Earth, Singapore,

Kai Burner

On most nights, I lay awake and lament wistfully about the life I used to have. The life that, although filled with endless, unfathomable trauma and hurt, was one that nonetheless had Mom, Dad and Ezra in it. But now, they are no longer here. And not only do I not have any memento to remember them by, but the more I think about them, at any given time, the more I try to remember their faces, the more obscure their facial features become.

I was so ungrateful. I was ungrateful then, perhaps I am still ungrateful now. Nothing, in that regard, has changed for that matter, but I shall leave it up to you to decide. What has changed drastically however, and I can agree to this fact, is my situation now.

I do not like it here. They say it is imperative, that there is no other way, and that it is for my own good. If I had other relatives, maybe things would have turned out differently for me.

Both Mom and Dad were sadly lone children. To add on to the misery and by a stroke of bad luck, fate had also decided to sap away the lives of both sets of my grandparents at a very young age. Having to not met or known familial ties which most would refer to as 'cousins' or 'distant relatives' either, because destiny, for reasons unknown, however still unsatisfied with the already sorrow-ladened state that is my life, decided to bestow my lineage with the curse that is social reclusiveness, isolation, loneliness and not forgetting the worst of all monsters, addiction.

If Mom and Dad had any distant relatives, they did not mention them even once. And it is highly unlikely as well, considering that if I had had any, this would have been something documented anyway, and so I wouldn't be in this quandary right now.

And I now, although only still a young child of twelve years old, understand that it is unnatural to have grown up in a household whereby needles, scraps of tin foils and mysterious brown coloured powder were part of the daily ritual. Ezra once told me that that was not something new just in our family. He said Dad was exposed to that lifestyle since he was young, an influence from his none other than amazing Father. Nevertheless, we have been really lucky not to have fallen into Dad's footsteps, nor did he even once pressured us into trying it.

But since we are on the topic of him, I shall elaborate further. Dad in particular, someone whom I was both highly fearful of and had cherished to a high regard, as to which later I will explain in detail why, was equally the sole and main tormentor, and also oddly my longing in what was my previous life.

I am not sure how it all started. My earliest recollection of consciousness had already exposed me to this very repulsive lifestyle, which I once thought was the norm in every household. I realised that my Dad, Jonathan Burner, possessed a dual personality which appeared in cycles.

His favourite activities mainly involved the use of fire, thus also ironically upholding the family name 'Burner', but gradually, I realise conspicuously, as his interests evolved from lighters, plastic straws and tinfoil, to lighters, spoons and needles, that that also profoundly intensified and exacerbated the dual personalities which he exhibited.

When he was haunted by obsession with his flame, he became the father not only one that I loved, but also the one I preferred. I call this the 'Loving Dad'

With completion of the mystifying activity, Loving Dad became calm, relaxed, sometimes even needy, which then I would become apt as his personal caregiver, being subservient to his every whim and request, out of my own volition. I like being needed, which is another shortcoming of mine I cannot seem to abolish. I take after Mom, in that regard.

When I heard, back in school, when my classmate Kimmy mentioned her troubles taking care of her Grandmother, I could relate wholeheartedly, reaffirming yet again my once belief that caregiving to a family member was nothing short of normalcy. Ezra however, would not conform to that role, nor did he agree with my incipient transitioning into my messiah complexes.

To say that Ezra was disgusted with Loving Dad would be a gross understatement. When Loving Dad was in the building, Ezra would either lock himself up in his chamber, or slunk his way out the door of our house. Where to, I do not know.

Though even now, I still harbour a slight resentment towards him. I think as the older one, he should have set an example and become the caretaker. But it does not matter, for I had found fulfilment and purpose in being the 'saviour'. Furthermore, a seed of resentment that has grown within me, towards Ezra, is because of another, bigger issue.

Call me naive or foolish, but I would love to save the world one day. I've already had some practice anyway. I want to make a difference in the world, and despite my adversities, I believe that one day, I will.

Which now brings me to 'Hurtful Dad'. In stark contrast to Loving Dad, Hurtful Dad was visibly marked by the absence of the activities that always mellowed him into being Loving Dad. Maybe he was ill or sick, I was unsure then, but that seemed to be the case, based on my research I undertook into understanding how to care for both Loving Dad and Hurtful Dad. That powder was heroin, I had gathered as much, thanks to the Internet. Furthermore, it was the unanimous suggestion from multiple websites from my googling endeavours that mentioned drug addiction being a lifetime disease. And so, it is safe to conclude that my Dad must indeed have been sick, in some way or rather.

