Dating : 24:00

I saw a figure at my window with a clock in its hands.

24:00.

No, it wasn’t time because at midnight the clock should’ve shown 00:00. It was when 24:00 dropped to 23:59 that I came to realise who was at my window.

Last week, my friends and I toyed with the hypothetical idea of death.

“If you have only 24 hours to live, what would you do?”

“Eat all the good food!”

“Call up every person I love.”

“Kick something off my bucket list.”

“I’d be Professor Morrie and conduct a funeral for myself,” one of them laughed.

The first thing I did was stare at the ceiling fan from my bed. I spent a good hour trying to decide if what I saw was real. I guess it would’ve been different if I got the message from a doctor instead of a black shadow. Should I see a psychologist? — was the first thought I had.

I didn’t feel like speaking to anyone. I didn’t feel like eating either. Food was the last thing on my mind. Why bother when I won’t live to remember the taste?

The same goes for conducting an early funeral. What good will hearing all the good things about me do now? People do it to be at peace; to know that they’ve done some good for this world. Even then, what good will peace bring with death nearing?

Tick tock. A senseless fear crept into me. I had forgotten to take note of the time. How many hours do I have left? I wondered, sweat forming on my forehead. My brother would’ve immediately written down the time of Death’s visit. He had always been conscientious and quick thinking. I envy him for it. Even at the door of death, his conscientiousness would’ve served him well. He might have sorted his funeral to ease the family’s burden. His final words would’ve read something like this:

Cremated not buried.
I’ve selected the clay urn.
Please do not argue over it.

If I were a grown-up, what would I have done? I asked myself.

I was sure I could ask my family at sunrise and they wouldn’t suspect a thing. But that would’ve been a cruel thing to do. The last conversation shouldn’t be about death.

If I were a grown-up, I started to imagine myself 20 years from now.

I would’ve made a list of things to do. I’d run through my will with my lawyer for the final time. I’d sort out my assets and write a bunch of farewell notes to my loved ones. I might offer to cook dinner. If anything, my family should have a good final memory of me. It should lessen the grief.

If I were married, would I tell my spouse? Likely. It would burst into an argument. There would be disbelief and denial. My spouse may shut me off by telling me not to speak of such melancholic things. It wouldn’t have been easy for either party.

If I had kids, the decision would come easy. I would spend hours with them, even if they didn’t want me around. I would do my best to prepare them for what was to come. Would I tell them that I would be in a better place? I let myself linger on that thought. Should I simply cease to exist? That would’ve been depressing, more so for the kids. That meant no speaking to the dead.

If I had teens, I’d send them a text and try not to flood them with expired wisdom. Getting them to sit down and listen would be futile. I should know best.

Those were noble thoughts. What came after wasn’t pleasant.

On my left was a shelf of books: of diaries and of stories I had written. My fingers caressed the spines as I entertained the idea of burning them. There were some things that no one needed to know.

At that thought, I sprung up from the bed and got to work. Using my bare hands, I dusted the diaries and opened them. Then, I read and cringed at some of the things I wrote. It was like meeting an old friend. Nostalgia filled the room, but what good would nostalgia be if I can’t bring them into the next life.

I went down to the kitchen like a thief in my own home. With a knife, I sliced the pages. Tearing them would’ve caused a ruckus. They mounted the countertop like shredded cabbage. I dumped them, handful by handful, into a pot of boiling water. Before me stood a dark broth of my deepest secret, evaporating into thin air; gone forever. Whatever that’s left would go down to the grave with me.

Now that my secrets were gone, I looked around the kitchen. I flung open some cabinet doors, peeked into the fridge, and took a mental note of the ingredients we had. I could make breakfast. I nodded to myself. A pride rising from within.

Mum walked in, surprised to me see in the kitchen. I tried to hide the black stains on my white shirt. Why did I choose white? I questioned myself. It was my pyjamas. I didn’t think of changing. Another flaw to my character: I did not think ahead.

“I am making us breakfast,” I said as I diced the onions.

“What’s cooking?” her voice filled with delight.

“Whatever I can find in the kitchen.”

