The Accident

They always say “great minds think alike”, and I think we’d both count as great men, but he and I have never thought alike. Never. He looked upon me as a youth drenched in the black mists of profit and gold coins, and I saw him as one lost in the stars and the moon. While I pondered over profitable red lines, he cried and laughed with small volumes that he read like how the fire burns the flesh. Such an extraordinary youth he was.

Did I ever doubt his talent? Never. I remember in secondary English class he once wrote “hide not from me as the white crystals of snow, for your shy scent betrays you.” Why could he think of so many poems just to describe a flower? Why couldn’t I?

But still we appeared as friends.

The small bar was sprinkled with warm candles and orange ambience lighting, and it was pleasing to sit in a booth as the wooden walls reflected the honey-coloured lights. He slid into the booth, sitting next to me, and sipped his beer. “Say,” he says, “there’s a competition in school tomorrow. It’s about writing a poem or story about snow. You going?” He perfectly well knew I was going to say no. He asked anyways, probably wanting me to go and read his brilliant improvised writing.
“Sure,” I said. He looked very surprised, but laughed joyously. The winter snow fell outside, slowly, slowly.

“Aren’t you going to prepare?” he asked me curiously after a while.

“You don’t need to,” I retorted.

“I’m different,” he said, but then cocked his head, “Uhh?” He was apologising for that comment in his way. I smiled.

“English homework’s due tomorrow,” I told him.

“Which?”

“That creative piece and the analytical, both.”

He grimaced, “Almost forgot about the analytical. Hate those.”

I smiled again. His fingers tapped upon the tabletop thoughtfully.

He suddenly looked out of the window, “Hey, isn’t that Paul? What’s he doing here? I’m gonna go check. Wait here. Be back soon, look after my drink—”

And with that, he was gone in a whirlwind.

—

Dear Journal,

First day of Secondary. There’s this boy beside me. He has large green eyes and black hair that grows to his shoulder. He reads books in recess. Nerd.

Dear Journal,

First month of secondary passed. The boy’s a joke. He pulls out branches from the ground and calls himself king of all England.

Dear Journal,

Second year of Secondary. I’m still in the class he is. He’s a nice guy, a little dreamy.

Dear Journal,

Third and last year of secondary. I’m going to the same university as he is!

(I remember these extracts from my journal.)

—

He laughed drunkenly and pointed to the middle of a road, “Hey, see there? There’s a golden butterfly. Beautiful. Got pen and paper?”

“No,” I replied, holding on to him loosely.

He shrugged, “I’m just going to put it in my jacket and put it in our dorm to live. It’ll freeze in this cold.”

He stumbles his way through the snow and tries to catch the invisible butterfly—

“Watch out!” I yelled.

Too late.

A car rumbling down the road evidently had no such feelings for an invisible golden butterfly. The driver saw him too late - he was dressed in white - the brakes - the slippery snow - crash, and it was all over.

—

Two years later he was still lying in that infirmary bed. He’s never going to wake up, the doctors said. His mother cried at his bedside. The papers mourned the loss of a young literary genius - hey, how did he ever get that famous?

Well, anyway, he didn’t get his golden butterfly, nor the first place of that goddamn competition, nor the fame of a published author.

He wouldn’t be writing anything soon.

—

“…look after my drink!”

And with that, he was gone in a whirlwind.

I smiled. The snow was a foot thick outside.

I dropped a white piece of medicine into his glass, and there it fizzed, like a golden, golden butterfly in the warm honey-coloured light.

I smiled a crocodile’s smile.

There was never any “accident”.