What Are We?

By Tawanda Eddie Munongo

What Are We?

 We drove in silence that late afternoon, neither Clair nor I said a word. The road was deserted, just as we had hoped it would be. There must have been music playing on the radio – probably November Rain, though I paid no mind to it. We chased the sun as she raced towards the horizon, the ambers of last-light painting the sky in pale orange hues.

“What are we?” Claire asked, staring into the distance.

I had parked the car just a few feet from the cliff edge where we stood looking down at the infinite expanse of ocean-blue. I took a long drag of my cigarette, held it, then exhaled, and watched as the wind carried the smoke away. I leaned back, putting the bulk of my weight on the car. The waves crashed into the rocks far below, slowly chipping away at them with uncaring tenacity. Great and mighty as it was, the ocean offered no answer to her question.

“We are what we make ourselves,” I replied.

It was something that I had told myself constantly since childhood – a creed that I had failed to live by. If it were true, then I would have to take responsibility for what I had become.

“That’s not an answer. What are we??” she asked again, more forceful this time. “What are we doing here? Why do some people get to live while others die? Why do we have to suffer while others live in unimaginable luxury?”

Her voice broke as she spoke, as the pain that she had been burying deep inside clawed its way out. Claire was not prone to emotional displays. No one I knew carried more on their shoulders than she did, yet she did so without complaint. I could see, now, the web that she had spun beginning to unravel. She took a step closer to the edge, the wind blowing her hair and clothes so that, for a moment, she looked like she was flying.

“I want to know,” she continued.

I put my hand around her wrist and squeezed. I tried to push the images of her going over the edge out of my head because I knew, then, that if she did, I would go down with her.

“Life is like a flash of lightning…or a wave washing onto the shore. It comes and then it goes, and what we are left with are the impressions. Maybe that’s what we are – a temporary occurrence on the face of the Earth. A passing blemish, more like pimples, less like scars. Some more prominent than others, leaving deep marks that fade slowly. Justin was one of the good ones, and I’m glad to say that he lived as he died; authentically.”

“But, is this all there is for us? Are we doomed to endless cycles of hellos and goodbyes?”

She raised her head and turned to me, finally meeting my gaze. Her eyes still sparkled, but now it was a light from the outside, as her tears mirrored the sunlight. She still could not bring herself to cry.

“To want more is selfish. To want more is to spit on the forces that contrived to give us what little we have – unearned and undeserved. To want more is to think that we know better than the guiding hand of Providence Herself. It’s not our place to want more.”

I watched as her face changed, anger replacing sadness.

“But I do!” she cried, slamming her fist into my chest.

The wind carried her voice, and birds in the nearby trees fluttered away, no doubt startled by the sudden, unfamiliar noise. They were probably not accustomed to hearing the grunting of apes this far from civilization.

I picked up Justin’s urn that we had placed on the hood of the car and stepped forward, so that both Claire and I were right on the edge, staring straight down at the rocks that, if we fell, would pulverize us and not even notice.

“It’s time to let him go,” I said.

I waited for her nod of approval before opening the urn. The wind blew away the unsettled particles. I lowered my hand, sliding my fingers between hers. We closed our hands on each other and breathed, until her heartbeat was my heartbeat, and, in that moment, we were one.

“I failed at the one thing an older brother should excel at – I couldn’t protect you, Justin. Your future was bright; brighter than mine. I should have never let it get this far.”

“Do it,” Claire said, her eyes focused on the urn.

I hesitated.

“Do it already!” she cried.

She squeezed my hand with surprising strength. I turned the urn upside down and watched as the ashes poured out and immediately faded into oblivion, as everything else does eventually.

“I hope this fulfills his dream of sailing the ocean,” she said.

She let go of my hand and walked around the car to the passenger side. She opened the door and slid in. I checked one last time to make sure that she was not looking before pulling the syringe that had killed my little brother out of my pocket. The tremors in my hands intensified; I had not had a hit in close to 24 hours. I took a deep breath and focused my mind on the crawling sensation under my skin, like a million ants marching for their queen. I resisted the urge to scratch myself. ‘This is what I deserve,’ I thought.

I flung the syringe as far as I could, the momentum of the throw almost carrying me over the cliff-edge. I rebalanced myself and shook the urn, just to make sure that it was empty, before replacing the lid. The sun had disappeared, and a few early evening stars had begun to dot the sky. I opened the door and sat in the driver’s seat with my hands on the steering wheel. I noticed a familiar pair of eyes staring back at me through the rear-view mirror. They were my eyes, but something had changed.

“Let’s go,” I said, turning the ignition.

THE END

Tawanda E.J. Munongo is a writer and student. His work has been published in the Literary Heist and Ab Terra Flash Fiction magazines. He is currently based in China where he is pursuing a degree in Computer Science and Technology and working on a short story collection.