14-01-2017
This is my second story in the English section of Lit (my first was Dalmatian).
It is a translation of a story I published earlier in the Dutch Taboo section.
I hope I have translated it well enough, and I hope you will forgive my errors.
*For the Dutch readers among you, check my other contributions ;^)
I would like to thank
oldnakeddad
for helping me with the translation. I hope I can ask you again for some help.
This story has a lot of emotions I like to think myself, it makes you sad, it makes you angry, it makes you pity the protagonist and even dislike him at some point.
It is a slow story, not a stroker as you people call it I believe. But in the end there will be fireworks.
Well off we go, have fun
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Irritated, I looked at the woman, in front of me, in the check-out line..."Get on with it, you old bat," I thought to myself as she rummaged through the outlets near the cashier, looking for things she probably didn't need anyway. The conveyor belt was almost empty but she seemed to be slow on purpose. "Just put your bloody things on it, you fat sea-cow," I almost shouted in anger but I kept silent and waited, impatiently, for my turn, almost dislocating my arm in the process...my basket was overfilled with stuff and it was weighing a lot.
Finally, she sluggishly and slowly started putting her groceries on the belt and every move she made looked like a slow motion picture show. When she was finally finished, I put a "next customer" sign after her groceries and started putting mine on the belt. I had only three hours before I had to start a shift, tonight, and during those few hours, I had to get back home, eat and get my bus.
Some people seem to have all the time in the world and she probably did as most customers in this store were on welfare. I hated this store but it was cheap.
I hurriedly stashed my groceries away in my tiny kitchen while a ready-to-go-meal was warming in the microwave, I like my food wholesome and healthy, you must know.
Sitting at my table, I sorted out my mail. There was a letter from a big Dutch banking agency in a luxurious envelope, curious, I wondered what they wanted from me so I opened it right away. It was an invitation for a job offer they had for me, my public profile on an online job hunting site had caught their interest. This was strange, I remembered making my profile about ten years ago but didn't get any replies and after a while I stopped updating it and left it.
I had studied as a specialist in economics and was guaranteed a job after finishing it. I received special honors for having the highest grades ever and landed my first job the second I laid my hands on my diploma. After a short year, the dream was over and my world collapsed around me, I did not find a new job in my field and eventually settled for my current job. Meanwhile, I was forty-two years old and had a hopeless career as a warehouse assistant at the local Ikea.
Things needed to change.
******
At three o'clock, Thursday afternoon, wearing a rented suit and my hair neatly combed, I sat in a large luxurious office with high ceilings, large windows, lit with daylight and the large abstract artwork also functioned as a lamp. My eyes went over the dark brown ornaments of the shiny oak wood desk in front of me and, opposite of me, the three men and one woman sitting behind it.
Strangely, the questions they asked were not about my knowledge or skills but, instead, only a few short questions about my ambitions and personality. I knew I did not have a chance, I have been out of this line of work for over eighteen years and my knowledge was stale and useless. During the first years, I had hoped, and studied, to keep my skills and knowledge up to date but I lost all hope after a while and made peace with my situation.
I sighed as I was waiting for my bus...what had I expected? I knew, for sure, I would not hear from them again. I probably did not answer their questions correctly, I mean, normally you get an assessment and a series of investigations about your skills and, even when you do pass them, it does not ensure you're one of the final candidates. It was a small but tough world.
I saw my bus coming in the rain, stood and walked to the pick-up point. Sitting in the bus, I wiped a part of the condensed window with my sleeve and followed the little droplets of rain on their path down, fusing and making their capricious paths.
Capricious, like the course of life, invisible obstacles only made visible by the sudden change of direction. I thought about my life and the invisible obstacle that had destroyed my life.
******
I was nine years old, my mother was sitting next to my dad at the kitchen table and both were weeping as they asked me to sit with them. Anxious, I looked at them...what did I do? I could not remember anything I could have done to cause this much grief, I felt it was something really bad. Nervously, I drank my milk and looked alternately between mom and dad. After a while, mother looked at me, her face was pale white, sighed deeply and took my hand.
"Sven, dear, mommy has something to tell you."
She started crying again and fell into my crying father's arms. Though I did not know why they were crying, I also started to cry. After a while, she regained herself and, while holding tight to my father, looked at me and gave me a pale smile while tears were flowing over her cheeks.
"Sven, sweetheart, mommy is very ill and I won't get better. Oh, my love, you should know mommy will always love you, wherever she is."
I threw myself into mom's arms and, together, we cried. I had millions of questions but did not ask one, the only thing I had was deep grief.
I slept in her arms that night.
******
Three months later, I sat in the front row, next to my grandma, wearing my best outfit. I looked at my dad, making a speech about my mom's life, as he was crying. I did not hear a word, my eyes were on my sweet mother's white coffin, behind him, and the big bouquet of white roses, with one single red rose in the middle of it, covering most of the coffin.
My grandma held me tight to her body while the music played the songs I had picked with mom. While Lou Reed sang about a perfect day, I saw mom's coffin disappear...she was gone, forever.
The weeks after the cremation were hell. My father went into a downward spiral and I was so alone with my grief, I knew I would never recover...I was damaged for good.
Although it was summer and the weather was perfect, I sat in my room, leafing through old photo albums, searching for pictures of mom. I often looked at her last good picture, the picture I took during our holiday last year as she had happily looked into the camera, oblivious to her destiny. I carefully stroked my finger over the picture, caressing her face.
I looked at it for hours every night, eventually falling asleep, crying.
******
I was eleven and had been noticing something was happening during the last six months...my father had become better, happier, my old dad was coming back and it made me happy to see he was recovering. I, on the other hand, missed mom every day...it hurt, as if my soul was cut in half.
