New York City
United States of America
November 2118
Free, Ansel
Finding your soul mate,
his mother had told him, is like reliving your experiences of true love.
Ansel Free never really
understood the comparison. After all, experience of *true* love – the purest
love, the most beautiful kind of love – was only to be experienced once in
someone’s entire lifetime. So Ansel attempted to refute his mother’s statement,
saying that true love was a one-hit kind of thing; however, she merely smiled
and told him that he would understand more when he was older.
(Ansel hated it.)
As
the boy grew up, he never felt that zap of love that people tended to feel. In
high school, a few of his friends had experienced it. During college, around
half of his peers found the person they were looking for – as cliché as it had
initially sounded.
Soon
enough, Ansel found himself caring less about soul mates as he worked his way
through his chosen course. The male worked late nights as he balanced academics
and his extracurricular activities, living and loving coffee as well as take
out. After a total of four grueling years, Ansel Free had walked and received
his diploma – a sign of his achievement.
A
total of seven months later, Ansel was working in the real world. He had been
hired by a multi-media company after various others had looks at his resume and
school records, immediately thrust into the field of film making and the arts.
Content enough, Ansel worked hard and aimed higher, into bigger areas.
Smaller-scale companies turned into bigger ones, paychecks went from just right to splurging once in a while. Before he knew it, Ansel had filled a
sense of fulfillment. His longing to be beneficial in the real world was being
satisfied; after all, he had a stable (and enjoyable) job, a comfortable
apartment and a good social life.
He
lacked in one certain aspect, however.
To
put it specifically, his life lacked color.
Ansel
Free, at twenty-four, still had the heart insignia on his forearm uncolored.
* * * * *
It
was an unknown phenomenon when it first happened; around the year 2050,
newborns all over the globe were discovered with small heart marks on various
areas around their body, particularly the forearm. Additionally, (as if doctors
and scientists and theorists weren’t crept out enough) half of those newborns
had tick marks on either the left or right wrist. This would later help in
determining the child’s dominant hand.
Even
so, the new addition proved to be staggering and unbelievable. A number
believed that it was a divine intervention proclaiming the number of days – or
years – they had left. Others merely thought that it was photoshopped; after
all, the first report of such incident was through picture. With the
non-believers came the faithful. They said that it was merely a shift in
evolution – something that could potentially be better.
With
no scientific evidence or medical thoroughness to prove anything, the doctors
and the scientists merely decided to see what would happen in the course of
twenty to thirty years.
In
that period, strangely positive things had occurred.
Reports
flew in like birds flying through open air, both filed by males and females
alike. They all said the same thing – upon meeting a specific person, color
would fill the black heart outline on their arm.
Another
common denominator freaked out the whole pool of scientists and doctors.
Ultimately,
they all married that person – the
person who caused color to fill the empty outline of a simple heart. Divorce
rates stunted. Statistically, the amount of happy families rose. There was more
diversity in the world than in the past hundred years. People eventually became
more open when it came to same-sex relations.
And
it was all because of a heart and some color that was needed.
* * * * *
Ansel
was part of the majority who had been born with a heart-shaped outline. The
existence of it never really bothered him as a chld; Ansel was one of the few
who wasn’t too bothered with the thoughts of true love and such.
Besides,
if the heart was there, it was already an assurance that someday, he would find
the love that he needed. So Ansel pushed away his worries and focused on his
studies, eventually working his way up and finding himself surrounded by
potential fame.
But
for the hazel-eyed boy, it wasn’t enough.
“You
need to find your SM,” Gong Jae Hwang told him, drinking from his tea much
after. Ansel sent his friend a small look. “Listen to me, asshole. I already
found mine and she’s the puzzle piece I needed,” the other insisted.
“Sure,
Jae. Because I’ll be able to find him or her in this clusterfuck,” Ansel spat,
yanking up the sleeve of his shirt. The uncolored outline stood out clearly
against his skin. “How did you find her? How?”
“No
idea, actually. It might have been fate.” Jae Hwang rolled back his shoulders,
Ansel catching sight of the lilac heart imprinted on his collarbone. “Look. I
know you’re not a keen believer regarding those kinds of things, but I’m
telling you, man. That person is out there,” the Korean insisted, “And you
should definitely be on the search.”
