The diary of a protagonist - Page V

The Rattlers were one of the main reasons for me to move to London; they were an up and coming jazz band and my mate from college, Paul Schofield had given me invite to join the oddly named band. I saw this as an opportunity; to flee, more than anything from the old foes, familiar places and the ailing loves.  My childhood had left impregnable marks on me that forced me to stay away from any form of commitment. I’d voyaged to a new place, seeking to find new people, and to ignite my music career.  We started out playing jigs at small pubs, and it was at one of those jigs that I’d met her.  She would arrive at all of our jigs, wherever we played. ...

We started chatting, first about music, then poetry, and about life. I was a struggling artiste and she was a scholar of music, we would talk through the night and into the day and it wasn’t long before both of us pledged our affection for each other.  Kaydence was born to an Italian father and an Irish mother. Her dad was a part time musician and her mom was someone who adored music and musicians. Her mom’s relatives were active members of the IRA which had forced her to grow up under very gruesome circumstances.  This had transformed her into a tough woman with an ardent love for music.

I felt trapped inside my own body, I wanted to be liberated. I wanted to fly, just once, but all I could see were closed doors. My body had become considerably weak. I had trouble even lifting my head up. And watching over me carefully was an angel. She was the kind of sight that could even melt someone as emotionless as me. “Mom” she called out, “he’s awake”.  Kay stood right beside her hubby, his face as cold as stone. The little angel and Kay’s husband left us both to catch up.

 “Why are you here? Why have you come back?” enquired Kay’s frail voice. 

The diary of a protagonist - Page IV

I lay on the floor shivering,  the cold draped me, and the loneliness embodied me.  The cold winter made the agony seem longer and harder. I looked out the window to see an angel floating in the snow.  Her eyes called me towards her, I summoned the last ounce of liveliness in my fragile body to walk towards her.  She looked like a fairy wanting to take me away from all the pain. She got on one knee and asked me to live the rest of my life with her.  I wake up suddenly from the heavenly vision due to a sudden jarring of the plane.  Hallucinations, they were one of the many repercussions of the tablets. Mostly they were nightmares, but sometimes pleasant trances which were even worse as they made me yearning to live longer in this estranged world. 

I’d finally reached London, I treasured airports, they housed many amazing characters all etched into one place, not because they wanted to, but by chance. Soon they would all depart to their desired destinations. For some it would mean happiness, home, for some it would still mean the same. I had fallen in love with being lonely for the most part of my life, and I always felt comfortable in an airport.

I took a rented car and drove down to the beautiful country side of Kent.  I had a short stay in London when I was a struggling instrumentalist out of college. I’d just started playing for a band where I was still finding my feet at music. It was in one of those jigs that I had met her.  She was breathtakingly beautiful, the kind of beauty that took your breathe away. She had little curls at the end of her dark beautiful hair, which would fall over her angelic face and her eyes; they told you stories that obsessed you. ...

In between the pastures I saw a cottage, there I saw her, playing in the small farm with her lovely daughter.  She looked at me; I couldn’t see the expressions on her face because of the beating sun. She beckoned her daughter to scurry inside the house and walked hurriedly towards me. With open arms I called out to her, “Kay”. Kaydence greeted me with a vicious right hook.   She restrained from her abuses when she saw the unsightly seizure and the blood pouring out of my nose.  My weak hands failed to help me reach the tablets in my coat.

I woke up in a beautiful room, covered with portraits of beautiful flowers and Kaydence’s beautiful eyes over me.  Her eyes showed the care but her face was expressionless.  Kaydence had been the rhythm in my out of tune life. The one I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with. I’d hurt her, like many others down the line, but I’d probably hurt her the most. ..........

The diary of a protagonist - Page III

I had endured yet another seizure, it reminded me about the careless life I had lived, and about the very modest time I had left. I had too little time and too much to do, I had to bid adieu to Rachel and Clara. Rachel held on to my arm, pleading me to stay on, deep down she hoped for a miraculous recovery by her aunt. But some how, Clara knew better beneath her almost vacant face, I could see that she was sure that I’d return back to her. She kissed me; it was one of the first times she’d done something impulsive in years. It reignited the passion in us; it took us back in time...It made us feel alive.

I had driven all the way to California. It gave me time to reflect about the long-ago, the present and what was to remain.  I hadn’t seen him in years, nor had I spoken to him. My secretary did once tell me that he had tried to contact me, but I never paid much concern. 

