How do you want your ending?

(Norman's POV)

Today is Saturday, the eighteenth of October. <i>Rorim's birthday</i>. What are the odds that we have the same date number, just different months.

I sat on the outdoor bench by the garden of the hospital when I wondered what she could possibly be doing. Who could she be sharing to memorable day with? How is she feeling right now? Is she alone? Is she with that guy? Did they visit the tombs together?

<i>Imo</i> and I just finished lunch when Ms. Lee visited. I didn't leave until they were done talking about the assistant imo asked for. From what I heard, imo wanted someone young and amusing.

"Someone less boring than your nephew?" Ms. Lee joked and I smirked while <i>imo</i> chuckled.

They talked about something else afterwards that I needed not to hear anymore. With the notebook in my hand, I wondered who would have owned this. Ever since I caught my hands on it I've been having vivid dreams. What's odder was that, unlike most dreams, these ones lingered. Like Medusa's snake, they crawled and hissed at the back of my head, as if they were a part of me that I've forgotten.

Not just that. There's her too. Once upon a time, I avoided and mistrusted women, not to mention the dangerous ones. And Rorim was <i>one</i>. Suspicious. Unpredictable. Perceptive. The kinds like her remind me of a certain someone. Yet at the same time, I'm undeniably drawn into her. Even though I felt her hate, there was no hostility. Maybe that sounds the same, but not for me. I believe that most people hate something/someone because those things once mattered to them. Such strong emotion only exists to mask, maybe even overcome, the pain and hurt we feel, whereas hostility serves only to incite, to bring forth that spur of hatred. To say it simply, Rorim hates me but she doesn't act upon it. She's more than capable to do so, but she holds herself back. At least that's what it seems to me. Why she hates me and until when, <i>knowing her more</i> was the only way to find out.

I sighed and spread the notebook open. I was immediately taken to the next entry, thanks to a friendly bookmark. Leaning back, I started reading.

<i>Just when you thought that you'll finally die in peace because of your heroic closure (was it even counted as heroic?), you wake up in a different body again. The moment I attained consciousness, I questioned everything. One of the first questions I asked was 'is this normal?'.</i>

<i>

As someone who has been reincarnated for the second time, I was curious to learn about myself. Why was I created that way? Why the different bodies? Was everyone going through the same? All that and everything else. Because of that I grew up an oddly curious kid. That trait was one of the many things that didn't fit in my lifestyle, specifically around such a company. There wasn't much to tell; I had a dysfunctional family. I had an awkward father who had an obsession for tellies and drinking, a nagging mother who liked everything in order and worked mostly for the family, and three older brothers who only knew basketball and rugby. Safe to say that because of my fresh memory and all the accumulated knowledge from my past life, I was the only smart person in the family. It's embarrassing to acknowledge that myself but it was more embarrassing to know that my brain was more than all of theirs combined. That's all the thoughts I kept to myself, of course. It became one of the questions I asked myself until I grew up. Why was I a child of that family, why do they hate and fight each other, etc. Was I capable of choosing which body to possess the next time I die? What were my parents like in their past lives? Do they remember them perfectly like I do? I mostly observed and asked in a subtle manner to the people around me. I would approach random old men, teenagers, parents from wherever I go and ask them one of those questions, especially if they were reincarnated. I garnered answers from them until I learned that most people don't believe in reincarnation. And while some of them have heard about it, they don't think it's real and happens to everyone. Because then everyone is capable of everything and the world would be perfect. </i>

<i>

Like my previous life, I went to school, I excelled in my first years of studying. Yet unlike my past parents, these ones envied me. I didn't know that parents can envy their child. They hated that I performed well at school, scolding me when I once showed them my grades and disregarded when my teachers acknowledged them for my being the best student. After all, intelligence doesn't randomly sprout solely from a child. Having me was a foolish miracle. Ever since then, grades didn't matter to me. I was still participating, but I didn't strive for the top anymore. That change concerned my teachers, but could they really do anything about it?</i>