My mum snorted, laughed, and went out of the kitchen. I swore I could hear her singing. Maybe she headed back to bed, or maybe she tended to her garden. I was hardly awake this early to know what she does before lunch.

Breakfast was served. On the table was a bowl of scrambled eggs, some stir-fried greens, cut tomatoes, toasts and butter. We saved a plate for my brother. The morning was still and the conversation kept to a minimal.

“Not bad,” mum complimented or tried too. Dad grunted his approval.

It’d be such a shame if this was our last conversation together. I’ll make it up over dinner, I thought and went to wash the dishes.

“Can I come over?” I asked a friend.

“An apology would’ve been nice. It’s the freaking A.M. I don’t wake before noon.”

“Right. Sorry. So, can I come over?”

“Sure,” my friend grumbled. “When?”

“Right now,” I said.

“Give me an hour to get out of bed.”

“What brings you here?”

We were in the dining hall. The bedroom wasn’t in a state to receive guests. Soiled clothes on the floor and a couple of snack wrappers tossed all over. No one should step in until it was tidy again.

“What would you do if you only had 24 hours left to live?”

“Are we doing this again?”

“Just answer me, seriously this time.”

“I don’t know, go to the church and beg for my sins erased?”

Right, sins. The afterlife.

“Your dad works with the police, right?”

“Yeah, what about it?”

I took a sip of the ginger tea offered. The house was always abundant with drinks and food. There were three fridges. I lost count of the cabinets.

“I would like to take a trip to the local jail,” I started carefully. My friend peered at me, unsure to be serious or not. “and talk to the prisoners about death.”

There were two agendas for my visit. One — I wanted to see my friend despite me mulling about how pointless it was for me. Two — I had a dying curiosity to know how the prisoners would’ve felt about death.

My friend remained silent. I leaned in closer.

“Look, I have less than 24 hours to live. Probably less than 12 hours. Will you please grant me this wish?”

Disbelief. Shock. Denial. Laughter. My friend had taken me for a fool, but with caution. Then shock and sadness flooded my friend’s face all at once.

“Are you serious? Wait, how? Why? Did you have cancer and not tell me?”

“I prefer not to explain. So, the favour?”

There was a long pause.

“I can’t guarantee. These visits usually go through a process that takes days, if not weeks.”

“Just give your dad a call, please.”

The prison was far from what I had imagined it to be. It was mostly white, with trees and flower beds all around.

“The prisoners planted these bougainvilleas. It was part of their programme. Quite a sight, if you asked me: those rugged men bent over such delicate life forms,” the prison warden said as we walked down the stone pathway.

“This place looks pretty nice, better than my backyard,” I remarked.

“You have the freedom to see the world. This is all they see daily.”

True. We stopped in front of one of many living quarters. Barb wires and solid steel bars separated us from the prisoners. According to the warden, they were safe to speak to.

“Thieves, not murderers. They should be safe.”

“Right,” I said, relieved. I wasn’t looking forward to having my hours cut short.

The gate opened and we stepped in.

“BOYS!” he shouted.

Six men in orange prison suits grunted and fumbled out of their metal bunk beds. There was a stack of metal plates by the door. They just had lunch, I presumed. They gathered in front of us; hands placed to the front where we could see them.

“Go ahead, ask your question,” the warden prompted me.

I felt a lump in my throat.

“If you had 24 hours left to live, what would you do?”

“Is this your way of sending us our death sentence?” one man shouted and spat on the concrete floor.

“Calm down, boys. We’re not going to hang or shoot anyone here.”

“What kind of stupid question is that?” another shouted as the rest showed their annoyance in different ways. Two rubbed the back of their heads, one laughed meekly. I looked down at my feet, embarrassed.

“Answer our guest!” the warden commanded. His voice was strong. The laughing stopped, and the men stiffened up.

“What can we do? We’re stuck here.”

“I’d try to break out.”

“You’d get caught before you even set foot out of these quarters..”

“I’d rather die trying.”

“Easy, the warden is here.”

“Don’t you guys think of your family. What a useless bunch!” said the oldest-looking man in the group. If I were to guess his age, I’d say 50. The rest appeared to be in their late twenties or early thirties.

