Inkling | rejected & unpublished short stories

Hope Tubes

            "Lily, can I have a tube of hope?" she asked me. I passed the girl a smile that turned genuine when returned and an ornate tube of said hope. Her longer and skinner fingers brushed mine as she wrapped them around the tube. Mine was always fat, filled till the brim. I put flowers on the coat of it to differentiate it from my toothpaste tube so when someone asked for a shoulder to cry on or words to boost them up from a fall I wouldn't give them Colgate instead.

Hope came in tubes. Tubes made of molded plastic, plump in the middle, begging to be squeezed so it can exit through the small opening at the top. Each person had a different way of conveying and giving their tubes to other people. The tubes we squeezed out to rub on wounds when we tumble on our knees. Some were fake, some were as true as love unpolluted by motives. Throughout my life, I had seen a lot of people handling their tubes. I had seen people crafting empty tubes and giving it to damsels who waited in front of their cottage doors for the specific delivery. I had seen people dropping their tubes down a cliff and turned mad. I had witnessed people refusing to receive any tube, pretending the tubes handed to them as invisible.

The last people were the independent ones. Either that or they were the cautious ones—too timid of the idea of getting hurt than getting hurt itself.

I was safely situated in the land in between the independent and the cautious ones. But I was slowly scooting and venturing into a braver person because I realized that I could not say no to all the tubes. I could not just walk away from expecting hands just because I knew the hope filled in was not enough or harboured flaws. I was a perfectionist in judging tubes of hope. One flaw could lead to a deficit of stock. Expiry dates on tubes should be banned and even if they were allowed, they should not be hidden by masking tape. I told myself that I should never settle for less so I rejected every defective tube of hope and claimed that I was waiting for the perfect one. Even though I was perfectly aware that perfect did not exist. It just added more to my point of not taking in any tubes of hope from others. Hope should be evergreen and I would work hard just to keep the tubes I had given to others refilled regularly. And I would make mine as close to perfect as I could so I will always look at other tubes as less and I would never settle.

I did not trust anyone to take tubes of hope as seriously as I did. Hence why I was both the independent and the cautious one.

Nonetheless, I never denied that receiving tubes was in our nature and I could hold off for so long. What I failed to expect was how fast presence of someone willing to give me tubes of hope would come.

"Thank you, Lily," the skinny fingers told me, "I pray that one day someone will shower you with tubes of genuine hope and make you happier than a forest being overlooked by a city planner."

"You too," I said.

"And I pray you'll let them," she said, her eyes lingering on me a second too long, letting her words sink in.

He came in like a flash exploding from a camera when you thought you turned it off in the settings. He was like the rainbow at the back of your head you only know exist when you turn around. All I could say was that he startled me by shoving a tube in front of my face.

"Let me listen to your thoughts you call stupid. And don't you dare decide what I say about them," he said, a stubborn but thoughtful way to talk to the independent ones. My hands fell from my pockets as he stared straight into my eyes, a place I never let anyone look into. They said eyes are windows to the soul but I was just anxious that my secrets would spill out of at the first sight of someone willing to sit and take them in. "You don't have to be careful with me."

I stared back at the boy with a name as common as Adam for a long time, trying to assess the realness of his words. My eyebrows furrowed in confusion when I could not tell. He never seemed to care that I was having doubts. Doubts scare company away like a rabid dog in most cases. He distracted me from my terror of receiving hope, talking about the meaning of my name and how his grandmother had a garden of the flower when she was alive. Carefree but careful. He wrapped silence with birthday wrapping paper and ribbon before giving it to me when I needed it, making me noticed how company was desirable even at moments you want to be alone.

Back then, I used to consider the lines and boundaries I drew around me as art. I could keep everyone at arm's length from my heart with the lines. I was in control. I would never get hurt if I let no one in. But I was nice and kind to others as chocolate to the person eating it. I gave hope away to those who needed it—a friend, a daughter, a listener—I was not stingy. Me restricting myself from taking in tubes of hope never meant that I hated hope wholly.

The boy with the name as common as Adam attempted to touch the cavity in me spilling out insecurities like a punctured dam but I did not let him. He strived to give me presents but I said that I could buy it for myself. He tried to give me care but I politely said no.

And I pray you let them.

"Will you take this tube? I promise I will do my best. Let me try, please?" he said, almost on his knees as I stared at the floor. The tube he offered was just centimetres away from my fingers. I looked up and saw the sincerity dripping from his face, begging to let him be nice to me and begging me to be kind to myself. "Let me give you this tube of hope."

It scared and enthralled me as I unwound my hands from crossing around my body defensively. I knew that no promises were sempiternal but did it matter if it could taste like forever? The fear evaporated from me like droplets of water from a washed container left for twenty-four minutes as I extended a hand and touched his tube. The tube had no flowers and was not as plump as mine but I looked up and smiled at how enough it was as I hugged it to my chest.

Flawlove's Notes:

Two things first:

1) I'm eighteen so I write about love, although not all the time (since I'm also annoyed with chick flick romance YA book trends lately). I'm going to stop acting like it's not a natural thing to be own with ideas like this although I have my own way of expressing and perceiving it. If my stories held not enough romance in it, it's on purpose. If my stories are too sappy for you, okay. I learned that I cannot satisfy everyone so I should start by satisfying myself. You know, like in the story, I have to be kind to myself first.

2) Read my story as a story, pretend you don't know me if you do. I know it's like a game but please don't start assuming which part of my story is real and which is part of my weird imagination. Unless I ask you or tell you which one so J. My characters may hold a few resemblances (be it stark or indirect) with myself and people around me. Not gonna deny that because I had always thought of the claim "this story is a work of fiction, therefore none of the elements and characters of this story has anything to do with the real world and people, be it dead or alive" as illogical.