A Life

[moon_catcher]

This is a fic.
Not a fanfic.

This is a fic I've written some time ago for a magazine and now I tried to translate it into English because I promised shirayuki1582  and bunny_alice to do so. I'm not a translator and my English is limited. I know it's not perfect but I really tried to follow the style of the original text.

I'm sorry for possible mistakes. I was writing this being on a train (because I woke up in the morning and realized I had to go to hospital instead of school) and I needed to distract myself. Now I'm almost back, we are approaching the station and I want to post it, so I have no time to re-read it.

If you had any questions about the text or just wanted to tell me your thoughts about it feel free to pm me or leave a comment. I would love to know what you think.

A LIFE

 

Having his tongue deep inside your mouth you felt the tickling of his breath against your face. His bear-like paw was pressing your butt hard. And suddenly there was a memory on your mind, a memory of a boy back in the kindergarten who always wanted you to sit next to him. You two were always together, on walks going hand in hand not minding other children. That was how it used to be. He was helping you. Protecting you. If he had met you today, would have he stuck his tongue into your mouth? You were thinking of it, of him, the boy from the kindergarten, while standing in the backyard with the other one, with the one whose breath tasted like the fish he had for lunch.

Then he opened a window waiting for you to climb inside the house. Not giving you any time to take a look around his small room he was right next to you again, pulling down your t-shirt and opening the zipper of your pants

You were lying on a bed, his bed. You were feeling his body on you, his body in you. And then it was over. He kissed you on the forehead and you were just waiting if he would light up a cigarette. The illusion would have been perfect then. As if being in those movies you were not allowed to watch and he was telling you about.

In the morning he saw you off through the window and the backyard and gave you a quick smile standing by the wicket.

„See ya tomorrow?“

You just nodded. What else should you do, right?

You two were not going for walks and you were not holding hands. Once he helped you to carry bags with groceries. There was nothing he should protect you from, and whether he had liked you, you could only hope for that. Just a wish. A faith. But you were in love. Back then you really were.

Really?

Anything could happen. Your world quaked from the grounds. Like a clash of two tectonic plates. Do you remember the pictures in the geography schoolbook? An earthquake is the result of a sudden release of energy in the Earth’s crust. It can be of a different intensity. Earthquakes are measured with a seismometer, and the magnitude, the amount of the energy released in the seat of the tremor, is numbered on the Richter scale while intensity of shaking and its consequences are measured on the twelve-grade Mercalli scale.

 ~~

During summers you made much money than your mum working a full-time job. You were standing at a circular bar checking boots, ten hours a day. Back then the Bata shoe factory wasn’t the decaying areal of today. No Vietnamese market-places, no suspect corn shops selling cheesy plaster dwarves. Back then the factory was still the way it had been established for. Shoes were made there.

And you were standing there, checking the damn shoes and the sun was shining outside. It was a summer time again. Inside the air was thick making it hard to keep breathing as the windows could be opened only on a chink. A smell of rubber and glue was everywhere.

First you thought it was nothing but a stream of sweat. Nothing strange in the heat that was there. A fat lady by your side was sweating hard, the harsh stench itching you in your nose. But a man can get used to anything, being resilient. And there were other things on your mind anyway. You were eighteen and you wanted to get married.

A wedding march. A snow-white princess dress. A couple of rings. The first kiss after the ceremony. And an escape across the frontiers. Away from the cage where one can live only following the rules. Back then you were not paying too much attention, you were no troublemaker, you didn’t defy the laws. But you wanted to live. To live with him. And that was why you would have become an enemy. A wife of a Canadian.

His name was Frank.

Your Frank.

He had never told you the reason for his coming here, it was his little secret. But he was here. You were going for walks and he held your hand. He was helping you and your mum when your grandpa died. When you were crying your heart out.

Grade number ten on the Mercalli scale. Your life was breaking down like a cardhouse. You loved your grandpa. He had never left you, he wasn’t like your dad. You didn’t know your dad, he had gone away a long time ago.

Frank. His breath didn’t taste like a fish and you didn’t have to climb the window like a burglar. No backyard. No secret leavings at daybreaks.

People want to believe the first love is the last one, and then that the last love is only the first one. You would have written it down into a diary if you had had one.

You were standing at the moving belt and there was a heat outside. End of July. The sweat was streming down your inner thigh. And you were checking the shoes. One by one, as they were coming to you. The large hall was filled with women like you. And at the same time all of them were so different. They were tired and sweating heavily, another hard shift was waiting for them after coming home, making dinners, dirty clothes, crying children. For you, it was Frank waiting for you outside the factory.

You went for a walk. Hand in hand. He wasn’t the first love. He should have been the last one.

 ~~

You were staring at a brief letter with the header of the Charles University. They didn’t accept you. Again. Your second try. They didn’t accept you for the medical studies because you had a stigma. In 1968 while the Russian soldiers were begging for a light for their cigarettes on the Wenceslaw Square you were on vacation at the Black Sea with your mum. You were thirteen and it was a summer, August. And a snatchy voice coming out of the radio told you there was no way to go back home. The borders were closed. There the first spot on your character profile had been created. Your aunt wanted to take you and your mum to America.

Inaccessible. Seditious.

Your mum then had to enter the Party. To show she wasn’t escaping. To show this was her home. But you learnt all of this a long time later, for a thirteen-year-old girl a month by the sea seemed to be the best summer ever.

And then you wanted to marry Frank. A Canadian.

Inaccessible. Seditious.

Second spot.

That’s why you were not accepted to the university. The faculty of medicine wasn’t for you. It was for people without a stigma.

Eleventh grade of despair on the Mercalli scale. Your life was shattered, you didn’t see any future. You had nothing. No one wanted you.

