Vanessa Ho K.S.

The Juice of Death

There is something peculiar about sitting in a bar with people you’ve seen as kids. 

Well, not exactly as kids. I got to know all of them over the course of adolescence; as the physical realm was put into stasis, all of us turned to the virtual, donning identities we could never replicate in reality. 

We were sailors once, traversing the seas as one of us became a hungry shark that wanted to devour us no matter the cost. We armed ourselves with rocket launchers as we wreaked havoc upon towers, bringing an end to supposed immortality as their spawn points fell into the void below. We were unstoppable, a great band of people that always responded to each call and sported the most ridiculous outfits. One of us was a robot; the other a knight; I boasted a cape made of cake. 

And yet we were free, running from abnormalities hidden in underground facilities. We were free, shouting at the top of our lungs for support and in victory. It would never be enough time; we’d always look at the clocks and realise the sun had risen, the late hours of the night blending into the earliest hours of dawn. There would be trouble, there would be 

panic, there would be fun. 

I wished those days would never end. There were no true endings to them;  occasionally, the calls would revive for a singular night, despite our respective lives outside this virtual realm — the physical world was always moving, and unbeknownst to me, we were already treading paths headed in different directions. 

It was only until we met up in this real world, no longer shielded by our digital, unchanging masks, that the realisation seeped into my mind.

And I think to myself, I don’t remember how I got here. 

Correction: I do. The glass in my hand feels foreign even though I’ve practiced the motion of swirling the liquid within it for so many times, to the point where the pink mixture of juices and virgin whiskey barely touches the tip of the round glass but doesn’t spill out. All around me, people are chatting in fancy outfits — crisp white shirts and dazzling suit jackets. I’m here, in my white t-shirt and hand-me-down jeans. At least I remembered enough about social cues to put on a five-dollar striped shirt on top of it, and it’s general enough for prying eyes to miss the subpar stitching or the way wrinkles appear with even the slightest fold. 

That’s alright. The people next to me are my friends – are supposed to be, anyway. I’m lucky that the jazz music blaring through either a speaker that’s perfectly concealed is masking the lack of chatter on the table. I’m the only one taking long sips of my drink. Everyone else is finished, talking about occupations and future goals and lessons they’ve learnt over the past year. I think I know them, I know how they like to trash talk their opponents. I think I know them, I know how they always like to take on the offensive and let me provide all the support. I think I know them— 

But I don’t know this silence that reaches between us. 

There are words on the tip of my tongue, forbidden suggestions that would require us to get out of this place. To find some obscure playground and communicate in the ways we always did — with snide comments and witty banter. But the girl who nimbly flew through the skies is stumbling in high heels. The boy who ran wild is busy tightening his waistcoat. They’re all content here, content with the music flooding their ears and munching on salted popcorn. Even when I shoot them confused glances, they’re telling me, discreetly, that this is what they want with each questioning tilt of their head.

The moment we are finally together in real life, closer to each other than we have ever been, is the very same moment when we are the farthest apart, our distance strengthened by the woes of time. 

I raise my glass. My hand shakes. I toast the ghosts of those who no longer exist, and take a long sip of the juice of death in its pristine glass.

Author’s Words:

"The Juice of Death" is a retrospective piece I wrote after meeting up with a group of my old online friends, and it deals with the core emotion of melancholy during that meet-up after one year of not seeing each other. The place where I'm from, Hong Kong, had one of the largest emigration waves a couple years back, and that caused many friendships to become online ones, including the group mentioned in the piece; many students choose to leave the city to pursue tertiary studies as well. Through the piece, I really wanted to explore that complicated feeling of knowing yet not knowing your friends – of seeing the child in them beneath a mature, hardened adult exterior, yet being fundamentally unable to reach out to that childishness from your memories. Strained friendships are so common here due to the emigration wave, and thus I wanted to share this piece hopefully to reach others who feel the same way and tell them that they're not alone.

Author’s Biography:

Vanessa Ho K. S. is an avid reader, poet and writer from Hong Kong, whose work revolves around human emotions and experiences. When not typing away on her trusty laptop, you’ll find her crocheting, training for her next kumite competition, or immersing herself in other fantastical worlds.