Down the aisle I walked, dry leaves fell at my feet. The wind pushed my hair back, there in the front porch sat a man, with steel grey hair, petting his dog. “Ted” I called out to him, through extremely large spectacles he gazed at me.  His face was void for a minute, but then he rose to greet me.  He still had that old bewildering smile, and he was still robust. We dint talk much, except about his new partner. It dint baffle me that he could still entice the ladies.

As the sun began to set, we headed out to the lake to indulge in some fishing. I told him about the dream I’d lived, about how fortunate I’d been. He listened to everything very intently. Then I told him about the ailment, about the lump that lived in my head. He turned to look at me; through his eyes I felt the compassion.  We had dinner by the lake; he went to sleep listening to one of my famed songs. He told me how he was my biggest admirer, and how proud he was of me.  I sang a song of heartbreak and hope under that moonlit sky, and the stars, they seemed brighter than ever.

The next morning we took a small road trip. We had no plan or agenda, we just went forward. We talked about Maggie, about the wonderful Lucy. About how they’d broken our hearts and how we’d learned to love them. We sang and shared jokes over some beers. We pulled up near a broken down airstrip. It housed some fascinating aircraft relics. It reminded me about the times when we would go to the airfields just to watch the planes fly, high into the sky. It was one of the most potent feelings ever. The burly bird made a thundering voice and shook everything in its path, before it disappeared beyond the horizon. It was something that fascinated us both, the power. I would emulate that a hundred times, gradually I would start my sprint down the runway, increasing pace along the way and spread my wings, and then I’d raise my head to look at the heavens. It gave me a sense of inconceivable freedom, peace and serenity.  I stepped out on to runway, painfully realizing that I was too late and too old to fly now.  Out from behind I heard a roaring voice; it was Ted, trying to lift off into the blue. I burst out laughing seeing the old man try to run, but  I knew what he was trying, a tear rolled down my cheek. Some say that you have to be blessed to laugh and cry at the same moment. I hugged the ageing trooper, “Thanks dad, thanks”. It was the first and the only time I’d called him that. 

The diary of a protagonist - Page II

Early days after being diagnosed

I had finished a bottle of Jack Daniels, the cigarette bud lay on the carpet still burning, my hands were covered with sweat and I had a .357 Magnum in my mouth. The whole world was spinning and I was panting like a wild hound dog.  My white semiformal shirt was soaked in perspiration, my hands trembled. A part of me yearned for me to pull the trigger, but my mind wouldn’t let me. Though intoxicated with many a lethal drugs I was still afraid to let me kill myself. I took the revolver out of my mouth and I fell to the ground in agony. I felt cold, alone. I threw the gun away, covered my face with my hand and cried. This wasn’t the first time I had tried to kill myself; jumping from a building was too intimidating, waiting for a car to hit me proved excruciating. I knew there were many other ways to kill myself, but that night I decided I wasn’t going to try again.  I lay on the carpet and gazed at the far away stars through the skylight. I felt peaceful, and suddenly my life flashed before me, I twitched, the pain struck me like a lightning bolt and then I closed my eyes.

I woke up the next day covered in blood and puke, fortunate to subsist one more day. I was too weak to get up; it was one of the many strokes that would continue to afflict me during the lingering days of my short tenure.  I used all my energy to reach the capsules that lay a few feet away. I swallowed a couple and went back into deep sleep, thinking about the past which for the first time seemed so lucid.

James Mackay, was the only son that Margaret Mackay gave birth to. Ted Mackay was a tall and handsome southern Californian.  He was just 30 when he got married the second time, to Margaret, Maggie as she was sweetly called by everyone.  I was a result of a hard day of partying young Maggie did.  Ted had left his first wife and soon fell in love with the vulnerable solitary mother.  My mom got married when I was almost two years old. It was a marriage that was not perfect by any means, they despised each other, the love that they first thought  they had was slowly fading away, but still they had to cling on to each other. Each fearing that they’d be left alone in this world.  Ted used to be a petty thief in California, but was now a reformed man in Detroit. He was good with cars and often worked shifts on construction sites. However sleazy the man was, he would never let his family starve, and nevertheless he needed money for the booze and the girls.  Ted dint have anymore kids; in fact he showed a particular liking towards me. The same cannot be said for the fast ageing Maggie.  Day by day the relationship grew worse, the strain was now unbearable for the both of them, but still they coexisted. There were times when they wouldn’t talk to each other for months.