“Then what would you do, you old geezer?!” Another spit landed on the floor.

“Request to make a call to my family.”

“How would you feel?” I asked.

Silence.

“Sad,” the tallest and most lanky one replied.

“That one’s a dreamer. He often spoke about the kind of life he plans to lead once he’s out of jail,” the oldest man said.

“Do you think we’ll go to hell?” another interrupted.

“Why not? We’re all prisoners. We’ve committed crimes.”

“Tell the old man that, he believes he’s going to heaven,” laughed one of them. Probably the youngest.

“Heaven?” I echoed, curious.

“He believes that Christ has forgiven him of his sins,” laughed another.

“Why not? Are our sins too big that no one should forgive it?” the oldest man snapped back. They were talking as if the warden wasn’t present.

“Don’t be arrogant. You were almost charged for manslaughter, or so I heard.”

“Is that a sin too big to forgive? Wouldn’t you want your sins forgiven?”

The laughing trailed off and silence followed.

“I would. I would want my parents to forgive me,” the lanky one answered solemnly. He had his head and shoulders slumped in defeat.

“If we were all sent to the gallows tomorrow, I’m sure we would give afterlife more thought. It’s a bit too late to amends now. At least I know where I would be going when I’m dead.”

With that, the old man climbed back into his lower bunk bed. He curled his body to the side so that his front faced the wall.

“Stubborn old geezer,” one scoffed.

“Let him be. I’d be extra nice just to earn my pardon for the next life.”

“Since when were you guys so religious?”

“Don’t spend your last 24 hours regretting your life choices,” one said to the youngest, giving a playful slap on his bald head before returning to bed.

“Let me be,” the youngest whined.

“Let’s go,” the warden said to me.

I was back home and on my bed, thinking about why I had made that trip to prison. All that knowledge would’ve been meaningless. I could try whipping up a story in a few hours, but who would read it?

Why do people live when they all eventually die?

The rich build an empire for themselves and then they die, leaving everything behind. The poor scavenge for whatever they can get, but they too will die when the time comes. Shakespeare tried to make his lover immortal with words. Well, Shakespeare outlived his lover. Who was she anyway?

Odd, truly odd. At the end of my muse, I concluded two things.

1) If we do not do anything that contributes to making this world a better place, our existence is pointless.

2) If the afterlife exists, then our purpose here is to prepare ourselves for the next life, or eternity.

I was down in the living room. My brother was busy at his work station. Dad was scrolling through his phone. Mum was taking a nap on the rattan chair right under the ceiling fan. I never understood why she wouldn’t go to her room. I sat on the single-seater leather couch. Not a minute later, a phone call came in.

“How was the visit to prison?”

“It was interesting.” Then, I gave my friend a summary of my experience.

“Have you told your family about this?”

“No.”

“Anyone else?”

“Nope.

“Do you plan to?”

I kept silent. I hadn’t decided.

“Could you not be indecisive on your last day on Earth?”

“Sorry, I’m still very much me on my last day…,” my voice trailed off. I began to realise that my family was within hearing distance. This wasn’t working, so I went back up to my room and shut the door.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about committing a crime,” I began.

“What?!”

“The best time to do something bold is when you’re dying.”

“Don’t be foolish.”

“You’re right. I’ve lost all motivation to do it. Even if I rob a bank, what’s the point?”

“Fame? Get your name all over the news. It’ll make headlines.”

“What’s the point?” I reiterated. “It’s only going to give my parents trouble. A dead person giving the living trouble. Sounds all too familiar. Usually when there are debts to clear. My story wouldn’t be any different.”

“You’re too young to have debts,” my friend corrected me.

“I’m also too young to have any real enemies. If I were to make trouble, it should be for someone I hate.”

Silence.

“Don’t bother. Revenge is only sweet if you get to see it happen. It won’t matter when you’re dead.”

“Not if I can drag my enemy down to hell with me.”

Silence.

“Don’t worry, I have no one I hate at this juncture of life. I’m also cautious enough to not commit a crime should the afterlife be real.”

