Throw out the old things and pack it up
By Noah Li
“It’s the start of the new year, here’s a trash bag and just…go clean out all the crap in your room for a fresh start!”
Maybe this time the rambling and hustling of my mother to clean my room was worth it, because today would be when I would venture to a corner of my room so close yet so far from where the memories of my space would encompass. The vehement…sentiments that came with it like sticky caramel, lingering indecisive souls. I’d thrown so many things out, though instead of feeling more clear it only made the space inside my head seem more cluttered.
The dust from other corners had been rid of their homes, clouded both my lungs and my attitude. Reaching a point where if I discovered that there was one more surface for me to clear I would kick something.
Well, that surface would be the pin board in front of my desk.
The desk I had sat at every afternoon everyday like clockwork, to do homework, to draw and write and read - to rest my head on whenever I felt I couldn’t live another day. That desk. The desk that I sat at at the ripe age of 7 learning the times tables the way my mother used to insist on, to read it as many times as possible until I could recall it immaculately. That day held on, a day scorched into my memory, like a blister that wouldn’t heal.
Why I didn’t want to clean it, perhaps because the trepidation thrumming at my chest was a warning.
I’ve owned the pinboard for quite a while now, though I’ve barely put it to much use. A few magnets here and there, sticking my schedule up at the start of every new year. Hopefully, this would be the last of the things to pack up.
My hand slipped on something, a piece of paper amongst many, except this one felt a little bit different, like it was coated in gloss but still faded to the touch. Prying out of the little nook it dwelled in and dusted it off. I felt myself frown.
--
Hold your head high, your back straight, look into the camera, don’t blink, your hair shouldn’t cover your eyes and smile. The basics, done every year by every institution. Also pretty much an ignored event at home. My parents never bothered to buy the copies of the photos, saying it wasn’t that flattering anyways and who needed ten keychains with your face on it for an overpriced rating. A rather trite financial tactic.
This was the first year in a new environment, new things, new places, so new that the buildings changed shape just to mess with me, the pathological uncertainty that thrummed me the first year or so, likely longer even though I was adapted to the school.
A deep breath in and out. The chilling air squired down my esophagus, bringing the winter to every sinew in my body and stiffening my posture; my eyes trained on the center of the camera, determined to not blink.
The blinding light, like a gate at the end of your paths. A face now imprinted in black and white and all the colours in between, the ink jetted onto the plastic, sealed with not only resin but the liquid film of memory that flowed through the stream of time. Faded only faintly by colour but not a bit tainted in my mind, it awaited as the same photo from years ago, the same copy they sent home as a preview to sell the products we never bought.
--
My fingers floated above the plastic, as if touching it would bring me back to the body and mind of a child not yet 10 years old; as if what’d dropped a hundred miles could be picked up to restore. The porcelain skin, either touched up by someone or realism - clear of the nights spent on my chair hunched over a blinding screen and gazing pallidly, numbly, at a document, clear of the addicting feel of sugar in my blood paired with a touch of caffeine - like a Victorian ghost that wailed wistfully in the halls of a gothic manor, the eyes that still grazed at the viewer blandly, the eyes that were obsidian matching the locks that curled wavily around the face, obsidian and fathoms deep, like it had been fished up from centuries underwater, glistening in the sunlight it never expected to see again, reflecting the past, years ago, a year ago, a day ago. A smile that was reposing, framed with the gentle flush of the lips. I felt myself frown when the orbs bore into me.
It was this that had been divested from me, the bright bubbly, animated - perhaps even cloying - light behind my eyes that was replaced by the sullen glare of someone that wasn’t quite sure what to make of herself anymore, the stroppy dissonant eyes that seemed to hate itself more than the world around it.
Or maybe this flash of realisation that felt both like a punch in the stomach and a caress down your face was all just the sentiment that came along with the changes of teenhood.
I contorted my gaze away swiftly.
"Damn it, this is a waste of time.” I muttered to myself
“Are you done yet?! Why is this taking you so long, just throw out the old things and pack it up!” My mother’s voice pierced through the silence, I felt myself cringe.
I sighed, feeling the dingy air clear the lingering meddling thoughts from the mind, catching the floating bits of a mess of ideas, nostalgia, and a sickly notion of guilt away, tucking it into a bin. I proceeded to throw out the actual trash as well, the body-bag sized pile of it still sitting, rotting, pickling on the ground.
In a haste I stuck the photo back on the pin board, and swept everything else into the trash bag.
I won’t hide it - the abhorrence that toiled at my mind now. I’ve always hated seeing my face, some part of it was always wrong and I just wanted to claw my head off when I did. But seeing that old photo, it was more than just the face. I saw what was - and wasn’t - behind that face.