“And
what if I don’t?”
Jae
Hwang shrugged. “Fuck if I should know. You may die alone, unsatisfied and
craving for someone to love. But you know, since you don’t give a shit, you
missed out and ruined your SM’s chance at happiness as well.”
Ansel
Free groaned loudly and gave a visible scowl. “Fuck. Fine. I’ll be on the lookout.”
* * * * *
A
number of weeks before The Miracle, Ansel found himself dreaming.
Typically,
his dreams would be weird and incomprehensible. He usually dreamt of strange
events and losing fingers, the type of dreams which would leave him baffled
upon the first five minutes of getting up. But when those five minutes were
done, Ansel would shove them to the back of his mind and not think of them for
the rest of the day.
However,
his dream that night consisted of something…too lifelike.
Ansel
dreamt of fumbling limbs and teasing smirks from a woman; flashes of images
made him see a lady backed against the wall with a man pining her there. He saw
irritation and raw passion in the
man’s eyes, and the woman was merely smirking from ear to ear, taunting him.
As
if the dream hadn’t shocked him enough, he heard the man spitting threats and
curses under his breath that Ansel struggled to hear.
“I can’t fucking believe you – how
could you do that to everyone wih me there–”
“Aw, is he actually…jealous?” this lady drew out the word. Ansel felt what the
other guy was thinking at that moment – an intense envy. “I never knew that you were the jealous type.”
“I hide a lot from you,” he muttered darkly. She found her wrists pinned as
well. “Goddamn. I hope you’re ready to
pay the price,” the male threatened, and the woman didn’t even flinch.
In
fact, she grinned.
“Try me.”
And
the dream exploded into a thick, chaotic mess of passion and lust. Ansel woke
up with a start, cold sweat running down his body.
* * * * *
Ansel
dreamed of many more encounters from that night onwards.
He
found himself seeing girls kissing girls and boys kissing boys; visions of girl
holding boy and boy holding girl. Ansel found them to be like memories – they were
muddled, discontinuous, snapping from one to another. The male, however,
remembered a lot of things and rarely forgot even the most miniscule of
details.
But
why did the memories – the dreams – tell him something similar?
It
was as if they were telling him something, something he couldn’t pick up.
On
the fourth week, he found himself dreaming of memories once more. Instead of
resisting them like what he had tried to do, he let himself swim within the
subconscious of someone who was not he. Ansel found himself staring at the
night sky all of the sudden, feeling the wind against his skin and quiet
chatter from all around.
His
senses worked perfectly, even while asleep. He could feel the grass beneath his
fingertips, smell the cold air and see the dimness of the candles. He heard
chatter and tasted sweetness that he recognized as chocolate. It seems that he
had eaten.
But
aside from the senses, the physical senses and all of that, Ansel felt a deep
pit inside him.
And
he was falling into the pit.
“–never. I hate to break it to you.
But it was never there.”
Ansel
felt as if something had jerked his soul even deeper.
“Look at me.”
He
didn’t want to look.
But
the person did look, and he found himself staring into a pair of hard yet
sympathetic eyes. He never knew that the combination worked. “It was only you.”
Unlike
the other memories which contained either happiness or shallow joy, this was
different. Ansel didn’t like it, he hated it, he wanted out, out, out, out –
And
there it was.
Despair,
pain, rejection, anger and shock hit him straight in the heart.
He
opened his mouth to speak, wanting to question what the hell was happening.
But
instead of a confused male voice, what came out of his mouth – the person’s
mouth – was a heartbroken and devastated sob.
He
felt it. He felt every single emotion and wanted to burn. Ansel felt misery to
its highest degree, felt his heart splintering into many tiny pieces, and a
sick desire to be numb.
“No, no, no,” the person sobbed. “It’s a lie – everything’s a lie – a goddamn lie–”
Ansel
woke up with spluttering breaths and his whole self shaking. The American
yanked the sheets off him and got out of bed, running straight to the bathroom.
It
felt real. Everything he felt seemed real.
The
sight of his pale, sweaty face greeted him; eyes bloodshot as if he had been
crying all night. Lifting a hand to touch his cheek, he realized that he had,
in fact, been crying.
And
he saw it – right there from the reflection.
On
his left wrist, the twelfth tally mark was glowing an ardent shade of green.
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