“It is.”

My friend was religious. Why do my conversations keep coming back to this?

“Hey,” I said. “You’re a good friend. You’ve been a blessing in my life.”

Silence.

“You too.”

I heard a soft sob at the other end of the receiver.

“Please don’t come over,” I requested. That was the last we spoke.

Letters. There was a mess of foolscap papers all over my small white desk. It was all the paper I could find in my room. I finally decided to write notes to my loved ones: my famous last words. It was tougher than expected. I was stuck at dear.

Dinner was served. My mum had cooked my favourite dish of silky steamed eggs. Coincidence? Foreshadowing? Or was this how the universe showed kindness before it strikes me dead?

I was a little nervous. I reckoned I had about five hours to live. I glanced at the wall clock and counted backwards from midnight. A sudden dread came over my face. Reality had finally sunk in. Four and a half more hours. I could feel the tears welling up but I stifled it from coming down my face.

We ate as usual. The conversation went from my brother’s complaints about work to my mum’s tips about how to make a good meal. When there was silence, my dad contributed two sentences about the latest news he read. I added some personal opinions here and there. The whole time, I withheld telling them about my trip to the prison and that my time was up. I still had doubts. What if, I woke up tomorrow? I didn’t want to give them ideas that I was delusional. They would be quick to send me for psychological help.

The plates emptied in under an hour. I went ahead and did the dishes. That was our last meal together.

We were all getting ready for bed. I took two things — a shower and a good look in the mirror hanging above the sink. There was a sense of comfort in seeing my reflection staring back at me. I was still real and not a spectre.

By this time, I became fidgety. I first knocked on my brother’s door. There was no answer, so I knocked again. My knuckles quivering each time it hit the lacquered wooden surface.

“What?” came his response as he peered out through the crack.

“Can we talk?” I pleaded.

“I’m in the middle of a game right now…” he started but stopped when he saw the tears welling up in my eyes.

“It’ll be quick. We can do it here,” I promised.

“Sure, go ahead,” his voice softened.

“I want you to know that…,” the words were stuck in my throat. This was harder than I thought. It was not in our tradition to express love verbally. Love by action was easier.

“Know that…?” he was becoming impatient.

“Know that I love you,” I blurted out. “And that it was nice having you for a brother.”

I turned around but glanced over my shoulder. My brother was still at the door. He was in shock and started rubbing the back of his head.

“I love you too?” he said, unsure of how to react. I nodded and left. My parents were next.

I sat cross-legged outside of my parents’ room. Pictures of how they would react replayed over and over again in my head. Hairs raising on my skin. In one, my mum would have called me to her bed and eerily question me about my mental state, or if I’ve been bullied in school. In another, they would’ve disregarded it and told me it was getting late.

After what felt like an eternity, I knocked and got up to my feet. My heart pounding louder than a gong and raced quicker than a horse.

My mum peered through the small opening of the door. I felt sorry to see her in a nightgown and old-fashioned hair curlers. She was ready for bed.

“Mum,” I squeaked. “Where’s dad?”

“Dear, come here!” my mum yelled.

My dad came by the door and opened it wider.

“What is it?” my mum asked.

It was more stressful than I thought.

“I love both of you,” was all I could muster and walked over to my room. I could hear mum asking “what was that?”. When I closed my door, I prayed that my parents wouldn’t come to my door. They did.

“Honey, what was that?” my mum asked as she entered my room. I immediately glanced at my letters on the table.

“Nothing,” I said as I wiped a tear from my cheek. “I just wanted you to know that.”

“Well, we love you too.”

I could sense the struggle in her squeezing those words out. It wasn’t natural in our upbringing, but it shouldn’t have been this difficult.

“Okay,” was all I said.

She left and the tears streamed down my face like waterfalls. Thank God for letters. They help to convey what our mouths couldn’t bear to say.

Here I lay on my bed, hands on my belly. The clock is ticking without mercy.

Here I am reciting my day to you on my phone.

I haven’t decided if I should delete it. Ha haha har de har. Indecisive to the end. A lifetime wasn’t enough to teach me a good lesson. Goodnight.