Chapter 20

 *

My city has fallen asleep. Even the lights from The Twins that stand so proud have been shut, though their sillhoutte remains visible. Things have gone quiet for the past couple of hours. Fourteen stories high, at my balcony, I stood staring into empty space. The breeze sends a chill down my spine and ruffles my hair. In the night sky above I could see clouds. How I wish they’d let loose and make it rain.

The clock hits 0300hrs and chimes accordingly from my living room. I paid no attention to it. Tomorrow is a working day and I should really get some sleep. But I couldn’t.

Today was the day I would propose to Damiawati Isahak. Today, I would ask her to be my wife, my lover, until the end of time. I should be excited, nervous and happy.

At least, I should have felt like that. But the predicament I find myself currently does not jive with what should have happened. Not after yesterday. Yesterday has changed everything. If my life was a raft floating in a river, going in one direction, then yesterday would be the rapids that came out of nowhere and smashed my raft to pieces.

I don’t even know how I’m still floating. Everything is on the brink of peril now.

My thoughts are rife with anger and hurt. Anger, that things have suddenly taken a bad turn. Hurt, because it happened at the exact time I thought the rest of  my life would take shape. For the first time in a long while, I feel defeated and at a loss of words of things to do.

I just stood at the balcony, a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. A wrenching pain stabbed at my heart, and I let it. I knew it was my heart. It’s been feeling that way since yesterday.

Yesterday

I stood quiet. Then Damia asked me, “Dhani, what did he mean by The Flower Heart?”

She looked at me with so much doubt, so much fear in her eyes. In that moment all my confidence seemed to fade into nothingness, diluted like water. My head furiously scanned to look for an answer. Damia asked me again, “Dhani, what was he talking about? How does he know you?”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just said, “I don’t know, Damia. Maybe he’s spied on you?”

“But what did he mean by The Flower Heart? Why did he call you that? Why did he seem to know you from somewhere?”

What could I have told her? That I got the name because I fucked around before I met her? That somehow, this Amir dude caught wind of who I was because of that nickname? And how the fucking hell did this guy recognize my face and name anyway? I was, as the saying goes, in a pickle. I didn’t know what, or how, I should answer Damia.

But as it turned out, I didn’t even have to.

Someone answered for me.

Suddenly, her phone pinged. And pinged again; and then a few more times. At first, she didn’t bother checking it, and kept looking at me questioningly instead. But when it pinged more than four or five times, she brought up her phone. I sincerely believed she held it up so she could switch it off or put it on silent mode, so that she could get me to talk. But I saw her thumbing around and scrolling something. And with every swipe of her thumb, her face became more and more distressed. She stumbled backwards, and when I tried to help her balance, she pushed my arms away instead.

That surprised me. “Damia?”

She was still looking at her phone, and then I saw how her eyes started to tear and she covered her face with her free hand.

“Damia, what’s wrong? What are you looking at?” Damia!”

I grabbed her iPhone from her. I wouldn’t normally have done it, but I was getting very agitated. But as soon as I saw what she was looking at, I wish I hadn’t. Damia stood a few feet away from me, her eyes reddening, and teardrops slowly fell. She wiped them away, but fixated me with a stare that was both frightening and heart-breaking.

It turns out, Amir had sent her a message and some pictures. On her phones screen, were pictures of me. Pictures of me, in bed, with various girls. They were all old photos, of course; I had, now I realized mistakenly, allowed some girls to take selfies with me or take photos of me in bed with them. As I looked at the pictures (there were about seven of them), it came to me that I didn’t remember any of their names. They were all pretty, sexy Malay girls I’ve picked up in clubs. The most recent picture was from maybe a year and a half ago. It was also the most obscene picture; in it, I was licking the girl’s tits. But I could vouch that it was me in those photos because even if I didn’t remember their names, I sure as hell remembered their faces. And bodies.

The message from Amir said: The guy ur dating is dhani ibrahim aka the flower heart. I know him because I’ve seen him in clubs and bars and he’s alwiz picking up girls and taking em home. He is somewht of a lgnd in KL bcoz he scores girls like no other guy. As ppl say, ‘men wanna be him, women wanna be wit him’. im sending u pics frm sme girls I knw, sme girls this dhani guy has fucked. Thrs prolly more pics. Tsk tsk  poor damia. U had no idea didn't u? this dude prolly just wanna fucks u. too bad damia. Too bad. Good luck.

