3
Lilith Ng Xin Yi

I was once a Christian: I went to the Church every Sunday for Service. Once there, I saw children of my age. We all had fun before the Service started. My mother always smiled when she saw me having fun. To me, it was not about God, but about talking to my friends.

My mother once told me that before she converted to Christianity, she was a bad woman. She said God changed her thinking and that she now looked forward to life, instead of fearing the road ahead. She told me that if I had any worries, I should turn to God, too.

One Sunday, when all my friends were not there yet, I asked my mother why Jesus Christ had his hands and legs all nailed onto the cross. I asked my mother if it hurts. My mother told me, “Because he sacrificed for our sins.”

After my mother told me the meaning of the word “sin”, I said, “Wah, mama. You did something wrong?”

My mother nodded.

If I had been sixteen years old instead of six years old then, I would have told her, “You did something real fucking wrong.”

Ben Sira immediately sat down and wrote an amulet with the Holy Name, and he inscribed on it the angels in charge of medicine by their names, forms, and images, and by their wings, hands, and feet.
The Alphabet of Ben-Sira

(Almighty Angel of Death,)

I had called Zhi Wei about three times in the morning and when he did not answer my fourth call in the afternoon, I sent a text message to him:

“U better call me back. Bad news: I have STD.”

Within minutes, he called back; his voice panting, as if he had just finished a run. The sweet voice that he used two days ago had turned bitter: His reply was, “What do you mean?”

“Your class ends at four today.” I said. “Come to my house today by five. You know where it is. It’s where you fucked me. You don’t come, you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

When I ended the call, I fished out a cigarette from my cigarette pack, lit it, inhaled, exhaled and then tossed it into the ashtray.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sometimes, I thought of what happened twenty-three years ago. How had my mother reacted when she realized that she was pregnant? Did she even go to a hospital and have frequent medical appointments with a doctor? Or maybe, the entire nine months, she spent the time at home, wondering if she should abort or keep?

I did not ask her but I imagined. I imagined all the possible scenarios when she received the news of her pregnancy: She must have been surprised or, maybe, even a little angry and depressed. She must have thought about abortion and she must have been wondering if the baby in her womb was going to be infected as well. She must be, without doubt, stressed. She must be; for the choice she was going to make was going to determine my life.

She made a mistake when she gave birth to me in the toilet of a shopping centre and dumped me inside a cubicle for a few minutes before coming back to get me.

But the biggest mistake was not about her abandoning me for the few minutes; the biggest mistake was, I was born, she was HIV-positive, and she just fucking presumed that I am HIV-positive too.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When the doorbell rang, I was half-way through another cigarette. As I opened the door, I exhaled a cloud of smoke. Zhi Wei was in a typical university outfit: A body-hugging Esprit t-shirt, bermudas, a pair of flip-flops and a red Crumpler messenger bag that every student seemed to be carrying.

I said nothing and just strolled back to the sofa, flicking ashes into the ashtray.

Arzael?

Zhi Wei – Azrael? – closed the door and marched quickly towards me. “What do you want?”

(I see thee, please)

“I am HIV-positive.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The first time I told someone I was HIV-positive was a mistake that I only realized hours later. I thought it was just a normal mistake that any child would make: Like running in the supermarket or spilling a drink in a restaurant.

I didn’t know the severity of it.

I was only nine years old then. In my school, it was cool to be sick. Jane had asthma, a childhood illness that she told me “will never go away”. But she was proud of that for every once in a while when she started to cough, the teacher would approach her and ask if she was fine. David – the other guy sitting next to me – had a persistent cough. He said it was cancer: Something that “will make parents cry, like in a television drama”. I told him cancer kills but he said his kind of cancer would not kill and that all it takes for him to recover is more cough syrup. In fact, he even proudly told me how he had tried to avoid the medication, so that he would never recover as he wanted to be sick forever.

My mother once told me that I have an illness but she did not describe my illness in detail. One day, when I probed again, she finally said that I was old enough to know about my condition.

“You’re HIV-positive.” she said during dinner. We were having fried rice and chicken wings, my favourite food, but the topic made the food tasted bland. “It’s a… it’s something that is passed down from me.”

“Is it a childhood illness?” I asked. “Jane’s illness is childhood illness. So are David’s and Siti’s. How about mine?”

My mother was silent for a few seconds. I could tell she was avoiding my question but I really wanted to know the answer, so I continued, “Mama, it’s a childhood illness, right?”

“Something…” She chewed on her food, looked away and said, “Yeah. Something like that. It won’t get pass… twenty years old.”

“So, when I am twenty years old, I will be cured?”

“Well,” my mother put down her bowl of fried rice, looked at me in the eyes and said, “It will be over.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

My mother told me never to tell others about my condition. She repeated that again when we were watching television that night and then emphasised that again when I was tucked in bed. The next morning, she said that if I were to tell anyone that I am HIV-positive, it would lead to terrible consequences.

It felt like being a child who had just bought a new toy but was unable to play with it. When I was in the school bus, I nearly told someone. But I remembered my mother’s words and kept my secret.

It, however, got spilled out during English lesson that day. Jane started to pant and our English teacher, Mrs. Yeo, ran to her immediately, asking if she was okay. Jane continued to pant for a minute and then calmed down. Everyone was looking at her and she seemed proud to have created a scene.

