Ephemeris

15 : A Little Ounce of Water

The birthday boy unhurriedly opened his eyes, struggling to unzip his heavy eyelids. His eyelashes misted with tears, and his irises roughed up dead.

Free-floating like a ghost, he didn't know what was happening. His eyes were fixed on the flat white ceiling. He unclenched his jaw, letting it free the warm air inside. Underneath his curly hair buried his unreadable thoughts, fragmenting to pieces and then splicing back anew. His brows furrowed deeper from the distorted picture in his mind, a broken promise, a denied wish. His face became very solemn. The embers inside his chest died and became wasted charcoal, giving the darkness a chance to rule. His cerise heart, pumping in rhythmic contraction, started to rust, corroding with umbrage.

Daybreak tried to squeeze through the fibers of the polyester curtains, compelling him to face the day with a smile, but it failed. He gently rubbed the bandage on his nose. So often, we wished for something we ached to happen. And even if we offered a bouquet and prayers to an altar upon waking up, it's not worth the candle to yearn, he thought.

Daniel unzipped the leather jacket and rolled to pronate, facing the wrinkly bed sheets below. The back of the jacket hovered airborne, touching the ceiling. The magnifying glass and the hair barrette were suspended an inch over the pillows. "Happy birthday, Mr. Lens," he whispered as the fringe of his banged hair drooped dead. He glanced over his left shoulder and saw the cube wandering in circles along the floor. His head, too, was gyrating from the screw of events last night. His eye sockets sunk, dark tincture marred his lower eyelids, and somnolence was hazed in his corneas. Underneath the bed frame emerged a shiny rectangular object. What is my phone doing under my bed? Maybe it hid, too scared of me because I became a monster in the middle of the night, he thought.

The boy dove effortlessly to scoop the phone and noticed a small webby crack in the upper right corner of the glassy screen. His eyes widened, for it was a shame to damage the very object that reminded him of his father. Because through the only thing in his grasp, he could remember his face, voice, and amber-flecked emerald eyes that evoked a deep understanding of the world's wonders. He placed the phone in the middle of his chest, shut his eyes, and relished every heartbeat, remembering their memories.

The absence of any clue clouded his thought as he did not know if his father was still alive. He questioned whether the ISS was unharmed with all the chaos on Earth. He answered the questions positively with the thought of his dad becoming a hero. At least for now, even though I cannot see you, I can feel you. Father, I know you are watching over there, up in the sky, thinking for us and praying for what's best for us, he thought.

Daniel seized the very thought, reminding him of a speck of hope he could use to survive. He shook his head and tried to perk up. His arm extended towards the door, dragging his body without difficulty, and twisted the knob open. He tilted his head, bending his neck like a garter snake, and checked the attic hatch. "No damage," he mumbled.

The boy halted for a second and pondered about Potti. He didn't see or hear the mouse after the quake, not even its shadow or short, pitchy noise. His ears angled into the hatch's direction, sharpening his hearing, trying to catch a rodent sound. Detected by his auricles was the deafening silence reverberating all over the house. The uttering no sound crawled into his ear canals and pierced his tympanic membrane, becoming conscious that death possibly delivered the mouse to the great unknown. He let out an audible sigh. "Potti, I hope you're safe somewhere," he whispered.

His fingers pressed against the corridor walls, like buttresses supporting his floating body. He struggled, dealing with the erratic weightlessness. It was too difficult to move, but he tried to keep his sense of balance. Lighter-than-air was the only phrase he could think of to describe this feeling. He managed to straighten out from a twisted position. His sneakers finally touched the floor, and his legs propped like a tripod—a sculpture of an erect bearing. He lifted a foot and decided to take a step. He gasped as he arrowed toward the house's wooden upper limit, hurting his head and developing a rounded protrusion.