Compensation

Compensation.

That’s what they’d called it. He’d thought of a thousand other overly dramatic and bitter names for what they had offered him. ‘Blood money’ was his favourite, and there was a wince anytime from others anytime he used the phrase. People did love to use empty platitudes and words of consolation whenever a tragedy occurred, but never did have anything to say if you responded with anything other than a quiet, dignified acceptance.

“So just take the blood money and move on. Just that easy, huh?”

“Mate, it’s not like that, but it can help you at least move on a bit?” He knew his father was trying to console him awkwardly.

“You could use it to take a holiday, something just for you?”

“I don’t want to do a damn thing without her! How fucking hard is that to understand?!” The young man screamed before storming out of the house forever. Once gone, he threw his phone into the nearest bin.

After wondering aimlessly through the city for hours, he sidled up to a small men’s shelter, made up a quick lie about being kicked out of home. There were weary and angry eyes that glared at him as he entered, his youth and visible health serving as a bitter reminder to most of those inside of what they had already lost.

He knew he didn’t belong here, or deserve a bed. The young man had twenty-thousand dollars newly acquired sitting untouched in his bank account.

Compensation.

He didn’t want to touch that money. He didn’t want to use it for a single damn thing.

He realised pretty quickly that the other occupants here shared a lot of his self-destructive tendencies, and pretty quickly despite their initial mistrust he was able to win them over with shared interest in drinking and story-telling.

Within less than a month he had heard most of their tales, and countless retellings and embellishments over cleanskin bottles of wine shared on the street outside the shelter.

Over time the young man realised his hardship and sadness was no worse and no greater than any of those shared around him. It took him months, but he finally decided to share. He didn’t know if it was the trust he had known from these men or the cheap liquor inside him, but one night he finally felt his story bursting out like a flooded river bursting its banks.

The men sat in a circle listening keenly, their harrowed eyes fixed intently upon him. Only the occasional gurgle of liquid being pressed to dry lips broke the spell of the tale.

He’d decided to marry young. It was an impulse decision, but he knew it had been the right one. He had loved the moment he had laid his eyes on her. They were the classic annoying couple who had done everything together, and talked about their future plans with such surety that he couldn’t imagine they wouldn’t come to pass. She loved animals, she loved the world, she loved to see the good in everything.

His pessimism and negativity quickly gave way to optimism and a joy for life. They had adventures, they had quiet nights in. Every single day was perfect in his eyes all the same no matter what they did. Quickly, he proposed to her, and she said yes.

‘She said yes.’ He repeated, tears coming unbidden.

And then she was killed, because some idiot was driving drunk and hit the sidewalk while she walked home.

Sweet pleasantries were said at the funeral, and before long it seemed like everyone else had quietly accepted the tragedy and moved on. The correct response, it seemed. But the young man couldn’t do it. That’s when he learned society put an expiration date on grief.

He had received twenty-thousand dollars from the victim’s compensation fund, the recompense from the state for the life of the only thing he ever loved.

It was barely anything. Any amount wouldn’t have been enough.

Everyone told him to use it relax, to do something just for him, to help him recover. He didn’t want to do anything without her, he just couldn’t see the point.

“How can I do anything else when I all I think about is you?”

When he had finished his story there was a quiet amongst the men around him. No-one even took a single sip of the drinks they held in their hands in the cold quiet.

“Did you ever try writing it down?” Asked one of the men out of the silence.

“I… I hadn’t really. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Old Thomas had put his cup down, and walked over to the young man. He offered him a crumpled, little black notebook.

“Write it down. Remember it before you forget. I wasn’t using this thing anyway.”

The young man hesitantly took the notebook, and didn’t know what to say. He returned to his room as if in a trance. Then he started writing.

The haze of the months of drinking and the anger quickly gave way to a flood of memories, and half-remembered happiness. As he started writing, he realised he wanted to walk, to go to those places.

‘The first date in the café. God, I was so awkward.’

Before he had known it, he had walked to the café and was smiling fondly at the cramped little hole-in-the-wall joint where they had shared their first coffee. He remembered seeing her sitting there for the first time, and wanting to simply run away because of just how good she looked. His horrible small talk, her joyful descriptions of the world and the work she wanted to do in it, the travel she longed to take.