“Hey,” I whispered to her after Mrs. Yeo went back to her table. “I’ll tell you a secret. I am sick, too.”

“Yeah? Cool. What illness?”

“I am HIV-positive.”

“What?” Jane opened her eyes wide and stared at me.

“I am HIV-positive.” I repeated.

“You’re – what? HIV? AIDS?”

“HIV. Yup. Not AIDS. HIV.” I said. “Cool, eh?”

“Gosh.” she said.

Two days later, everyone in my class knew about my illness and everything changed: Jane and David sat further away from me after their requests to change seats were rejected; the girl who used to buy food together with me joined another group of friends; everyone started to avoid me, saying things like “She has AIDS.” Even my favourite teacher – my Maths teacher, Miss. Seow – went to wash her hands for a few minutes, after I touched her arm with my hand.

It was not what I had expected.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Zhi Wei’s – Azrael? – response was typical. At first, he paced around and then smiled, shaking his head. He searched for something in his bag and then took out a cigarette pack.

(Touch me where it hurts.)

“You’re joking, right?”

I shook my head and smiled.

“Well, I’m here. So, what do you want to tell me?” Zhi Wei – Azrael? – said, lighting up his cigarette with a trembling hand. “Are you pregnant? Do you want money?”

I rested both my hands on the sides of the sofa. “I want everyone to be infected with HIV. Join my world. Either that or you kill me.”

“Cannot be.” Zhi Wei – Azrael? – took a long drag and shook his head. “HIV does not spread that easily.”

“Obviously, you know nothing about HIV. It’ll stay in your body for more than ten years. Or even more than twenty years.”

“You’re just trying to make me come here.” he said. “Well, I’m here. The HIV thingy is not true, right? Right? You lied just to make me come here. Right?”

“No.”

(Bring the end to it,)

Zhi Wei – Azrael? – stared at me through the sides of his eyes and continued to pace around. He tossed his bag to the side and said, “Damn it. If it’s just a trick to make me come here, then say it. I don’t believe you.” He turned his attention to the fruit knife on the table. The fruit knife is about twenty centimetres in length, its blade reflecting the sunlight that had sneaked in through the window.

“Accept the truth.” I lowered my voice as I lit another cigarette. “Slay the beast within me.”

“You’re lying.” he said. “You have HIV, you had sex with me; you broke the law. It’s not fucking true!”

“That is the most stupid law in the world, my dear Azrael.” I inhaled, feeling the smoke inside my lungs for a few seconds before exhaling. “Why will a person with a death sentence give a damn about living in a jail?”

(For it is wearing.)

“HIV does not spread that easily.” Zhi Wei – Azrael? – started. “It’s not that easy. It’s not that easy!”

“We had unprotected sex.” I said. “I just want you to know, Zhi Wei, that … you have a chance of getting infected with HIV. That’s all you need to know.”

I paused to let him digest the fact.

“So,” I eyed the coffee table and smiled. “The main question is: What are you going to do now?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(End it where it hurts,)

Zhi Wei – Azrael? – was trembling after a few more minutes. I continued to smoke while he digested the new fact made known to him.

“I’ll – I’ll go for a –. Test. I’ll –”

“You know nothing about HIV. The HIV antibodies in your body will only be measurable after three months, as it takes time for your body to produce detectable antibodies. Even if so, when your body is infected, sometimes, the test cannot detect it. It’s in you, eating you from the inside-out without your knowledge, preparing to kill you when the time is up.” I said.

Zhi Wei kept quiet. I waited for a while, before leaning forward and continued. “It’s not a death sentence, dear Azrael. It’s a life sentence. The virus stays in your body for years and for the rest of your life, you’re infectious. You’ll become a stigma. The world will avoid you. Trust me.”

“No.” he shook his head a little. Beads of sweat started to form on his forehead. “The test. I’ll –. You bitch! It’s not fair!”

Fair.

I stepped lightly towards him and positioned my lips just next to his left ear. “Dude, you are definitely not in the position to talk to me about fairness.”

“I’ll…” Zhi Wei – Azrael? – said. “I’ll sue you. I’ll…”

“Did Cheryl call you today?” I could feel the smile on my lips widening. “I’ve sent a photo to Cheryl yesterday. And also talked to her. She sounds like a good girl. Too bad.”

“What the fuck? How the fuck did you know about Cheryl – you bitch!” Zhi Wei – Azrael? – said and stood up straight in front of me. I could hear his breathing and smell his deodorant. He had the look of those marathoners who were struggling for the last two kilometres. “I’ll kill you.” His muffled voice rang into my ears.

I closed my eyes, smiled and waited.

(Should gladly accept the end.)

The wait lasted for about one minute. In my mind, I visualised how he would grab the fruit knife and stab me. I visualised the destruction of the beast, the end and even anticipated the pain.

But then, I heard the main door slamming. I opened my eyes. Zhi Wei – Azrael? – and his bag were gone.

I dropped my head, glanced at the stick of half-inhaled cigarette stuck between my fingers, gazed at the fruit knife and frowned.

“He doesn’t have the anger.” I said to the fruit knife. “He isn’t Azrael.”

(Fucking – Amen.)

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