It was night time.
Not just any kind of night, but one where you couldn’t even
see your fingers if you hold them up in front of you. It was a night where you
felt that you have been robbed of vision. It was a night, where not a single
wisp of moonlight bounces off the surface of the earth. It was pitch-black, as
if god has spilled ink all over earth.
In his apartment, a ninety-year-old retired medic Thurston
Thames was soundly asleep in his cozy bed. Thurston’s snowy hair fell lightly
onto his pillow, as if a dove resting in its nest. He snored very slightly,
until he heard loud banging sounds resonating from his front door.
“Thurston” a deep, tranquil, crystal-clear voice
reverberated around Thurston’s house. But no answer came.
“Thurston Thames” and he called out again, but clearer,
louder and seemingly with a pinch of irate. Thurston was now wide awake. His
eyes were opened to the size of saucers, with cold sweat trickling down his
finely chiseled skull. It was that kind of voice where you could break out in
cold sweat even in the scorching heat of the Sahara desert. The medic felt his
teeth chattering involuntarily and he pulled up his warm blanket as he lay on
his soft, warm kip.
“Thames Thurston!” and he bellowed, sonorous, crystal-clear
and brimming with wrath. Thurston felt his heart skip a beat. Feeling sick in
his stomach, Thurston swallowed hard, clutched at his stomach and reached for
his rosewood walking cane. He then stretched his legs, pushing hard on his
cane, and stood up. He reached for his handkerchief on the side of the table,
next to his bed; gently dapping the perspiration that was quickly forming on
his forehead with trembling hands. Then, he reached out for his elk hide blazer
and draped it over his shoulders, only to feel that his pajamas were drenched
in cold sweat. Then, he slipped on idem sandals, walked, with trembling feet to
the door. Gingerly, Thurston twisted the ice-cold, metallic knob clockwise. The
door opened with a creek, like a moaning animal.
“I have called your name thrice. What took you so long to
open the door?” The voice asked. Thurston, staring at this creepy silhouette in
the middle of a pitch-dark night, was overwhelmed by fear. As he opened his
mouth to speak, he only managed a croak. Just then, the neighbor’s light came
on. And that was when Thurston wanted desperately to get out of the scene.
There was a menacing glisten on the right shoulder of this person. It was sickle
shaped, ice-cold, and lifeless. It was unmistakably an enormous reaper. What’s
more, the silhouette came with a black hooded robe, concealing his face.
Thurston’s legs immediately went jelly. The silhouette slammed open the door,
pushed Thurston into his home. But Thurston straightened up.
“What do you want?” He swallowed a lump that was fast rising
in his throat. He plucked up his courage, walked a few steps into the front,
standing in a bull-dog stance. Even with his strong front, Thurston’s legs were
quivering, and locking up. There were even beads of sweat forming on his upper
lip. His heart was racing like a F1 car during the last lap. The silhouette
inched nearer to Thurston. The old medic limped backward, his legs totally
paralyzed by immense fear. He rummaged about his surroundings for just about
anything to grab on lest he passes out, or lest he gets pulled out of his house
by the grim reaper. But the grim reaper was so near, he was only an arm’s
length away. His unmistakable reaper shimmered under the bright yellow light
from the neighbor’s window. He closed his eyes, and braced himself for his own
death. Just then, a cold, lifeless hand was placed on Thurston’s neck, which
sent instant chills down the old medic’s spine. Thurston could feel his whole
body quivering, shivering, like as if he was left unclothed in the Arctic, even
though he was dressed in his thickest elk hide blazer. That hand exerted a
force so strong, it sent Thurston plunging and sinking straight into his soft,
satin, Elizabethan arm chair. As he got nearer, the odor of death and decay
filled Thurston’s nostrils. Thurston sunk back into his chair, ice cold sweat
trickling down his sharp chin, as the hand got moved up his nape and he came
eyeball to eyeball with the grim reaper, as he await for his imminent doom…
“Click!” Thurston’s bed-side
lamp was flicked on.
“Thurston!” The grim reaper lifted up his hoodie. Thurston
opened one eye to see who it was.
Why it was the childhood playmate that accompanied Thurston
throughout much of his life—Elliot. Being his classmate ever since they were in
kindergarten until their senior year in university, he has undoubtedly become
the closest person to Thurston’s heart and the one friend that Thurston
treasures. Elliot brought along their high school art project—the reaper’s
umbrella, with a sickle shaped metallic handle and wore their graduation robe,
along with a black hooded jacket. Elliot fished out a white, oblong box that
reeked of garlic, leek and dead fish, while Thurston, previously tensed up in
his arm chair, and heaved a sigh of relief. Elliot flashed him his signature
winsome grin, only now, it was toothless. Both men’s wrinkles eased out as they
burst out in laughter.
“Old buddy, how do you like that?” Elliot slapped the old
medic’s back, delivering the same amount of force as he used to when they were
teenagers. Decades on, Elliot who turns ninety just in two days, could still
deliver the same amount of force and joy in every friendly slap of the back.
“Here, try my latest invention—pickled anchovies pie.”
Elliot opened the white box. His smile had a golden lining about it as it was
hued by the warm glow of Thurston’s lamp. It was a heart shaped pie, unlike any other
pie that Thurston has seen his whole life. There were little cream stars that
decorated every corner of the pie that seemed to glow under the light of the
lamp. Thurston felt his stomach rumble instantly.
“Can I have a bite?” Thurston pointed to the pie.
“Sure thing mate, it is specially prepared for you!” Elliot
smiled. He took out the Swiss-army knife that Thurston remembers from their
sophomore year of college and gently cut out a lion’s share of his pie for
Thurston. He hands it over to the old medic, and smiled as Thurston took his
first bite.
Just like its shape, the taste was nothing like what Thurston
had had in the ninety years of his life. The pie crust was soft, yet crispy.
There was meaty, soft, juicy anchovy flesh and a crunchy chunk of pickles. His
tongue was coated with the most gentle saltiness and sweetness, like the sea
licking your feet as you take a walk in the waves. Though it did not smell as
good, but this was The Pie in Thurston’s life. It was so delectable, so savory,
it was hard not to ask for a second serving. Once he was done, Thurston smacked
his lips, and went the classic “Mmmm” for relishing a delicious dish.
“Come Thurston,” Elliot pulled his chair closer to Thurston and
took his hand. “Today’s my test for general nutritionist in the hospital.” He
said. “So tell me, how did you like my pie?”
