The setting of my dream resembled Malaysia, particularly Ipoh, for some queer reason. I frequent visiting the latter during my childhood, as I have relatives living there. Vast land and terrace houses are vivid in my mind, there is no doubt in being acquainted with your neighbors.
A neat row of terrace homes were before me, as they were behind me. I picked one, without bias, and sat in front of the gate. No one was home; no one seemed to bother at least.
I was reading. The title “The Little Book”, I remember clearly. Though it was probably 500 pages or more thick. Not so little I suppose. All I had with me was this book and a pencil. I was enjoying the quiet, the fresh grass and slight breeze- not quite violent enough to irritate (you know those kind of winds that sweep hair across your eyes and cheeks without permission?)
I then heard a clatter of wheels along… well more cement and stones then a perfect tarred lane, if you’ve been to Ipoh. Blue vans and police cars turned into the street that I had adjusted myself to. I ignored them, curious, but I didn’t let it show.
They halted two houses beside and three extremely broad shouldered guys forced themselves into the house right across me. How rude.
Then a little strange thing happened.
A mute of hounds came marching out, slob monsters I swear. I love dogs, and I remember not loving those.
Then a strange little thing happened.
A few men followed after. On their fours, knees mirrored invisible paws- just like dogs. The men in uniform seemed pleased. One of them caught my glance.
There was a weird feeling in the pit of my belly and I stood up. I noticed my dad walking towards me. He always knew where to find me. Just like when I was little and got lost once in the airport. At five, the airport can be a disturbing place if without a familiar face.
He told me it was time to go. So we walked, we kept walking in the other direction. My book! I forgot my book.
The dogs were barking now. They were jumping hysterically. I ran back and grabbed my book, refusing to make eye contact.
A few more steps… My pencil! As though my father had heard my thoughts, he shouted at me to forget it. No. My pencil, I loved that pencil.
I turned back.
“Did you forget something?” I heard one of them say. I wouldn’t stop glaring; there was something quite off with those eyes or was it his grin that worked me up? I wanted to slap it out of him, but I didn’t know what.
He handed me something and I ran. I ran as quickly as I could back to my dad.
“So you’ve got everything?”
I slackened my fingers only to find a red pen, broken. It’s ink released a tragic odor smudged onto my palm. A bloody mess. I dropped it.
My pencil, where is my pencil? I had to go back.