The last straw for Maggie was when Ted brought his novel aficionado Lucy home. She was just 19, she was the prettiest girl I had ever seen, a damsel in distress and Ted was her knight in shining armour.  Even at 40 Ted was a handsome man, and he could woo pretty much any girl he wanted.  Lucy was the one who’d pave the path for my musical flair. She was a runaway model who had the voice of a nightingale. Her pale blue eyes and tanned skin reminded you of waterfalls. I could now say that she was very naive to fall in love with someone like Ted who was anything but reckless.  I never had a father figure, but he was the closest thing I had to that.  One hot summer day, Maggie’s legs gave away. She was paralysed, it was only a few months before she bid adieu. Might, have been all the stress; Ted’s unceasing beating; and her reckless alcohol abuse. The only comforting factor was that she died peacefully in her sleep. Those last few days, Ted really took care of the woman, and so did Lucy. I left the house when I was 16. I was staying with a couple of my mates. I was one of the few lucky ones to go college; I had notched up a seat in the Carolina University with my sports scholarship. I was the quarterback at school.

Dreams can often be harsh realities, they bestow you with hope and promise but in the end it just fades away. You wake up trying to find the missing pieces of the puzzle staring at your face; try to recollect the sweet memories. One of those recurring dreams has always been seeing Clara for the first time.  The dry autumn leaves that floated down from the heavens harmonized her auburn hair, her smile made it look like she was the happiest person in the world. She was frolicking down my way, without a care in the world. I caught her eyes as she neared me, her smile stuck onto me.  Just for a moment, the world.... it seemed perfect. 

For days to come I would see her around in college, and each time we came across I wished as a child would, for something magical to happen.  A few weeks later, I saw Clara at a party, she had dyed her hair red and with those green eyes she just stood out in the crowd. Beneath all the alcohol and the drugs I saw a tear in her eye, the tear that she was trying to hide from the rest of the world. It showed me humility, showed me that she too was human. I don’t know whether it was the pain or her splendour that captivated me, but I was stumped. ..............

I stood at her doorway, ages after; she looked nothing like the girl I knew, she appeared frail, her clothes tattered, and her beautiful face covered with scars of suffering. The sorrow that magnified on her face was inconceivable.  She led me into the house without saying a word. She sat on a red broken down chair, slowly she reached in her pocket for her cigarettes, she had difficulty lighting the cigarette. Seeing how hard she was finding it to do the mundane things made me quiver.  I offered my light, that’s when she gazed at me; her green pale eyes just stared at me. She jumped from her chair to hug me, tears trickled down her cheeks.  She eased back into her chair, not saying a word, exemplifying the lost soul that she was.  “Hello, who’s out there??” her voice startled me; it was a young girl, probably in her teens. She looked vibrant; she kissed Clara on her head and looked at me with her bemused eyes. My introduction brought a startling expression on young Rachel’s face.  She ran into her room, shouting that she’d be back right away. She hurried back with a photograph in her hand, she handed it over to me. It was me and Clara; it portrayed the mysterious romance we had. I was hugging her, she looked happy, I looked happy. A smile blossomed on my face, after a long time. I looked back at Rachel, who looked resentful. And then she cried, and hugged Clara. I knew that she saw me, as somehow being responsible for her aunt’s fate. Or maybe she felt that I was the only who could have saved her.  Clara looked confused and terrified with all the sudden show of emotion that surrounded her. I comforted Rachel, patting her back. All I could say was that I knew what had happened, and how I could have changed it.

After settling down, Rachel made me coffee, we sat in the lawn talking, about the life me and Clara had, about the life I had and what had happened to my first true love. But I never told her why I had come to visit her after so long, and she never asked me. Maybe she felt that I would someday return, like a knight, to save her ailing aunt, to take her away, from a world of suffering. Rachel told me about the moments of silences, and the painful cries that Clara experienced. Somehow the moments of silences were more excruciating than the painful tears.  Rachel took a sudden liking towards me, and I shared the same feelings. It was the first time she had seen Clara smile in years. She looked at the butterflies floating around the serene flowers; her smile was a moment to cherish.  The two days that I stayed there saw a lot of changes in Clara, she was slowly beginning to wheel her way back into life. She dint smoke a single cig, and was learning to come to terms with some of the routine things.  The last night before I left, Clara came into my room; she lay beside me and put her arm around me. It was one of the first times she’d slept properly. She looked so peaceful, no violent cries, no terrifying nightmares. I woke up the next morning in complete disarray, I felt like someone was stabbing a blade through my head. I puked blood in the basin, and then I blacked out, twitching and trembling.........