Akin to other disorders and its functions, in the absence of his much needed medication that was Heroin, at its worsened state, Loving Dad, a sombre and relaxed entity inside a chrysalis, would eventually morph and mutate into full blown Hurtful Dad, a despicable malevolent being capable of ravaging and obliterating everything in its path for its own agenda. With destruction capabilities equivalent to those performed by Stalin, Adolf and Mao. They would have been proud of him as their successor. Luckily for the world, and more so for Mom, Ezra and I, he was not a man in political power. On the contrary, I would infer that Dad was instead filled with pitiful weakness.

The forms of Hurtful Dad, in itself, had its multiple stages. The initial sign of Hurtful Dad would be innocuous, he would scratch at his body furiously, as if vanquishing the evil that was attempting to surface through. Most of the time, Dad's personal attempts of banishing that dastardly menace did not result in success, which led to the next stage.

In a fetal position on either the sofa or the floor, he would writh in agony, usually whispering in whimpers, guttural moans and groans. With apparent muscle aches worst than that of the calfs belonging to an African olympian's after a marathon. It was painful to see Hurtful Dad at this stage. As Hurtful Dad hurt, so did we. And at that stage, we anticipated the worst.

The moment Hurtful Dad's voice was raised—a telltale sign that he had undoubtedly almost transformed into his fullest form—our plans would shift into gear. Unlike in during Loving Dad, where in that stage, I was the caregiver, in that stage of Hurtful Dad however, Ezra and I would reverse roles.

Ezra would replace my caregiver role and I would hide myself in the room. Then, I would sit in a corner and listen to music on my headphones, on full volume, as Ezra had instructed. To distract myself further in that moment, I would attempt to read my favourite kind of novels; Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, Assassin's Apprentice, The Fifth Season.

Sometimes, my eyes would brim with tears, but I would fight the urge to release them, thinking that if I were to save the world one day, I ought to be strong enough emotionally. I just instead focused on what I had promised brother Ezra to do, which was to stay out of whatever that was happening in the main hall. 

Most of the time it would be too difficult though, what with the cacophony of the sounds from the living room loud enough that it would penetrate my ears which were already booming with ballads of melancholy. I would occasionally hear the faintest of sounds, from the disconcerting clattering of knickknacks, to the shattering of glassware. Sometimes even, I would hear a loud thump or two. The sources of those thumps however, are unknown to this day. I was told not to leave the room at all costs. Only until Ezra would knock and tell me that it was safe to do so, I would.

"Promise me, Kai."

"I promise."

"No, we'll pinkie on it, and you won't break this one."

"I never do."

"You always try to do something. You always think you can help in some form of way. Sometimes you need to know that there are some things you can't do. Some people you can't save."

"I said I won't..!"

"I'm serious, Kai. You know what he's capable of."

"I know. I said I won't, okay? But what if he's Hurtful Dad while you're at work?"

"Then you leave me a text and then hide in your room like I told you to."

Perhaps the reason why we stayed in recluse, and why I had to hide from Hurtful Dad, was because of the fact that Dad, according to Mom, had killed someone and was a fugitive. And I know what you're thinking, where did Mom have a part to play in all of this? But the very thought of her, even up to now, would invoke immeasurable pain, and I thus cannot bear talking about both Mom and Dad at the same time.

Because of our circumstances, Dad did not work. For reasons which you would later understand why as this story progresses, Mom did not work as well. Ezra, being the oldest brother at the age of fourteen, had ended up working part time as the sole breadwinner of the family until, when the struggling got too much for him to handle, had dropped out of school altogether, and instead, focused on working to provide food and apparently, Heroin too, on the table. If Dad had savings from his previous employment as an engineer, he had squandered and depleted it quickly to feed his pathetic fiendish disease.

But Ezra, I hate him to the core now. One month ago, he decided to just vanish from the face of the Earth. His once filled wardrobe with favourite clothes from corduroy pants, gaudy-neon coloured clothes and cotton cardigans, became what looked like vestiges of a retail store after an earthquake, having left a pile of clothes strewn messily before his grand escape.

His departure did not make any sense, and my texts and calls have been since either undelivered or left unanswered.

After everything, to think that he would have left me in that situation to languish like how an imprudent Dog Dad would abandon his domesticated labrador in the forest to suffer and ultimately die from the lack of survival skills and being unadaptable to the wild is beyond me. The ties that keep a family together, I thought, were chained, linked and tethered sturdily and unbreakable, no matter how complex or difficult the family ordeal.

But I, as someone who incipiently possessed saviour complexes in which he could not possibly comprehend, had to make do with such tribulations. When the time comes for me to show that I am worthy, I would no doubt be in much dire situations.

