by P.Y. Khong
Little Sean R. had dreams. Little Sean dreamt of a big house, a sleek car and nice, expensive clothes, just like Daddy. Whenever Little Sean heard people talk, Little Sean always heard `rich' and `Mr. R.' strung together, as if nobody could deny nor escape that fact. Little Sean's toys filled in his room. Trains, models, Lego, you name it, he owned it. Little Sean's Mummy, though, seemed to be MIA. Little Sean never had time to ponder where Mummy was. Neither did he care.
Ten years zoomed by like the warp speed of a bullet train. Indeed, Little Sean is not so little anymore. `Hot' soon replaced `Little'. Hot Sean is hot in school. Everyone knows him, him and his extravaganza birthday celebrations. Daddy R. outdoes himself year by year. This year it would be Swatches for everyone in Hot Sean's class. The next, Gucci knick-knacks. Needless to wonder, everyone comes to remember August 16, Hot Sean's birthday, of course.
Hot Sean's life is comfortable; one might even call it revoltingly so. Waited hand-and-foot by scores of maids, servants, butlers and chauffeurs, a snap of his fingers would satisfy his latest whim. Money, oh, glorious money, handed to him like blank cheap paper regularly by Daddy R. Rolls of them. Four digits, five. Hot Sean never window shops. Never has it crossed his mind to exit a shop empty-handed.
By the time Hot Sean reaches Sweet Sixteen, Daddy R. had presented him with Harley Davidsons and scores of girls flunk Hot Sean every passing day like bees to the honey pot. In discotheques and nightclubs, everyone recognizes that tall boy with the confident, arrogant attitude. Everybody knows he's underage. Nobody gives a damn. Hot Sean and his sidekicks with girls in tow always chooses the corner furthest from prying eyes. They always began and adjourned their nights with small packets of white powder, distributed carelessly by patrons of Hell. Sexual activities followed where they left of alcohol. Trysts felt better when more of that powder was consumed.
Now, you would think Hot Sean did badly in school. On the contrary, he showed promising potential in Science. Daddy R. would be absent at every presentation, every competition, every announcement and prize-giving dinners though. Only Mrs. G would accompany Hot Sean.
During daylight, Hot Sean never showed signs of his night behavior, until one day. It happened gradually. Rashes, slight nausea. Hot Sean blamed it on the aftereffects of the powder. Then he experienced raging fever, coldness on the hottest day, hotness in the coldness of his air-conditioned room. Hot Sean begun passing out at any given moment. No one noticed a thing, indeed, his friends ignored it.
Mrs. G became disturbed by Hot Sean's behavior, although it's none of her business, she's concerned nonetheless. She told Hot Sean to get himself a check up. HIV. That dreadful abbreviation creeps into the doctor's vocab. Hot Sean didn't believe it. How could he? After all, he's only 16! He's invincible, having the time of his life! He's at his peak of teen hood, everything is going smoothly...how can HIV jump upon him, when, where, why...?
...Three years had passed by, the virus engulfs Hot Sean's body without mercy, he has AIDS. He's Hot no longer. He's now Plain Sean. Sean, whose life is about to end so tragically, so high life led to destruction...there's no turning back. Sean succumbed to the infections his body no longer can protect him from. He left a letter, addressed to his father, in his wake:
Dear Dad,
When you're holding this letter in your hands, I will no longer be with you. I had hid it so, you'll come upon it when you search my backpack. In the three years I'm paying back for a year's pleasure, I'm regretting it. Although I had tried hard to make my friends realize they could end up the way I do, they are skeptical. They turned their backs on me. Money is no longer God to me. I have found faith in other things, Dad. My teacher, Mrs. G made me realize there're more to life then what money can buy. She taught me dignity, acceptance, given me love. Yes, love, Dad, love.
I know there's nobody to blame but myself, my ignorance, for what I have today. I am ashamed. But Dad, you played a role in this production too. Dad, all these while you've given me materialistic comforts. But in the dead of the night, where are you? The hugs I've yearned so much when I was scared. I was 8, then. The encouragement when I failed my English. I was 12. The smile on your face when I won that nation-wide competition. I programmed a computer, Dad! I was 15. The plaque is still on my desk, are you even aware of it?
Dad, now your hugs and your reassurance rings are false in my mind. I became suspicious and paranoid. Why now? Why not love me when I was normal, when I was healthy? Sometimes I see that grimace in your face when you made direct contact with my skin. The women you bring home every so often wouldn't even come a mile near my room. I know, Dad. I am not stupid.
Dad, I know you have a Trust Fund in my name. Please, as a last favor for your unwanted son, donate them, give them to charity. Set up foundations, I don't care. Just help those who ended up like I did. After all, I am going to die comfortably. They, they can't afford to do so. I also will my personal belongings to Cheryl, she will know what to do with them, I've told her.
There's one last thing Dad, I don't want to be buried Dad. Cremate my body; spread my ashes into the sea near the beach where I so often love to spend time in. I will eternally be grateful to you.
...I love you Dad.
Sean R.