Anemoia | Zhifei Qin (9)

The steady rhythm of rain beating the collapsing roof has accompanied me for many years of my life; I’ve forgotten everything beyond the deluge that the people around me used to despise. I don’t remember a time where the rain has stopped, even once, and it seems the people I used to know didn’t remember their lives before the rain either. Yesterday, during our daily meal of watercress and mushrooms from the planter, I asked my father about the rain. The topic seemed to startle him, as if he didn’t expect me to ask about the obvious. He looked at me with pained eyes, and I could see his soul, a broken lantern that once shone with passionate light. Most of that light had  gradually distinguished when, one by one, the people who used to live in the shack with us stepped out into the rain, hopelessly longing for something other than the mundane life ever since it started raining. Through the blurry window, I can see them now, lifelessly standing and looking blank-eyed at the turbulent skies. Me and my father are the last ones here, still sane but slowly going insane. Recently, our relationship has corroded like the metal plumbing pipes that give us our clean water supply, and with nobody in the shack to help ease the tensions between us, it’s been hard to control my emotions. Now, all that my father does except eat our daily meal is read optimistic but useless stories from the past, picking from books falling apart and growing mold. Arranging the books in a small stack, he seems to escape reality while huddled against a wall, wrapped in a thermal blanket while reading hours upon hours. Meanwhile, I lie in the rusting metal bunk bed, where the only sky I can see is the bottom of my brother’s abandoned mattress. He was older than me, and always kept to himself. A week ago, he gave his sanity to the rain even though he had no reason to, or so I thought. Hunger, boredom, and curiosity drove the others towards the rain, but with my brother, it was a different case. Right before he went outside, I caught a glimpse of his soul. They were dark and bottomless - an insatiable, gaping hole that I had never seen in anyone. The moment his head touched the rain, he started laughing. Chuckling at first, then growing louder until he sounded hysterical, possessed. I never knew what he saw in the rain, only that he now joins the others. I climb onto his bunk, only to hear a strange sound. From underneath the blanket, I find a thick, beaten, wrinkled envelope that is made of yellowing paper. A simple word is written in blue ink on the envelope: Anemoia. Driven by my curiosity, I carefully open the envelope and quickly pull out all of its contents. An image appears in front of my eyes. The first card greets me with “Welcome to Los Angeles!” There’s a picture behind the words, tall structures with square lights that are nothing like our small shack, populations of people walking on streets I have never seen before, and an atmosphere filled with hope and opportunity. The second picture is printed without words, and shows what looks like a cake, candles, and a small girl looking at me. Her eyes reflect the candles in front of her as she smiles a toothy smile. Behind her, a man and a woman gently hold the girl’s shoulder. My heart beats faster as I look through the stack of pictures, otherworldly scenes, strange places beckoning to me, like “Thinking of you in Melbourne…” and “It’s not Rome until you’re here!” and “Mexico City is the place to be!” It’s too much; I can’t help but long for a time when the world was still bustling with people who aren’t trapped by the same four walls every second of their life, eating watercress and mushrooms every day, closed in with their own thoughts swirling around with the smells of rotting wood and rusting metal. Everything shatters when I see a picture of a field of wheat glowing under what I can only assume is the sun, shining so bright that everything that its tentacles of light touch looks golden, wind blowing the field so that waves appear like in the picture of the ocean and sand and everything that I could have ever wished for. A cursive font fills the lines on the back of the postcard: “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” The familiar handwriting… I feel numb as my hands grip the ladder and I clumsily climb down from the top bunk. My brain is overwhelmed, colors flooding my vision as I nearly trip, running zombified towards the front door. I run for the places, people, time that I left behind. I run to feel hope, true happiness, and to regain the life that was promised to me. My father is asleep on the floor, clutching his books. I know how he feels now. My hand wraps around the doorknob. It feels smooth, cold, and decisive. The door pushes open, and I start hyperventilating, stumbling down stairs slick with water, stepping down onto sticky mud. I feel ecstatic as I look towards the heavens and see a cake with candles molded from the colors around me. I can feel a warm, reassuring weight on my shoulder as the cold feel of rain on my skin dies away, replaced with a warm glow that spreads from my heart to my toes. Is this what love feels like?