of thorns inside your house. That would be the sweetest reminder of how much hurt I have caused you. And me. And us.

Is this one of your better days?

The Lover says, I don’t know, darling, I don’t know. I’m far too deep in your warm embrace to see what’s wrong and what’s right.

I always think there’s a chance, I say, no matter how slim it is: A chance that he would love me more than just the surface, that somehow this tiny love could save him from being swallowed by that fucking black hole, that my love can sustain his life for just another day.

I stop walking. Becky turns around and gives out a troubled sigh. I never know a cat could sigh like that.

And I never know you are such a poet. Stop your crying. He is worried.


The White Misty Thingy.

Why should he be worried? I laugh and feel something bitter rising up my throat, Isn’t it too late already?

The White Misty Thingy releases my hand. It’s no use for me to hold on to something that is nearly nonexistent. He stands there in an attempt to stare at me, but it no longer has the same effect. Those hazel eyes are gone. That hidden mischievousness is gone. And even the melancholy The Lover was so proud of – they are all gone.

Do you think I would still love you, despite whatever Hell you put me through? I ask.

Becky stands there, her stomach nearly touches the ground. Normally I would laugh at that, but then again, my focus is completely fixated on the white fog in front of me. He couldn’t answer me unless it’s in songs. Whoever places that kind of rule must be sick in the head.

I want to hear his voice. I want to feel his faint breathing on my flat chest. I want to feel his heartbeat against my ears as I lie on top of him, sleeping and dreaming of our better days when we can destroy the monster who holds him in forlorn captivity.

I want to see him living beside me. And yet –

Is that your version of the truth? Becky asks.

Damn right it is. It is my version of the truth. It is my universal truth.

I inch closer to the fog, holding it at a finger’s distance, and sing the first song: Darling, I loved you and I love you still –

The wet mist on my shoulders feels like tears. I never know he could cry. After all, he is always the more cruel and heartless one between the two of us.

And to him, my presence is on the same level.



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Author: Thanh Dinh

A writer at heart. A pessimist on the brain. I am always on the great journey of finding what it means to be living.

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