The diary of a protagonist

I fear the darkness around the corner,

The open fields of gold leave me yearning for more,

The pain is unbearable, so is the wait.

With no tall tales to tell, no friends who’d whine over

Life starts right when it’s about to end

It’s a cruel tale, but isn’t all

My name is James Mackey, I am 37 years of age and  I’ve been diagnosed with  cerebral tumour. It’s been 2 months, 4 days and 3 hours since I’ve been diagnosed with this horrible agony.  I was fighting fit, enjoying life, single...I had what everyone wished for. Without much hard work I’d been blessed with all the material fruits of life. Now, in a corner of the house, I lay, shivering, trembling waiting for that inevitable day. There were many nights like these now, when I would wake up, sweaty and terrified. Unable to sleep, I’d gaze into the fire from the fireplace. The fire rose in all its glory, enslaving anything in its path, making you fall in love with it. But soon it would die down too. Leaving, just a pile of ash, in remembrance. The slow music just made the pain worse, but I kind of fell in love with that pain. The soothing sax, my hands trembled now when I played it. It was one of my very few friends who hadn’t abandoned me.  When the pain became unbearable I would take the tablets which would help me sleep.  My sleep had become so disoriented now that I had to take twice of the recommended dosage. Not that it was going to make any difference in prolonging or shortening my life. But it did, it did help me sleep; away from all the terrors and the pain, I would sink into a world of calm and peace.  My maid says that I slept like a baby. Hardly anyone knew about my illness, the ones who knew couldn’t either deal with it or didn’t want to.

I’d woken up that day fresher than before; I finally had a good hair day and not a grey hair. Time was of the essence here, I had to start afresh, I was going to live each day like it was the last. Walk into my death with ease and style. First on the list was getting reacquainted with all the past flames. This wasn’t going to be easy and no one expected it to be. First up would be Clara, she was 20 when I met her, red hair, that vivacious body; if ever you needed a reason why god made women, she was it. Unsophisticated, fun, and wildly entertaining were few of her selling points. The last time I saw those green eyes, it had pulled the whole world down on me. Fresh out of college our relation was all spontaneous and fun.  There was no doubt that this ship would sail. We were together for 2 years, and for all the crazy stuff we did we could write a book. “Alibis from a lost cause” we would call it. Life was just perfect, just like any teen would want it to be. The year was 1995, I had finally graduated. It rained heavily that night of cold September, but it still didn’t deter the sight of tears falling from eyes. Her black mascara was all ruined, she looked terribly bitter. I had said goodbye and set sail to capture more dreams. With the passing years, many had come into my life, Cynthia, Emily, Amber but there was never any love, no memories attached.  Although, I would, always remember Cynthia, thanks to the scar on my face.

 Saira, an old college mate helped me find Clara. She still lived in that broken down house, although it looked very different, it was all dark without the addictive laughter’s of the Robinsons, the dog looked grey and frightened and too much in pain to move. The house looked like it would come down any second. Her green eyes still burnt a hole in my heart. “Clara” I called out to her, she hardly recognized me.  Clara’s had been a tragic case. After I’d left her, her use of illegal drugs rocketed. She fell in love soon with someone she’d met at a rave party, everyone envied the couple, but it was not to be, less than a year into marriage a tragic accident claimed his life. Clara was shattered; she moved back with her parents, Mr and Mrs Robinsons more than happily accepted her back into the family. Clara was always experimental, her reckless lifestyle, endless lovers and partying had taken a toll on her. But she changed; she was turning over a new leaf. Nothing would prepare her for the agony that was to follow. Her parents were brutally killed in a blast which claimed the life’s of 5 other innocent people. It was something she could never come out of. Everything happened in front of those green eyes, not a drop of tear she shed. Five years on after the tragedy she had no sense of time or place, by then she had become a complete addict, often returning sexual favours for shot of cocaine or heroine. Now 15 years after I had bid her adieu I had come back. She looked frail, and nothing like the angel I knew.  She had dark circles around her eyes, her arm amputated due to frequent drug use. Clare had just been released from rehab.