My shoulders slumped and I felt like I wanted a grand piano to come crashing on me. Slowly, deliberately, I turned towards Damia. She was crying, her shoulders hitching up and down. Her hands were balled into fists.

“Damia,” I said. “This isn’t who I am.”

“Is it true?” she asked. “Is it true what Amir is saying?”

“What?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

“That you’ve slept with girls. That you pick up girls from clubs to have sex with. That’s what The Flower Heart means? Someone who sleeps around?”

I hesitated too long.

“Is it true you’re just aiming to sleep with me, too?” she asked.

“No,” I said, this time quick enough. “No, Damia, no.”

“Dhani, I trusted you,” she said.

“And you still can. Believe me.”

“I’m finding that difficult right now, Dhani,” she said, and those words sliced at my heart like a poisoned knife.

“Damia, please. I… Look, there’s no point in me denying the pictures. I was that guy, Damia. WAS. I am not that person anymore.”

“How would I know that for sure, Dhani? How would I know you’re not just making me another notch in your bedpost?”

“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU DAMMIT!” I snapped. She was taken aback, so I softened my tone. “Because I love you, I really, truly love you, Damia.”

“Amir said the same thing. Look how that turned out.”

“Well, I am not Amir. I’M NOT.”

She shook her head. “Dhani, I don’t know what to think right now.”

I took her hands, and said, “Think this: I am not that guy anymore. I am not. What I am is yours; I am yours, and I love you, and you love me too.”

She pulled her hands away abruptly. “Dhani, I think I need to be alone for awhile.”

“Damia--”

“PLEASE, Dhani. PLEASE,” she said and walked away so fast I had to jog to keep up. But she reached an elevator first and closed the door before I could follow. I slammed my fist in frustration against the door, and one of the security guards actually reprimanded me for that. I pressed the elevator button and never has the fucking contraption seemed so slow. When I finally got on and reached my office floor, I rushed to Damia’s office. All her colleagues looked at me as I burst through the doors.

Shima, the petite demure secretary, noticed I looked distressed and called out at me. “Mr. Dhani, are you okay?”

I nodded. “Where is Ms. Damia?” I asked when I noticed her office was already dark and empty.

“Oh she’s just left. She said she had a family emergency?” the secretary said. I was too late. I rushed out and tried to call her, but she wouldn’t answer. After several more calls, she shut off her phone I think because I couldn’t get through to her at all. I went back down to the ground floor, and ran around looking for her. My heart and head was pounding from exertion, fear and anger. After spending an hour running around aimlessly in Suria and the KLCC park, I sat on a bench. I felt like pulling my hair out and screaming. That was when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Damia. It said, “leave me alone, pls, dhani. I just want to be alone. Pls.”

I threw my phone against a tree where it broke into several pieces. After a few seconds I cursed at myself for doing that, and picked up the pieces. I would have to use one of my older phones when I get back home.

The clock in my living room strikes 0400hrs, and I was still at the balcony, thinking about the events of yesterday. I had gone home, moody and sulking. I tried calling, texting, IM-ing Damia, all to no result. In anger I had torn one of my good shirts buy ripping it off my body. I had tried to make dinner but ended up not eating anything at all. then I had tried to force myself to sleep, because I was tired. But after a couple of hours, I just couldn’t. That was when I got that secret bottle of whisky from the cabinet, and took out a high-ball glass, and went to the balcony. I poured the whisky and drank it straight, relishing the fiery trail it left going down my throat. I kept on drinking, and by now I was pretty fucking drunk.

But still, my mind wouldn’t let go of Damia.

Had I betrayed her? Had I lost her trust? Or has she equated me with that fucktard, Amir?

She’s not talking to me. And I missed her so much. I had no idea what to do. How to fix all this? I have no, NO FUCKING IDEA. I gripped the glass so hard it broke in my hands, lacerating my palms. I savored the pain. Then I threw the almost empty whisky bottle against the wall, watched it smash into pieces, then I, myself, slumped against the wall, with a bleeding hand, and dreamed of that look of doubt on Damia’s face.

*