“We’ll stay in this spot.”, Judas pointed at the tree stump right across the bushes dividing the small playground. As children were playing on whatever was available in the entertainment structure, the two laid their backpacks and some of their jackets around their waist on the slightly brownish wet grass.
They planned to stay at the spot until an hour before their departure to Venezia, an even further destination than where Tanya was reaching. Although Cay had so much to tell her, he thought best not to mention any, for fear of the unknown future laid waiting the two unlikely acquaintances. He thought about it while extracting his jumper out from the bag, covering more ground so both the men could have more space to shuffle around.
They bought sandwiches and pitted-olives from a nearby Carrefour Express, just enough to sustain the already exhausted two. The sun was pouring heat from above, but thankfully the two were hiding beneath the shading cover of the cork cedars. Cay still imagined that they were oversized fungi with overlapping greenery called leaves, waiting for the right time to release their spores. Engulfing the entire garden and whoever was within the vicinity. Cay had always travelled around with a form of audio appliance. As he picked up his Jabra amplifier from his top compartment of his backpack, he asked Judas for preference of music.
“Lo-FI hip-hop, choose any song from the “Chillhop’ playlist. It’s my favourites.”
“Alright.”, Cay logged into his Spotify account, found the playlist and set it on shuffle.
Cay did enjoy the floral scenery, along with the compliments of soft, hip music. They were a nice combination. He had to thank Judas for his taste of music later. In the recent years, most of the recent young generations have shifted from listening to bad-quality pop to unbearable House, Dubstep, and whatever contained bombastic sound effects that went against what their ancestors wishes. Cay had always known his taste for music was different, he judged people by their preference--- to determine if they were worth investing his time on.
He started to understand his traveling companion more now, there was an increasing liking for Judas that Cay had noticed himself. His silent acknowledgement and determination, his options of smooth and relaxing playlists, and his occasional worry about Cay had touched the core of the latter friendship. He had chosen the right person to travel with.
They laid their backs on the stump in support of what they were doing, Cay read his book while Judas closed his eyes in an attempt to sleep through the interval. Energy conservation was not needed, thought Cay, after experiencing long transport journeys while fully awake. He wanted to occupy his free time with any activities available, to be tired enough on their train to the next destination, to be exhausted enough to think of anything else.
The two left for the central station before sundown, with the empty container and boxes once contained salty olives and cold sandwiches they threw them in a bin that they had passed. Leaving the familiarity of Villa Borghese Gardens with its’ mythical beast drinking fountains and tall, healthy cedars.
It felt strange, to leave many things behind, yet relieved at the same time; The sad memories would remain in Rome, along with what the two have seen and enjoyed. The time for boarding had been shown on the electronic board before they went on to their specified train. Arrivederci, Roma. Cay whispered at the side window as their train went further and further away from the station.
*
Judas came back changed, his parents felt a different aura from him as he first stepped into the house through the front door. It was not their half-estranged son, but a man with a fractured look in his eyes. His mother stepped aside for him to walk pass, his father was leaning beside the kitchen table reading a newspaper. He had his reading material down to his waist when he glimpsed his son’s empty eyes. It was an unusually sunny Sunday morning in Southampton.
Judas boarded the flight from Yangon International Airport to the airport at Gatwick. Traumatised by the incident led by General Myint, who slaughtered the Rohingya Muslims back in the refugee camp. Thee general was seen standing alongside others with nearly the same badges on their left chests, a line of murderers under the news title “Burmese Government Maintaining Regulations Over Rohingya Muslims”.
He still remembers vividly, the boy with his bashed-in skull, the same fate as his mother. The two bloods were perhaps trying to pull themselves closer to each other, to have the last embraced that was ultimately denied by the militants. Hence, the brutal scene occurred, they died, knowing that they would not see each other again--- maybe in the afterlife would allow then to rejoin, if there was ever one to begin with.
The Myanmar government had kept the real story well-hidden. The only reporters that were not detained only reported about the refugee camps, but could never see the physical encampment. They all went home fruitless and frustrated. Most of them were afraid, because after the detainment and interrogations, some never went backed their country, let alone arriving at their respective hometown.
Judas and the rest of the volunteers were strangely let through their boarding process without much of a disruption: The occasional eyes of suspicion trained on them by some sort of government personnel. He waited just outside of his boarding gate, without the worry of someone pulling him far away from his flight, from his home. He was nervous, yes, but not for the same reason every foreigner had. In his eyes, the reoccurrence of the murder of the mother and child played with every detailed scene without a single omission.
He took the national train line with its’ issued orange and faint-yellow ticket back to home. The Journey only took about an hour and a half.
Back in his room, he felt the familiar scent of days-worn clothes no longer suited him. He got out of his bed, still with his clothing from Myanmar on, and started gathering all the things he deemed were disposable. Most of the items were old clothes he never liked, some posters of unknown singers and music bands (probably reggae) , and a lot of miscellaneous objects hoarded when he was young. He threw them away, inside black bin bags with their unbelievable depth of capacity. He left at least eight of them beside the government-issued bin along the walkway outside of the house.
He went back into his room without any confrontation from either of his parents, and sat on his own bed. The springs within the mattress had started to become unaligned since a year ago, he could feel the spiraling metals trying to force themselves out of the thick fabric. He did not like it but could not do anything about the bed, he wanted as much comfort as possible: Not from his family, but from his own body warmth, hiding inside of the darkness and with only a thin duvet to shield him from the cold summer morning.
He did not wake up until that evening when his mother called to him. Dinner was ready. He did not hesitate as he had been starving since the flight. He sat down at the table and forced down the usual Sunday roast meal. It tasted bland, just like everything else.
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