Snatch – a short story

2:26 AM now as I type, and I just finished the short story I’ve written for the Commonwealth Essay Competition in a hurry (no, not gonna submit it). Wasn’t really a good ending as I felt the need to end it and so I rushed, and I’m a bit lazy to re-read it for further edits. So here it goes – with the theme realisation and growing up.

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Snatch – by Clement Chan

The four-year-old toddler sat on the makeshift mattress on the floor, directing his tiny little fingers to reach out to that elusive Black Power Ranger toy on the table beside the queen-sized bed. His mother appeared from the bathroom, wrapping herself with a soft blue towel and noticed her son?s unsuccessful attempts to retrieve his favourite toy.

“Little Mike,” she smiled gently, her hands lifting him by the armpits and sat him on her laps. Her wet silky black hair touched the little boy?s forehead, and he wiped the moist away with his sleeve. Mrs Lee?s young solid face gleamed under the sun?s pulsating orange rays that pierced through the blinds.

“Mommy, how old are you now?” he asked suddenly, his squeaky voice resembled that of Mickey Mouse. He twisted the Power Ranger?s head to face him, and moved its plastic limbs. His face was hidden beneath the long shadow cast by the blinds and the evening sun. It was like any other fine day.

“30 this year, darling. Why?”

“If you?re 30 years old this year,” he pointed to the wall calendar displaying a picture of the vast green terrain of New Zealand, the month of July, and the year 2000, “that means you’ll be one thousand and thirty years old on the year 3000!” He gushed proudly – proud of his newly gained mathematical skills.

Ada Lee smiled, amused at this interjection. She stared towards the blinds and out into the mushroom of dark shadowed buildings, and said gently, “No Mike, I wouldn?t be able to live that long. All human beings who live must die one day.”

All human beings who live must die one day…

His dream world of eternal life, un-aged loving parents shattered and vanished at that instant, leaving traces of broken dreams – that singular dream to live happily ever after, forever.

Then he put down his Black Power Ranger.

*

Quickening his steps, Mike walked past the hundreds of people passing by him every second; people of all ages, races and sex, people who were busy with their thoughts, people who bumped each other all the time, followed by a casual “Sorry” and all was forgotten.

He lugged his heavy school bag, his head bowed down all the time in deep thought. His English teacher had talked about a recent incident – a young lady had her handbag snatched by two men on a motorcycle, and she was dragged for several metres before her clutching hand on her handbag gave away. There were scores of people who noticed the scene, but did nothing to help. “It’s sad really; that lady was then in a comatose, and she died several days later. If those people, those watching passers-by helped, she wouldn’t be where she is now.”

Mr Kumaran scratched his bald head as he spoke, “A pity. We humans these days are so disconnected like a broken chain that we don’t regard other people as our equal, our friend. To hell with those ‘brotherhood’ rubbish,” he paused, realizing he was straying out of his actual lesson. “We see each other now like cats are to dogs and dogs are to cats.”

A long and loud horn from a nearby silver Proton Waja yanked Mike out from his daydream. The impatient driver had gotten fed up with the severely heavy traffic jam; and later, he heard three cars and a bus blared their horns in unison. He could see the bus driver sweating, his hand smacking his forehead.

He continued his long journey home, a condominium of fair reputation and modest grandeur, situated opposite a popular park. He stopped suddenly and looked straight up to the bluish cloudless sky. An infinitely vast field of blue; but he felt no heat. The towers of high-risen buildings threw their shadows about.

A motorcycle from the distant zipped in between cars in the dual-lane, its noisy engine barely helping the sound pollution that had distorted the peaceful ambience the city had two decades ago. Mike saw the motorcycle out of the corner of his eye, but he took no notice.

Ten seconds later, he heard a loud shriek. Ahead of the lady, a young college student with dyed blonde hair was clutching onto her handbag as the motorcyclist firmly held onto the object that did not belong to him. She was dragged; both parties refused to let go.

Mike, with a quick sudden reflex dropped his bag behind and broke into a run, as fast as his eleven-year-old legs could carry. He felt a slight breeze blowing on his face, but he barely noticed. His view of either sides of him, people walking unperturbed, were warped into motion blur; all he could see was an imaginary white tunnel and at the end of it, the motorcyclist and the girl.

Luckily for him, the motorcycle slowed down as the two cars in front of him were on a bumper-to-bumper procession. The traffic wasn?t moving.

“Help her! Someone! Help her please!” was all Mike could yell. He gasped, he breathed. The passers-by, people of various professions, stood by and looked. Yet another snatch-thief, they thought.

