The Past as Present

He lived as he loved as he died. An affliction. A walking contradiction. He measured everything using a ten star rating system.

"This movie is a eight out of ten"

"This burger gets a six"

He liked to listen to The Beach Boys. Some of his favourites included "Good Vibrations", "I Get Around" and "Fun,fun,fun".

Those songs are nines out of ten.

He was born on June 1989, to loving and well intentioned parents. They were a middle class family living in a good neighbourhood. They could afford to send their children to the best schools, allow them every opportunity money could buy. His father owned a string of successful businesses, ranging from wholesaling building materials, owning and renting various properties and businesses. He also had houses on the beach, and a plot of land where he kept and raised animals indigenous to the southern parts of Africa. He allowed people to vacation there for money. These people would come to hunt the animals. They would kill them using high-powered hunting rifles. They would cure and dry the meat, tan the hides, and keep the heads as trophies. Nothing went to waste. He remembers fishing with his father. He showed him how to knot the bait onto the hook, then how to cast it out into the waves. They would sit side by side and say nothing until one of them would feel a tug on their rods. They would leap to their feet with excitement and reel the fighting fish nearer and nearer toward them. Once out of the water, the fish would thrash around until his father grabbed onto it and held it firmly down on the rocks. He remembers the sun reflecting off the fishes moist, silvery scales. Sometimes the glare was strong enough that he would have to look away. His father would take a knife and pierce the soft pale belly of the fish, and his guts would spill onto the rocks. He remembers the fish's eyes darting back and forth as it fought for its life, while its gills pulsed rapidly as it tried to gasp for breath. But his father tells him that fish don't move their eyes and they can't breath out of the water so he is probably wrong.

Three generations of men had all attended the same single sex high school, so naturally he was sent there. The school was exclusive and expensive and known throughout the country as having some of the best schools' sports teams in the country. He was sent there in 1994, the same year the country had its first ever democratic election. There was a single black student in his class.

On his first day of school he is six years old. He remembers being nervous and scared. The most vivid moments from his childhood are always ones where he had been anxious or scared. He remembers walking with his mother toward the classrooms. He remembers holding her hand. He remembers feeling as though no matter how scared he felt, as long as he kept holding his mums hand he would be okay. He remembers her leaving the classroom along with all the other mothers. He remembers sitting next to another boy, a boy who's crayon he later uses to colour in a picture. He remembers breaking the crayon and then feeling scared and anxious, but the boy only smiles and seems not to care. The teacher comes over and she smiles at him and he feels light and happy. Later in life he remembers this to be one of his happiest memories.

He remembers being seven years old. He remembers sitting with his father in the living room, the two of them watching a movie. The movie has a murder in it. The murderer uses an axe and he does it in the snow. He remembers the red blood staining the white snow. It seems so real to him, and sticks with him forever the way a real memory would. The movie finishes, his father squeezes his shoulder;

"Time for bed"

Except for the living room, all the lights in the house are off. He remembers being scared of the dark passageways. There are rooms along the passage, all with their doors open and with the lights off. The dark escaping from the rooms seems blacker than the dark in the passage. He moves past them quickly, as if running a gauntlet. When he reaches his room he makes a dash for his bed and pulls the covers up just below his mouth. He lays as still as he can, trying not to roll over or breath too loudly. All he can think of is the man with his axe, and the blood on the snow. When the man comes he will be laying still and not making a sound. The man will come into his room and find nothing more than a dead boy in his bed. He doesn't breath. He doesn't roll over. He thinks;

"You cant kill what is already dead"

"You cant kill what is already dead"



The family would spend Christmas holidays on the coast. It was a secluded green beach haven, were the weather was always clear; and the beach less than a minutes' walk from the house. There was a point along the beach where a small river flowed into the ocean, and as the tide would rise and fall, the waters would differ. During the higher tides the river would be more full and the water more salty. During low ones, shallower and clear, the water more fresh. It was here, during a higher tide, that he had his first kiss. He was eight years old, she was seven. The girl would go on to fall pregnant at fifteen, and spend the rest of her life living with her mother, and would eventually die at twenty eight leaving her mother alone till she went on to die at seventy five. He remembers her sitting with her legs crossed, her toes digging into the sand. He remembers her giggling and smiling, constantly looking down. He remembers the sticky, salty taste of her lips.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing"

"Why are you laughing?"

"I don't know"

"Did you like it?"

She laughs and giggles and looks down again.

