Lacking Fragments: A Novel (Completed)

The Contents of the Urn IV

Only then explained Margery. Close behind, first she switched the music from the Beatles to Haydn and Schubert's compositions, all found in one vinyl; compiled along with Beethoven's.

     It was before one of the hottest summers, 2017. Back in early January; four months prior to the month when Maya had decided to take the leap, before jumping from top of one of the highest buildings in the mainland. Back then, like myself, Margery said she used to be an employee under a certain company. And again, exactly just like me, Margery had forgotten the company's name she served already. Equal. Said she couldn't even remember its mission and vision (of which, in times of past, present, and perhaps future, is required for every company).

     Margery used to be a middle-aged lady. She also said, truly out of nowhere, that she fully pledged to herself that she'd never marry a man. "Never," she admitted. "Men are awful."

     Aside from her dim description, I asked of further why.

     But instead of her answering, the old lady said it didn't have to concern me; that, in all of her honesty, it didn't belong to my business to know about the said matter. Of her decision not to marry anyone.

     The point of her telling all these to me, merely, is because she thought I'd at least needed to know how her life intertwined with the siblings— how their points met: Margery, and Maya, and the little brother. How the three of them used to live altogether, right here, in the house that used to be so vibrant-looking. And that she had always been aware of the house's fading gold.

     "But still," I commented, "it still looks and feels vibrant here."

     "No, no," she retorted. "Not much from the outside."

     The old lady went on with her story. From this way forward 'till the end of her account, Margery took the narrative from me. Literally. This time, she had started telling. Of what happened within the months of January and April, year 2017.

     I now have a problem with memory, I'm completely aware of it. But in those months, I recall everything.

     I was out of this house, said Margery. Most perhaps having a day in the work, like many men and women with corporate jobs. You know, during business hours I had a schedule. Everyone did. Everyone does. Maya was in her twenties; her little brother, in teenage years. Giving the fact their parents died early, only when they were kids, at their given ages Maya and her brother could get by a day without parental accompany. The way I know both of them, they were independent.

     Besides, that time Maya had been working already, too. She had her own income, yes. She had money for herself, and for her little brother too, who was studying for junior high school. All three of us—as if kind of always—already had either responsibilities or role to play in the society. We were busy. We were working and studying, without even asking of how we were feeling. Immersed in our own worlds, that is more likely to put it. Each minute of passing clock we'd receive seemed occupied, like storage rooms, where none of us could breathe because of intense density. As if we were selfish.

     And then we—as in Maya and I—knew something was off about her little brother. His attitude, his behavior changed into something aberrant; a change of heart. It started mid-January.

     He had began returning home, right here, quite late at night. Yes, yes, Maya owned an apartment for herself, but still as big sister to her little brother, she used to visit here often. In this same house. That if I recall clear could be four to five times of visiting per week. Maya never let the weekends passed by without visiting here— that caring friend of yours, she always made sure of buying us groceries, giving her sibling too a fine amount of allowance. To us, Maya had always been open-handed. Too generous.