52 Stories

Kim Maya was dead. She had died on November 13th swallowing a handful of pills she had had found in the bathroom cabinet. And on 14th it was on the newspapers, on the page before the yellow pages, on the left side, written in fonts too small to read, without any details.

“Kim Maya has died, the funeral will be held in 23th Street on November 17th by noon.” Funny, the only thing remarkable about her death was how it happened, but it wasn’t even written that the act was a suicide. Kim Maya has died. Four words only.

Yet in a way, it was fair. Kim Maya had died long ago, her last days on earth consisted only of an empty vessel moving around. Her last minutes alive were spent in vain, she was already dead within. So, the news on the paper was as much as she deserved.

Kim Maya was dead on November 13th. And on the day of her funeral, at 12.01 pm precisely, there were three people present. The Priest, her landlord and the beggar from the down street, hoping to find something to eat. You see, Kim Maya was no loner, she just was already dead, there was no meaning in attending a long gone’s funeral. And to the man’s surprise, there was nothing to eat either.

At the midnight of November 12th as Kim Maya reached out to grab the bottle of pills off her single eyed cabinet, people continued to sip their expensive wines and old Mrs. Young passed away at the age of 81, as she swallowed them one by one. In actual, Maya had always disliked their tasteless taste, still after giving it a hard thought she had concluded that pills; were the the best way to die. (Her second option was to cut herself but she didn’t wanted to look all white the moment she died.) That’s why while she tiptoed to open her cabinet she was silently praying to God. Ironically, Maya didn’t believe in God and when her little hands touched to cold surface of the bottle she nearly felt a sparkle of belief inside, so she took them one by one, in case she wanted to reconsider. Yet, you see, if one haven’t have believed in all her life, the last moments are not the right time to begin. That’s why she died.

On November 13th, at 01 am , by the time the effect of pills had already pried Kim Maya off the living world, there was a knock on her door and she missed it, so she did the loud noise the hinges gave out when it was broken open and so she did the warmth of the body rocking her back and forth, begging for an answer. Maya had long stopped giving answers.

Four days after her death, early in the morning, much after the first prayers of the day, the oversized doors of St. Louis Church , the one on the 23th Street, were pushed open slowly. A man stepped in, dressed all in white and if he was in a younger age, the Priest, he also, could have misjudged him as a holly creature sent by the Lord, himself, just like his mother used to tell. Thirty years earlier, precisely two years ten months seven days five hours and fourteen minutes before Kim Maya was born, the fatherless priest had lost his mother and was left all alone with a huge Jesus Complex. It had followed him right into his father’s (as he liked to call him) sacred house.

As the clock showed 08.01 am, the first words of the day left the young man’s lips:

“I’m looking for Kim Maya.”

The priest nodded his head understandingly.

“ Sorry for your loss, but I’m afraid her body hasn’t reached here yet.”

“I see.” the young man’s voice was soft and held a slight sign of agony. Assuming he was still in grief, the priest went on:

“ You should have no doubts, I’ll pray for her soul to pass through the gates of our father.” he hesitated a little before saying our instead of my; after years spent in his noble duty, he still hadn’t gotten used to refer his father as theirs.

“Maya doesn’t believe.” the man turned and prepared to leave as silent as he had came.

“ Do you?” the priest asked out of curiosity. He was kind of a man who thought everything in life had a meaning and a hidden objective , so he was determined to figure out the role this young man played in his own life, reminded him one day, out of no where, his late mother that he had long forgotten.

“I’ll try, on her behalf.”

On May 22nd five months twenty-five days before her physical death, Kim Maya left her house and smelled the fresh spring air reminding her how beautiful it was to be alive. She followed her routine; grabbed a drink and a sandwich on her way and opened her bookshop by 10 o’clock. She inhaled the comforting odour of old, 2nd hand books and picked up one to read before lunch.

The Day 183. The story was about a man who, after concluding the only form of life worth living was the one created in one’s mind, locked himself in a room underground from Word War II and starved himself to death searching for the non-existing signs of life inside his head. Skipping the lunch and the dinner, Maya read half of the book until the time to close. She then placed a paper on the page she had left and put it back to where it was standing before that morning.