He must have done something wrong. She doesn't like him anymore and probably never wants to kiss him again. He still loves her though and remembers her and his first kiss fondly for the rest of his life.

From the age of eight till ten, he had only a single friend at school. He would often spend weekends at this friend's house playing video games on the computer. The game he remembers most clearly is one called Hellstrom. The object of the game was to travel the plains of hell, killing all form of demon and hellbeast. They would sit shoulder to shoulder, on either side of the keyboard. One controlling the movements of the character, the other controlling the shooting. He remembers this cathartic bonding experience fondly, were neither of them would speak for hours, content in their silent teamwork.

When he was slightly older he would see less and less of this boy. He instead began to favour the company of other classmates who would smoke cigarettes and play with fireworks. He remembers having little in common with these boys, he only remembers feeling more safe and secure being accepted into a fold of greater numbers. They would walk shoulder to shoulder, on streets, down empty storm drains, taking shortcuts through sports fields. They would smash mailboxes, windows and cars. Vandalism was how they bonded, how they got their thrills. There would be no wars for these boys to fight in, the excitement of mindless destruction was their war. They took out all of their misplaced aggression on public property.

These are some of the events that would shape his later life, these are some of his memories.

It's cold and wet outside, and I'm sure that once I finally board the bus it won't be much different. Small crowds of people stand around chatting, clouds of steam gently rising from their mouths as they talk to one another. I'm one of the few people who is travelling alone. I've noticed that most people show a kind of apprehension when travelling alone. They worry that they may be seated next to a talkative stranger, and fear being pestered for the entire journey. What I've noticed is that two strangers spend the whole trip worrying that the person next to them may at any moment try and strike up a conversation, so they sit in an awkward silence, never making eye contact, never saying a word to each other. I still prefer this to the alternative however; god help me, don't let this person say so much as a single word to me.

The bus arrives nearly thirty minutes late; and the passengers hurriedly load their bags and shuffle onto the bus. I find a seat near the rear of the bus, and luckily enough, the seat next to me stays vacant. The bus slowly begins to shift out the lot. Its late at night so few other cars are on the road. Staring out the window into the blackness of the night, the only light that breaks through the dark is that of the street lights. Like tiny alien space ships, all hovering at equal height, we speed past them; and if i stare hard enough, they all become a single golden blur; the same way that the wheel of a car spins so fast, it looks like it isn't spinning at all. Aside from the odd cough or the sounds of people shifting in their seats, the bus was silent. At the back of the seat in front of me was a compartment filled with newspapers and worn out magazines. I pull out a copy of Modern Citizen. It's the kind of magazine that's handed out freely with other subscriptions; and consists mainly of write-ups for seasonal events and advertisements for local businesses. On the cover is a beautiful middle aged woman with dark auburn hair and deep blue eyes. The smile on her face is broad and genuine; being on the cover of this magazine has obviously made her happy and proud; and that sincerity shows in the photograph. I flip through the pages until I come to the article that she's featured in. The headline reads:

Homegrow hero making it big abroad!

I read the first paragraph;

"Elaine Fitzmaurice is a lady who has spent all her life breaking stereotypes. In high school she was captain of the school hockey team, as well as graduating at the top of her grade. Later in university, she would go on to complete a masters degree in law, and also go on to compete in and win a streak of local beauty pageants. Now working with an international NGO, Elaine describes herself as a someone who looks good in a pair of heels, but isn't afraid to pick up a good book every now and again."

There is another photo of her, this time seated behind a big wooden desk, the same warm smile on her face. Behind her is a bookshelf stocked with law books, and various framed qualifications hang on the wall. In a way, stories like this have always made me feel anxious and slightly depressed. I don't like admitting it, but hearing of other peoples success has always made me feel insecure .It feels as though time starts moving forward too fast, and I just get left behind while the Elaine Fitmaurices' of the world start to take over. In a world of intellectuals who look good in heels; what hope do the quiet creatives, or the athletically gifted have? You either need it all, or you're stuck with nothing.

A gentle rain has started falling, forming small droplets on the windows. The sound of the rain makes me sleepy.

He remembers things like the feel of her hands. The way she would skip when she ran. The kinds of foods she liked. As long as he can remind himself of these memories, she stays alive. It was a good as she was there, as though she could walk through the door at any moment. They had spent a summer together on the beach. They would run along the beach, using sticks to scrawl patterns into the sand. They would stay awake all night drinking whiskey and talking.