Papa’s book was taking shape and he had managed to find an obscure university publisher who was interested in diasporic writings and the history of an uncertain Malaya. Then, I was certain that Papa was meant to be a writer, his silence, solitude and sullenness with the world were all befitting of a morose penman, someone who had more comfort in words than in humanity. I had learnt to forgive him, for being a father who was never present, a man who was ultimately the most selfish human being I had ever met, a man who only lived for the woman he loved, who shunned the only child he had. From the moment of my birth, I was all alone in the world. The only people who mattered flitted in and out of my days when I was still alive, people who left slight impressions on my memory, people who ceased to matter after a while, people whose lives were inextricably linked to ego, money, sex, loneliness. Addiction leads to lack of empathy. My parents were addicted to each other, it was as simple as that. They should not have brought me into their world.

The only time I ever felt peace was when the rains came, in the darkest of nights, the thunderous applause of raindrops on glass windowpanes and the roof would soothe me to sleep, and when the soft murmurings of raindrops arrived, I would find peace in the sanctuary of my blanket, oblivious to the world.

It rained that day when I arrived at my father’s house. The tree that was named after me swayed and was buffeted by the wind, flowers scattered across the lawn like red bullets, landing like sodden scars in the swimming pool. That tree, that tree that sheltered me during hot, humid days, now reminded me that I too was of the earth, that I too was born, and I too was still alive. That tree had my heart. It was the only thing that knew my presence, and I it. And that it would one day die too, pained, in a pool of crimson.

I crawled into my bed and there I slept, soothed by the syncopated raindrops outside my window. The next morning I saw my father, huddled over his typewriter, the radio muted, the birds already chirping. When I said, Goodbye Papa, see you soon, he looked up and his eyes were bright with the morning.

A room. A large bed. A window. A syringe. Someone passed out on the floor. A life. Alive. Is she still alive?

A for Alba. B for Boss. C for Candy. D for Delonix. E for Esctasy. F for failure. G for… G for…

Was it “green”? Or was it “germ”? Or “Germany”? Did it matter?

Wake up, wake up!

Wakey wakey, morning glory.