<i>

When I stepped into high school, I had become more self-conscious. Looks and status mattered. A jealous tree bore fruit to a selfish, envious child. I made acquaintances here and there but none that really had a deep bond with me. None with names worth remembering. By the time I was in my junior year, I hustled and worked for different jobs. Discreetly, of course. I made sure that they wouldn't hint that I plan to leave the place as soon as I've earned enough. I could no longer stay in that mess; everyone was close to eating each other but couldn't leave each other. Unlike their setup, I didn't want to rely and owe them anything. So the moment I had a chance (and the money), I left. With five pairs of clothes, essential things and a few hundred bucks, I went far away. And after one train, one ferry and one bus ride, I stopped, only a hundred bucks left. I was eighteen when I left the house; I made sure I was so I could be eligible for work. I looked around the whole day until I stumbled upon a small diner and bar. With the remaining money I have, I ate and applied for work. The owner, Chloe, gave me a week of trial. Chloe was an old widow, childless, strict and stiff, bitter if I may add. She also took me in, saying that she needed a helper. For a week, I learned how to serve people in the diner and balance things and food on my hands. I was inherently quick to learn so I was attentive in memorizing their orders and agile in giving their food accordingly. More than all those skills, what I happily acquired more were stories. Everything was a joy to discover, from watching their faces like storms, thundering and harsh, clear up once they've eaten, to hearing each of their stories, their struggles and fortunes. You can hear so much from one food serving and one coffee break. Working there, despite not having all my questions answered, satisfied my need for distraction and wonder for fellow humans. Eventually, Chloe and I had become unspoken friends. She had become my guardian. </i>

<i>ding</i>

I checked for a second and saw Gillian's name appear. Ignoring, I returned to the notebook.

<i>Years passed and I lived a normal, wonderful life. My mind never ran out of questions, of course. If I had time, I would talk to some of the customers. Their answers varied, as expected, since there's not really a general answer for everything. One of the people I mostly asked was Chloe, which she sometimes refused to but she indulged me in the end. I was almost perfect, she said, if not for my excessive talking and inquiring tendencies. She says that and yet can talk for hours once I ask her about her stories of life. Yet because of her old age, Chloe had become ill. Because of that, the business in the diner weakened. Aside from the fact that I was always at home tending to her, we were already lacking hands to manage the diner. Chloe's condition worsened week after week. Until one night, after I bought her meds, she called me from her room and I came. That was when I knew that it was her time to go. In her remaining hour, she told me to take the briefcase under her bed with me. That if ever I was to leave somewhere, I have to take it and keep it for myself. With the last of her breath, I sobbed. </i>

<i>

Days after her passing, we held a funeral. There was me, the cook, the other two who came before me and her few friends. When I got home, I opened the briefcase. Inside it were wads of cash, the business and house titles, her will and a letter. That night, after reading her farewell letter, I went to a pub to drink. I drank my sorrows away as I lamented my first grief. Being left by someone that mattered to you hurt more than I imagined. And although I only knew Chloe in less than a decade, she was more of a mother than my real mother was (in that life) to me. I was more or less still sober when a stranger approached me. His face was a blur and his voice was the only recognition that stuck with me. He asked why I was drinking and I answered honestly and he said he was too. This random encounter was kindred that I felt comfortable enough to spill all my stories to him, and so did he. We drank and talked and drank some more. I couldn't really recall what we slurred about due to alcohol, but I knew that I was consoled. Enough for me to sleep with him. As much as I wanted to write his name here, I didn't know. Together, we shared that warm, vulnerable night, our broken bodies bearing for each other as strangers. That moment of careless contact consoled our howling hearts. </i>

<i>

It was the next morning when I woke up alone in the hotel room, wasted and wobbly. The stranger left a note on the bedside, saying he was sorry for leaving early and that he wished to meet me again. Behind the note was a phone number, still nameless. Once it had registered to me, I swore that day that I will never drink (and talk to strangers) again. I returned home and decided to settle the last will Chloe left for me. Day after day, I picked myself up and pulled my life back together. I did as Chloe requested until the last thing I needed to do was sell the diner to start over. I was preparing and checking the place a week after when three delinquents raided the place. I was hiding in the storage room when they made a mess of everything, aggressively ransacking for cash. Before I could escape, I was trapped in a fire they ignited, setting their disappointment ablaze, without the knowledge of me being there. Even when I called for the police after they left, they arrived too late. Hence, at the brink of my third life, I danced with flames to my death. </i>

"What are you reading?"