So I endured. For that was the only thing I could do. And unlike Ezra, I, Kai Burner, future saviour of sorts, refuse to abandon the people that mean a lot to me, no matter if the going gets tough or when the tough gets going.

But I will not deny that him leaving us has left me embittered.

Food became scarce, and the coins in my piggy bank which were semi existent to begin with had ceased to exist entirely. I almost entertained the idea of giving up school as well, but Dad reprimanded me not to. He then said he would kick the habit soon, would try to look for a job and be a real father this time. Make things right. I did not believe him one bit then. I learnt that Loving Dad would always say things very pleasing to the ears but whatever promises that were spoken of would never be followed through. I wonder if it is the same with all the other Loving Dads around the world.

Taking care of Loving Dad was taxing. But that one night, when I fell asleep beside him, I had awoken the next morning beside a cold and stiff cadaver. I still remember that moment so vividly etched in my head, and I don't think I will ever forget it. And I also cannot put into words what I was feeling. To even say that I was devastated would not begin to cover half of it.

Time slowed. I heard my very heartbeat throb up into my brain, pulsating and aching my temples. My stomach wrenched and turned, and I remembered battling with the thoughts inside my head that prattled on with uncertainty over what to do. An interminable low ringing sound rang in my head—like mosquitoes buzzing near the ears—amidst the internal bedlam. I was going through overdrive on the inside, but my outward self stood bewildered by the situation, as though I was in a stuporous trance from a Ketamine K-hole overdose. Yes, I have researched drugs to that extent.

After much hesitation however, I finally touched him, shouted at him to come back as I shook him, as if there was a chance he would have woken up. I retched, more from the sight of death than the slight malodour, then receded from his lifeless body from disbelief.

I then repeated the same set of actions.

The night prior, Loving Dad had acted more peculiarly than usual, spewing words as though he was saying his final goodbyes. But because Loving Dad would sometimes get all maudlin and sentimental, I did what I always did—I replied to him with my usual repertoire of perfunctory answers and thought nothing of it.

"Kai, I'm sorry.."

"It's okay.."

"You will do something good with your life.. I know you will.."

"Okay, Dad."

"I can see it for some reason.. I can see it.. And I am very proud of you."

"Thanks Dad."

"Take care of yourself. Take care of Ezra too.."

"I will."

"I love you.."

"I love you too, Dad."

Realising the conversation we had had, I glanced at his then corpse slumped on the sofa in front of my eyes, and after grasping what had happened, as reality kicked in, a surge of sorrow rushed inside me, and I dropped to my knees and wailed my lungs out and screamed a nasty cryptic note, similar to how a devoted mother would howl with anguish over the sight of her child who had lost his war with depression and decided it was better to instead end his life by jumping off the 20th storey building.

As I screamed for which in fact lasted no more than ten seconds but felt as though for eternity, his 'Best Dad in the World' cup on the table—given by Ezra many years ago—cracked before my very eyes. But it did not shatter entirely. Yes, I know that that is not possible, and yet it happened. I'm only telling it as it happened.

Perhaps it was only coincidental, for it was an old cup that was chipped at the top, where the crack started from.

The next thing I knew however, and if my memory serves me correctly like it always does, I tumbled to the floor, unconscious.

I woke up moments later to the loud thumps at the door. It was the police. Apparently, the scream was alarming and disconcerting enough that our neighbours decided it was best to call the authorities. The police attempted an inquiry but according to Janice, my social services caseworker, I had gone berserk and passed out again after.

I then found myself in a paediatric ward when I awoke, with Janice at my bedside, who kept me up to speed with what had happened. The police had declared Ezra on the 'missing children's list', and because I had no other relatives, it was the ordinance that I was to be placed into an orphanage. Willing Hearts Orphanage, to be exact.

That was twenty days ago. Now, as I balance and sit legs crossed on top of my precariously squeaky single sized bed that might collapse at any moment, like a parkour enthusiast with a deathwish teetering himself on a narrow ledge atop a skyscraper, I hide myself underneath the blanket covers while I relive my darkest of memories, and my eyes start to moisten.

With my phone propped at the side of my blanket with its torchlight brightening the darkness, and a paperback of The Obelisk Gate—the second instalment to the Broken Earth series—left open on my lap, I let go entirely, weeping with my hands to my mouth to mask the sound, letting the droplets of tears pebble and paint the pages of my once favourite chapters.

I long for my family. Nothing else matters anymore. But for a moment, I swear I can see a small stream of silver-like curls rise from the now splattered tears on the pages through my bleary eyes. I rub my eyes with my right forearm and have a second look. But unlike the real sorry state of my life, much filled with anguish, rawness and intensity, it was apparently just an illusion.