Mr. Sandman
“The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to seekers after it.”
― Agatha Christie, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
Now listen carefully, there will only be two rules you must follow to finish this scheme. Number one, there were actually three; number two, you have to trust your instinct; and the last one was actually the first.
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“Have you heard of the Butterfly Effect?” Someone whispered on your ear. In fact it was so soft that your mind told you it wasn’t whispered but somehow sang.
It is said that a butterfly's wings might create tiny changes in the atmosphere that may ultimately alter the path of a tornado or delay, accelerate or even prevent the occurrence of a tornado in another location. The location was an island, and the changes have already begun.
You were running, fast and indefinite. Why? You asked. There was no answer, instead there was a call. It was your name, but it wasn’t you.
So you kept on running.
The sky was pitch-black and the stars were hidden blindly in the midst of the selfish sky. The wind coming from the sea was cold, but the warmth of the sand and the whole island fought against it. You could almost hear the distant cries of the coconuts, and the crabs and the snakes and the rain as they all upheld their position. They were waiting for something. And the pain of not knowing pierced the core of your very entity.
“Please!” You heard them -loud and clear. But you couldn’t stop. You were almost there. It all lingered through senses: the taste of the unfiltered flavour of the sea, the smell of the grass as they happily dance with the wind and the crisp gushed of the night air on your cheeks as you run through it.
Your legs were trembling and your eyes were fixated on the hill -just few more steps away.
“Maia… don’t do this.” Clara, you guessed her name. You weren’t sure anymore. It all started with more than a dozen survivors, you couldn’t even memorize their names. Days, nights, weeks, storms, months, hopes –it all faded like the image of a simple memory. Everything that was left was just an echo of your past.
“We’ll find Matthew! Please, Maia just don’t do this…” You remembered him. You didn’t want to but the sudden mention of his name dug up all of your buried feelings. How the mornings of November sixteenth differed from any other just because he’ll make you your favourite Eggs Benedict; he’ll clean the house just before you wake up; he’ll paint the white roses he bought because blue was your favourite colour; he’ll try to feed Larry just so you could take the extra time roll over your bed and sleep for another five minutes. Try because your Doberman hated his aftershave or maybe just him. And you would give him your normal exasperated look because he sucked at cooking and cleaning. But he would still try his best to impress you. And no matter how much you try, you just can’t fight against his incomparable humour, his boundless efforts and his unfathomable love for you. He would always win, but he would deny it but kneeling down and asking you to marry him. Yes, all over again. Because he was yours and you were his.
“For God’s sake, listen to her Maia. This is stupid! You think Matthew would want this?” Another woman’s voice insisted, but instead of begging for you to stop, she was angry and demanding. The other half of your brain agreed with her but that was only enough to pause and not to actually stop you. You desperately forced yourself to remember their names.
At first there was Jane, there was David, George, Nan, Reece, Amy, Stephanie, Ely, Henry and a lot more names you couldn’t recall. Theirs were written and carved on scattered trunk of coconut trees, rocks and on the debris of your cruise chip.
Yours wasn’t in any of it. Yours was in the blowing wind, in the waves of the ocean, in the fragments of the sand, in the piercing flickers of the sun, in the tempting depth of the sky.
Matthew. His name echoed endlessly inside your head.
Matthew, the man who wrote your name on the sand, on the ocean, on the wind; he was your only reason. He had saved you from your dog when you were ten, he had saved you from your father when you were seventeen, and he had saved you when the cruise ship sank. But he couldn’t save you from yourself when you were about to put an end to it. From all of it.
That first morning when you thought you lost him hunted your memories. The waves heaved itself at your back while you struggle to walk on the sand; you lost the other pair of your boots and your clothes were barely hanging on your body but you didn’t care. Your mind was lost in the image of Matthew’s cold, numb body in your arms.
Everybody assumed it was the twenty second of April. Because the day before that was the day your cruise ship sank. How convenient for them to take note of the day when you almost lost your life by believing them in the first place. He’s alive. You kept on repeating it to yourself. And suddenly there he was, walking towards you. He couldn’t run at the moment because he was carrying a body. The captain’s body.
“All of us will eventually die, Clara.” You whispered the words to the woman behind you. You were trying to convince her but you couldn’t even succeed in convincing yourself.
And again his image fought your resistance. So you painfully closed your eyes, hoping everything will go away but instead your memory just became even more vivid. At first you didn’t notice the man, or any of the other survivors in particular. You were so fixated on your husband that you forgot the captain was already dead. And the man who was sitting beside you was his brother. The man said his name was James but you called him Jinx. He lied. The man called James said something went wrong with the engines. He lied. And somewhere along the lines of “turbines”, “malfunctioning” and “hostages” you felt that everything was about to change. And it wasn’t because of his lies.
Maybe few miles away from your ship, a little butterfly decided to flap its wings and change your path.
You stood on the edge of the hill, barefooted and your dirty clothes clinging to your frail, drenched body. You could see the upcoming storm and you could see it almost kissing the ocean. Your eyes were fixed on the horizon, how it all seemed to be flat when in fact the earth was originally round.
You used to explain that to first graders. You were a teacher, and Matthew was a nurse. You weren’t supposed to be on that cruise ship. You were supposed to be at your work, saving every ounce of money you could get for your new house. But your parents bought you the tickets as their honeymoon gift for you and Matthew. They insisted that you go and so you did.
You heard a gunshot. You were very familiar with it because your father was a retired police officer. And he taught you to use a revolver when you got engaged to Matthew. Your father was a humorous man. The tenacity of your memories and the sound of the sudden shot were contradicting. What was more confusing was the shot just kept on repeating itself inside your head. Pop, pop…pop.
“Wake up, Maia.”
Pop.
“Wake up, Maia! We need to get out of here…” Matthew’s green eyes stared anxiously at your surprised face. His forehead lined with creases and the hand that was pulling your arm was clammy and trembling. But he was alive and so were you. He was carrying a little girl on his back so you immediately got up and helped him so he could carry the girl in his arms instead. Both of you were running desperately through the corridors knocking every locked room you passed. The cruise ship was producing a very painful sound. Chaos was the right word for it.
You were running again –asking the same question: why?
The ship was about to give a loud cry when you suddenly heard his voice. It wasn’t the familiarity of his voice, it wasn’t the melody that lingered with it; it was the words that he whispered –the exact same question.
Have you heard of the Butterfly Effect? You didn’t know where to look, just like in your dreams he was nowhere to be found. He was always , and this time you let him guide you through it.
No, you answered.
You wanted to say more, to ask more and to finally stop from running away from him.
But Matthew, you couldn’t possibly leave him, he was your soul, he was your life…
It doesn’t matter. One cannot possibly go back in time and not be tempted to change anything. The smile on his lips was unbearably contagious. You couldn’t understand the words he was saying but your instinct argued otherwise.
All of it was real, Maia. You were there. Matthew died and everyone will be if you let it happen all over again. It’s time for you to believe.
It wasn’t a dream.
It never was.
Change it, Maia.
It is said that a butterfly's wings might create tiny changes in the atmosphere that may ultimately alter the path of a tornado or delay, accelerate or even prevent the occurrence of a tornado in another location. The location is a cruise ship, and the changes are just about to begin.