"Jesus!" I held my chest and threw a fist at Gillian. "Why on earth are you here?"

He held out his phone and pushed it before my face. "I texted, you bastard. Seems like you're too busy to check." His eyes went to the notebook I held.

<i>Of course.</i> "What do you want? How did you find me?"

"Ca—Ms. Lee."

"Then why are you here?"

He sighed and sat down. "Let's go drinking."

I blinked. "What?"

"Let's go drink."

"Drink what? Alcohol?" I looked up and pointed at the sky. "In the afternoon?"

He rolled eyes, the irate more apparent on his face. "Later of course."

"Why did you suddenly want to drink?" The last time he drank was at our high school graduation, just to know what alcohol tasted like.

"I just feel like it." He shrugged and squinted up to me. "So are you coming or not?"

"You know I have to look after my aunt right?" Something is different with him.

He scoffed. "Ms. Lee has her <i>eyes</i> on her."

I crossed my arms and sat, my eyes, with scrutiny, fixed on him. "What will I get from drinking with you?"

"I dunno. Secrets? Company? A change of surroundings?" he scowled at me. "Why am I convincing you? You just have to answer yes or no."

"Then no."

He fumed and stood up. "Fine, I'll drink with someone else then."

I smirked and crossed my legs. "Enjoy then."

From the corner of his eye, he peered, waiting.

"I said enjoy." I waved my hand and smiled. With a flick of tongue, he left, stomping away.

Like a sneeze cut short, I felt the need to reread the last parts to recover my truncated emotions.

.....

I walked back to the room after two hours of rereading the three entries on the bench.

Days ago, I questioned if this harmless pad of paper was anything like Pandora's box. It was not. It was more. Surely it didn't bring any curse on me nor on my life, just odd dreams. It was like a favorite book I read, a favorite series I watched as a kid, I was too invested in each page. Each event. This third entry in particular was too mysterious. The main character had no name, no indication of their gender, not much people mentioned, just Chloe. They slept with a stranger one night without ever knowing their name. They died from arson. Everything could be one question after another. And why was it cut short? Why did they have to die like that? Do stories really just stop like that? That's the saddest thing. Because right when they can finally start over and live their life again, they fall to a tragedy. How can you possibly kill a character like that? And not just once but thrice. With excruciating tragedy. Just <i>cruel</i>.

"Why the long face?" <i>Imo</i> asked the moment I sat on the couch.

I shook. "<i>Imo</i>, if you were to write an ending for a story, how would you have wanted to end it?"

She stared at me blankly and pouted. "A happy ending."

"Right?" I thought so too. Growing up reading different mythologies where they all end up as miserable gods, heroes and creatures, and folklores where people die and evolve into monsters or famous objects, I'd choose to have a happy ending for myself instead.

"That's the question though. <i>Whose</i> happiness?"

"What do you mean?"

"Some stories are bound to be sad, and some, happy. One can hope for their story to end on a good note but not everyone is lucky."

"But it's your story." I looked at my hands, as if feeling the weight of the characters' fate. "You have a choice to make them all happy in the end."

"That's true." She breathed in. "But your characters are not perfect. They will make choices and those choices don't end up the way we want it. The choices they make affect everyone, even when they're not aware. If you write a story where all of them are happy, that would only be a lie."

"But fictions are lies. Stories bring life to reality, not reality to life."

She smiled. "Think deeper."

And I did. I was never wrong about it. Reality is boring and stories give color to it. Blood. Butterflies. Butter. Brilliance. Breath. Stories build depth to reality. What else should I think deeper about?

"<i>Imo</i>?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you believe in reincarnation?"

"Why yes. I would like to live as a crystal in my next life. Lucky piece of rock, just sitting pretty their whole life and existing for eons." She placed both hands on her waist and shook her head.

I smirked and thought. If reincarnation was real, then those stories would be a phenomenon. I took out my laptop, checking the activities I needed to pass for next week. Then I remembered Sam's complaint days ago; college was finally kicking in.

<i>I'll do one work and read again after</i>, I promised myself.