Mike felt his legs wavering, his chest heaved up and down in a continuous rhythm. He ran, his adrenaline surging. The girl had already given up on her handbag and fell backwards on the road. She steadied herself on the electric pole, touching cautiously on her severely cut thighs and knees.

Mike continued dashing; he squinted his eyes and saw the motorcyclist getting away. His eyes and ears ignored everything else – now it was only the motorcyclist and him.

The motorcycle roared its engines, and Mike knew he had to do something quickly before the snatch-thief got away. The motorcyclist didn’t seem to realize that a young kid was chasing him, and he let his guard down.

As Mike drew near to the motorcycle, he literally pounced on the motorcyclist. The bike tumbled to the right, and screeched against the road for several metres before it drew to a complete stop. Mike had landed against the motorcyclist?s left arm, and so the impact on his physical body wasn?t that great.

Mike stood, and looked down on the criminal.

Blood. Crimson red blood, like graffiti on a whitewashed wall. ”?Mister?” Mike’s heart froze. “Mister?” he tried again, this time shaking his well-built body.

And all the while Mike failed to realize he had already ceased breathing.

*

For the concurrent weeks, Mike was now far more reserved than he already was. Everywhere he went in school, he was shot with dirty glares, heard whispers of “Murderer” loud enough for his benefit, and soon he was shunned and feared a little by all as the boy who killed.

Teachers were far more understanding and informed his classmates that the blame should not fall on Mike as he had done a very good thing.

“Didn’t I tell all of you before that snatch-thieves are going rampant lately? And look at Mike – he saved the girl’s life!” announced Mr Kumaran to the rest of the attentive eleven-year-olds.

“And snatched away another person’s life in turn,” muttered a boy. The incessant, cruel laughters ensued and Mike stared at his teacher blankly.

“Shut up, all of you,” the Indian teacher’s eyes hardened, and the class fell silent. His eyes could kill.

“No, Mike did the right thing. I doubt anyone of you would help any damsels in distress. No, I just don’t see it in any of you,” he said.

“But the man was killed,” another boy interjected.

Mr Kumaran glanced at the boy and said, “His fault for not wearing a helmet.”

*

Mike’s favourite pastime since the incident was going to the edge of the city at every opportunity, climb the small green hill and visit the graveyard.

But today there was a new addition.

As the sun blazed on top of him, Mike seemed unperturbed, his sweat glistening down his face. He walked past the collection of old tombstones and stopped at one, a modest inexpensive-looking grey stone.

Chong Ah Keat, 1985-2007, was all that was written on it. When a person who committed a crime dies, you don?t really need an epitath.

You don?t need a “Missed by…” nor do you need a “Departed peacefully at…”. Because he was certainly not missed by anyone, nor did he leave the face of the earth peacefully.

Mike stood before the tombstone for a very long time, and recollected his thoughts.

All human beings who live must die one day.

The words echoed in the silent graveyard, and he shuddered involuntarily. He turned away and walked towards the top of the hill where the men were digging, and he watched, lost in his thoughts.

A bronze coffin was put inside the newly-dug hole, and he watched as the men replaced a neatly-carved tombstone on top of it.

Ada Lee
1970-2033
Loved and missed by family and friends

In his late 30s, Mike, with his coat over his shoulder, glanced at the tombstone. He fished out a letter from his pocket. From his mother. He began to walk down the hill, letter in hand.

Mike,

Dear Mike. There won’t be any need for any pleasantries for you know how much I love you.

I am very much aware of my frail condition, and by the time you read this, I would have already been laid to rest. I know I will die soon.

The snatch-thief incident has very much affected you since, and I?m worried you might not be able to take it, for another death is about to happen. But you need to know that death is an inevitability. It doesn?t matter how it happens ? the question is when.

It isn’t your fault he died. You needn’t feel guilty over it. Perhaps it was his time.

All human beings who live must die one day. Appreciate your life, and enjoy it while you can.

Your loving mother,
Ada.

Mike smiled through his tears and he inhaled deeply. For the first time ever throughout his years climbing the hill, he began to notice the flowers blooming in an explosion of colours. He noticed the dead rat chewed halfway lying near the bushes, he noticed the bright yellow sunlight twisting the colours in the sky, he noticed the shadows of the great gigantic trees falling on him, and he noticed and he noticed.

And he noticed how wonderful it is to be alive. And he noted and realised, that life should be lived no matter how hard it is – till nature takes its course, or when an omnipotent being decides.

Mike threw away his coat, looked at the orangish sky, and inhaled the fresh moist air which the city does not offer.

For the first time in his 37 years, Mike felt very much alive.