Mr. Sandman
“The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to seekers after it.”
― Agatha Christie, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
Now listen carefully, there will only be two rules you must follow to finish this scheme. Number one, there were actually three; number two, you have to trust your instinct; and the last one was actually the first.
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“Have you heard of the Butterfly Effect?” Someone whispered on your ear. In fact it was so soft that your mind told you it wasn’t whispered but somehow sang.
It is said that a butterfly's wings might create tiny changes in the atmosphere that may ultimately alter the path of a tornado or delay, accelerate or even prevent the occurrence of a tornado in another location. The location was an island, and the changes have already begun.
You were running, fast and indefinite. Why? You asked. There was no answer, instead there was a call. It was your name, but it wasn’t you.
So you kept on running.
The sky was pitch-black and the stars were hidden blindly in the midst of the selfish sky. The wind coming from the sea was cold, but the warmth of the sand and the whole island fought against it. You could almost hear the distant cries of the coconuts, and the crabs and the snakes and the rain as they all upheld their position. They were waiting for something. And the pain of not knowing pierced the core of your very entity.
“Please!” You heard them -loud and clear. But you couldn’t stop. You were almost there. It all lingered through senses: the taste of the unfiltered flavour of the sea, the smell of the grass as they happily dance with the wind and the crisp gushed of the night air on your cheeks as you run through it.
Your legs were trembling and your eyes were fixated on the hill -just few more steps away.
“Maia… don’t do this.” Clara, you guessed her name. You weren’t sure anymore. It all started with more than a dozen survivors, you couldn’t even memorize their names. Days, nights, weeks, storms, months, hopes –it all faded like the image of a simple memory. Everything that was left was just an echo of your past.
“We’ll find Matthew! Please, Maia just don’t do this…” You remembered him. You didn’t want to but the sudden mention of his name dug up all of your buried feelings. How the mornings of November sixteenth differed from any other just because he’ll make you your favourite Eggs Benedict; he’ll clean the house just before you wake up; he’ll paint the white roses he bought because blue was your favourite colour; he’ll try to feed Larry just so you could take the extra time roll over your bed and sleep for another five minutes. Try because your Doberman hated his aftershave or maybe just him. And you would give him your normal exasperated look because he sucked at cooking and cleaning. But he would still try his best to impress you. And no matter how much you try, you just can’t fight against his incomparable humour, his boundless efforts and his unfathomable love for you. He would always win, but he would deny it but kneeling down and asking you to marry him. Yes, all over again. Because he was yours and you were his.
“For God’s sake, listen to her Maia. This is stupid! You think Matthew would want this?” Another woman’s voice insisted, but instead of begging for you to stop, she was angry and demanding. The other half of your brain agreed with her but that was only enough to pause and not to actually stop you. You desperately forced yourself to remember their names.