On May 22nd, at 7 pm the moment the book filled its gap on the shelf, like the last piece of an unfinished puzzle, Maya knew that she would never take it back. She left the store and decided to walk home, behaving out of her daily rote. You see, if one has lived all her life following a simple task, one little difference is enough to damage to balance. The second Kim Maya skipped her lunch, a new chain of events started to form; the waitress from her usual restaurant took a five minutes early break, caught her boyfriend cheating, then killed herself five years later, along with the seeds of the boy she could have given birth to. Their death had nothing to do with Maya’s, she hadn’t lived long enough to see it to begin with, but you see; if one crosses the line she has unconsciously been drawing over years, even if it’s a single step which would normally do no visible harm, the balance is damaged. That’s why Maya died.

6 hours after the book refilled its place, Kim Maya smelled the late night flowers on her balcony, got inside and locked the door. No doors in her one room apartment were ever opened. The moment the book lost the touch of her fingertips, Maya had decided to die. She was suddenly too tired. To take a death decision had taken no more than a second; she felt alive in the morning and was already dead by night. Life sure was cruel.

The following days, (for five months twenty-four days and a half), she found her self a new routine: not answering the calls, ignoring the knocks on her door, forcing people to leave with harsh words. It was so unlike to her soft nature, then again Kim Maya had already died, the one speaking was not her. She did not bother to unplug the phone, simply did not care. Life went on in her absence; the rent was paid automatically with the money on her account, she had enough food to survive, not that she ate much anyways. She laid and watched her ceiling, not hearing nor seeing anything. She was dead, so were her senses. Then, people once around her, now gone; started to ignore her too, not like she was dead but as if she never existed. One can mourn for a physically dead person, not the other way around.

The money being transferred from her account to her landlord’s was the last, smallest sign showing that once, Kim Maya lived. She smiled, cried, inhaled and exhaled and she did them all willingly. If Maya knew she would have cancelled that transfer. When people leave your life, they take the pieces of your existence away, yet a one sole reminisce is enough for you to subsist.

On November 12th , 9 in the morning, Peter Weiss checked his mails and was surprised to find a white, thin envelope written only three words on, aside from his name and address.

“Sender: Kim Maya” he showed it to the sun and cut it open carefully, without ripping up its content: a single, torn paper. He stared at it for a good five minutes before finally reading, no fans actually wrote through the old fashion nowadays. The writer in him, also, had woken up; he wanted the letter to be something good as well, something out of which Peter could slice off a story, not just a sick love letter.


To Samuel Mendoza,

“Day 180, I woke up. I don’t know how but three days before the end, I woke up. For nearly seven months now, I have been in depression, as if I had let the man I was before to lay down and sleep, a nice afternoon nap, in the middle of the day. In the middle of one’s life.”page 234

Samuel, you said you were in deep depression; I, am suffering from romantic schizophrenia. You said it all was like a sweet nap; I, haven’t been sleeping lately.

Treat me as that little voice you were searching for so long, as a road companion, as a stranger who somehow found your haven.

You woke up and left. I was stuck. You escaped on the day 180, I will wait for the 183. I am surprised that you knew, all along, where the key was. But then you took it with you and locked me on.

Samuel, It’s day 180 and once again I will let you take over. We’ll wait for the day 183, together.


On November 10th, three days before the day, Kim Maya attempted her last act as a being. She stood up, fought to regain her consciousness out of the dark hands of her mind and actually did manage, for five steady hours. That was enough, she had not expected nor wanted to survive through it. It was like a nice afternoon nap and like one’s last breath.

On November 17th , at 5.34 am, with the first prayers of the day, Peter Weiss inserted a key into the hole and turned the lock. The door opened. He did not remember his way around but you see, it’s not one’s flesh and blood only; that miraculously call for him in these kinds of occasions, so he found the book just as he entered.

The Day 183 – Peter Weiss. He took it with a single move and placed the letter in, got out, locked the door and drove towards the 23rd Street.