Frank left the country a week after you sent him away. A week after the day you had been standing by the belt checking the shoes. The rubber. The glue. The sweat. And a child. A child you hadn’t known about. It had melted and poured down your leg.

Frank’s melted child.

Your child.

Just to make it clear, twelfth grade of the Mercalli scale. The absolute destruction. You couldn’t even look at Frank, never telling him a word about it. You had never told him about the rubber, the glue, the sweat. About the child. You just drove him out.

 ~~

You were watching the father of your children sleeping.

Did you love him? At least for a moment?

You graduated in economy and got married. You wanted a family. You wanted to forget about everything that had been before. The rubber. The glue. The sweat. The melted child. Forget, erase from your head. To live. To love.

Really?

You stayed home taking care of children while your husband was studying. He was traveling about the republic and Eastern Germany. He was bringing toys for the children. Bribes and exculpations for not being with them. You were the bad one. The one setting the strict rules. The one raising them up, your ungrateful children. How many times did you hide your teary face into a pillow, all alone in the bedroon? Why did you cry?

Fourth grade of despair on the Mercalli scale. No damage. Just vibrations. You wanted a family and children. You had both. It was your choice after all.

As time was going by you were happy for being home alone.

You didn’t want to watch your husband sleeping. Because you would have had to sleep next to him.

 ~~

Wanna know the eighth grade on the scale of despair?

It was when your mum was screaming in pain and you could do nothing for her. You couldn’t because they hadn’t let you study medicine and your knowledge of economy was for nothing right then. You couldn’t help her, all you could was standing by keeping the faith in the doctors.

During the eighth grade of an earthquake the force invades high-quality foundations of buildings. You beard with the fish-breath boy, with the rubber and glue and sweat. Frank and his melted child on your thigh. The marriage and a divorce. It was a cancer what knocked you down. The fourth stage. Immedicable. Your mum was crying in the hospital and you couldn’t help her. She couldn’t even recognize you by that time, looking through you, and you were holding her inert hand tight.

And you knew this would be the end waiting for you as well one day. On a clinical bed, covered with a white sheet with two blue stripes on its sides. You will cry, too. Because it will hurt. Really hurt.

The cancer, fourth stage. Immedicable. Gradual dying.

An existentialist, Jean-Paul Sartre probably, said once the reason for living is to die someday. You would have written it down into a diary if you had had one.

Your mum died while sleeping in the time about daybreak. They gave you a call. You should have come to take her stuff, her clothes. You should have got the obituary notice printed. To call the family and friends. Stay conscious. Not to break down. To be strong. The eighth grade is not that bad, it had been much worse before, once it had been the twelfth. This one couldn’t knock you over. It’s just a number, after all.

 ~~

You had never told your children how you had met their father. The only thing left was a story about how he came to you dead drunk and you helped him. That was what he used to tell. He wasn’t serious. Just his sense of humor. You said nothing letting the story live on its own.

And in the end you started to hate it. As well as the one who kept saying it. The father of your children

Your mum was dying and all he did was trying to stultify you at the divorce suit. He lied. Made stories that were not true, slinging mud at you. But you were brave and courageous, mind clouded with tranquilizers.

If you don’t remember, it was the fifth grade of despair. Nothing but a small harm. What could have a former husband taken you when the Death had already stolen the dearest thing in your life from you? Your mum had died exactly eight days before the final trial.

The rubber. The glue. The sweat. The melted child.

All of that had hurt as hell. His words meant nothing comparing to this.

 ~~

Your son stole every penny he found at home. You had so many hideouts you were slowly forgetting all the places for hiding the money. How many times did you leave the house without your wallet because you forgot about it? Under a pillow. Behind the clothes in the dresser. In the book case. Somewhere else. How many times did you only at the cash desk realize there was no money in your wallet?

When you got pregnant the doctors wanted you to undergo an abortion. They didn’t give you many chances for bearing the full term. But you really wanted a family. You wanted to give your love to somebody. You needed to pass all the love you had got from your grandpa.

You kept the child not minding the risks.

And here he was. He, your impetrated son.

Really?

He lied, preyed, abused you. Being in the kitchen you were scared to get closer to him. What if he had a knife? How many times did he threaten with killing you? With killing you and your daughter?

He wasn’t able to control himself being in a rage.

You couldn’t control yourself being in a rage yelling at him it would have been better if he had never been born. You should have listened to the doctors. You should have let him melt.

But he didn’t care. He didn’t listen to you.

And the Mercalli scale? First or second grade of despair. Depends on the moment. Almost imperceptible shakes, even computers have problems to notice them.

Resignation.

A man can get used to everything. He is resilient.
 

~ THE END ~ 
 

 

Comments

[mouter.livejournal.com]

When I was reading this I feel like I was read something similar to your story already. My friend give me name of the book, and this was a story about life, like yours. Life with dreams which can't be truth.

And I don't have words to tell how I feel right now. You're preaty good at this, and we should learn from you.

It was quite scary and real. This was life, not cute and sweet stories with happy ending, but real life. I'm impressed.

And I think that I bacome your fan ^^

[moon-catcher.livejournal.com]

Oh, a fan of mine? That sounds great, thank you! I so have to do my best from now on ^_^

Well, it's always nice to write happy and fluffy stories but I've read once somewhere that the greatest stories are born from the biggest pain. And with this fic it seems the sentence is more than true. Life is not always nice, actually in my case it's usually the other way round, and as a writer I want to capture all the sides of it, the happy ones, the sad ones... the moments when you are crying from laughter but also those when the reason for tears is pain.

I will probably try to translate another my fic later. It's great way how to speand time being on a train...