He sat there, writing away everything he remembered in that little black book, drinking a coffee at the exact same table they had sat. When the time finally came to pay the bill, he hesitated for a moment, and then finally swiped the card on which the compensation was banked.

He then bought a ticket at the cinema they had gone to countless times to watch the classic movies only it showed, and that they both loved. A sudden memory springing up of her laughing after he coughed profusely through a dramatic moment in the film because he was eating too fast. He wrote it all down as he sat alone in the cinema, a classic film lighting up the empty seats around him.

He went back to the same restaurant he had taken her for their first real fancy date. They sat together making up conversations they imagined the pretentious and the overly groomed patrons who surrounded them were having. They laughed freely together and made it back to the car and kissed for hours. The young man ordered the same thing he had that night and sat there smiling sadly, writing the memories down.

He went to venue after venue, spending every dollar of that compensation to help him remember his story, their story. He wrote it without flourish, the memories alone contained enough passion and love without needing to add any more.

He had been writing for a month, and he still had more than half the money left. There was satisfaction in remembering but mostly sadness. He was also running out of places to go.

He had booked a flight. They only ever had one trip overseas together. It seemed like the only place left to go.

He wandered the streets of Ho Chi Minh City alone, hawkers and vendors approaching him and offering him good and services and women. He made it to the little corner bar where they wiled away hours drinking wine, and talking about a future that would never come. He drunk by himself and wrote down every word they said.

He made it to the waterfront restaurant where he had surprised her with a ring, and watched as tears rolled down her eyes endless as she struggled to catch her breath to tell him, ‘Yes’. He wrote it all down, the little black notebook catching every single memory.

He paid a driver, left the city, and before long he arrived at her favourite place in the world. A shelter for the lost and abandoned dogs of Vietnam. She had wept with joy as she watched them play and the kind staff allowed her entry to keep them company.

“We have to come back here some day!” She said as she ran back up to him, tears of joy in her eyes.

“We can make money back home and donate as much as we can and come back and visit. God, I want to stay here forever!”.

The young man greeted the staff, and they welcomed him in. None recognized him, and that was for the best. The dogs approached him eagerly, and he ran through the grass with them before sitting down and gently scratching one on its belly as it sat down next to him. He smiled as he did it, but the happiness he had shared with her here was gone. It was then he realised he had finally run out of pages in the notebook.

The young man asked for the bank details for the shelter on the way out so he could donate to the cause. The staff politely gave him a slip of paper with all the information on it, and he returned back to his lodgings.

He checked his bank on the computer in the lobby, and saw he had just over ten-thousand dollars left in the account. He transferred it all to the dog shelter under her name. He walked over to the receptionist in the lobby, slipping the notebook into an envelope.

“Can you please post this to Australia?” He handed the package and money over to the receptionist who gawked at the amount of money he had handed him. He nodded politely and didn’t raise an issue which he took as affirmation and walked back to his driver.

“Take me to that mountain, please.” The young man said pointing into the far distance.

They drove in silence, and he stepped out as the car pulled up as the road ended just before the peak. He handed the driver what remained of his money, a sum at least ten times what the trip should cost.

“You can head back, I was going to call someone get me.”

The driver looked at him confused before warily getting back into his car and departing.

He walked up to the peak of the mountain, a small viewing platform looking out over the chaotic beauty of Ho-Chi Minh City.

He thought of the notebook and the message he had left for his dad inside the envelope it was in.

‘Make sure her story gets told.’ He didn’t write anything else. He couldn’t think of anything else to write.

God, it was beautiful up there on that mountain. The sun was setting across the distant bay full of ramshackle boats. There were trees gently swaying beside him, and he could hear the faint sound of bird song.

‘She would have loved this.’ This was a perfect moment, but he still couldn’t feel a thing without her there to share it.

The young man knew his heart had died with her. There was a bittersweet happiness he felt though. He had told their story, and written it all down, and he knew his dad would do whatever he could to see it told or shared. He had given away what little he had to the place she loved the most. In the end, that was enough for this life. He knew he couldn’t do it without her.

The young man stood, looking out at the sunset one last time, and leapt with all of his might down that mountain. He thought of her and smiled to himself as he sailed through the night air. He was finally going to see her again.