Sam Walters

Written by Linyang Zhang

“You’re a leftie?”

He glanced at me, the pen whizzing through the air, and he expertly caught it between his fingers. “Yeah. What about it?”

“Nothing.” I looked away. “Just don’t see that often, really.”

Sam Walters. He sat next to me in class one day, and that was the most I saw of him for quite a while. I heard that he was sick or something. I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure. He was a tall and thin kind of guy, rather classy in his clothing choices. I didn’t pay much attention to him until later. Until the day that I asked him if he was left-handed.

I found him sitting on the lawn underneath a tree, winds flowing through the grass. “Hey,” I greeted. “It’s been a while.”

He gave a small wave back, but didn’t say anything, returning his gaze to the distance. I looked, but I didn’t see anything in particular.

“What is it?”

“Nothing much.” 

I sat down. “Where have you been? You’ve missed a lot of classes.”

“Oh, I dropped that course.”

“Oh…”

I looked away, feeling rather awkward. “So what’s your major?”

“I’m still deciding. I might transfer, to be honest. This school doesn’t have what I’m looking for.”

The way he said it, like he had rehearsed it many times in his head, trying to tell an imaginary someone why he was leaving. But only if someone cared enough to ask.

He took out a notebook and began to write in it, using his left hand. The way he wrote was very small and neat and cramped, and he balanced the notebook on his knee and tilted his head, holding the notebook very close to his face. To be honest, I had never really seen him around campus before. Just a couple of times in class, and that one instance when he had sat next to me.

“What are you writing?” I asked when he paused.

“You ever feel like you forgot something?” He glanced at me, and I noticed that his eyes were bright. “And you wanted to use that information for something, but you can’t because you forgot what it was?”

“Kind of,” I replied. “Why, did you forget something?”

“Yep.” And he went back to his writing.

I stood, feeling awkward and unneeded, and was about to bid him goodbye when he said:

“What if I told you I was going somewhere far, far away?”

“Sorry?” I looked down at him.

“And what if I told you I might never come back?”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

He met my gaze. “Hypothetically, of course. Hypothetically, if I was going someplace unknown for an indefinite amount of time. What would you say?”

I hesitated. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” He dipped his head again and continued writing.

I left, and I didn’t see Sam Walters again after that.

The class that we had once shared ended, and I stopped thinking of him whenever I sat down. My mind wandered to him sometimes, and I always made a note to ask his friends where he had gone, but he didn’t have any friends that I knew of, and I always forgot to ask. Another semester passed, and soon I forgot him again.

Though, one hazy, snowy day, I don’t recall if it was a dream or real life, as I was walking along the busy street, I thought I saw a familiar shade of brown hair, and a classy scarf and coat wrapped around someone. As he crossed the street, I called out the first name that came to mind:

“Sam Walters?”

The person turned, and I saw a pair of bright eyes. But before my mind could register whether or not it was indeed him, a car brushed by, its brakes failing in the soft snow, and there was blood splattered on the pavement.

I think I woke up after that. I’m not sure if it was a dream or not. But now I cry on days when there is soft snow.

Perhaps this next instance is also a hazy summer daydream, but I was sitting on a picnic table with him, and he was writing something in his notebook, using his left hand. And I watched his hand move across the pages, smudging ink on his skin. 

“What are you writing?” I asked.

“A letter,” he replied.

“To whom?”

“Nobody or my parents.”

He continued to write, and I watched him, feeling sleepy. I wanted to go to dinner, and I wanted to see if he would come with me.

“You know, life… Do you think we exist only through the eyes of other people?”

“What do you mean by that?”

He looked up at me with those bright eyes of his. “Well, you know. When I am by myself, I am simply a temporal being, moving from Point A to Point B on this singular timeline. I am myself, and I forget where I came from, and I don’t know where I’m going. Do you think I only exist in the eyes of other people?”

“What did you say you were studying again?”

He gave a small laugh. “Oh, I don’t know anymore. But think: a reflection in a puddle only exists so long as someone is standing there, looking at it. When the person moves away, and forgets about the puddle, then the reflection is no more.”

“Until next time it rains,” I said.

“Until next time it rains,” he agreed. “So what do you think?”

“Can I see your notebook?” I asked instead, and surprisingly, he handed it to me.

On it he had written such words:

Perhaps there is a war going on between our worlds. And perhaps I am needed to end it. But do you know the bliss of breathing fresh air? Of when the flowers fall, and a piece of your soul falls with it? When the wind is sweet and warm and ruffles your hair? No, you only know of smoke and blood and burning, blazing hell. You wish for me to come and save you. You wish to end my experience with such bliss, so that I can bring bliss to others. And why should I leave? I feel as though neither of us truly understand what we are each asking for, neither ourselves nor the other. No, I am still puzzled, quizzical, lost. I cannot speak for you, but you are probably the same.

Please, why can not you come to me, and we shall experience the sunshine together? The war has been going on for a hundred years; the war can wait. But this season cannot. Here, in this world, things do not last forever. Flowers and war are two very different things. Flowers die in an instant, while war rages on forever. So please, come to me, and we can sit in the sunshine together. I have reserved you a spot, and we can be happy.

Here his words ended. “What is this?” I asked, handing the notebook back to him.

“Just a story,” he replied, smoothing his fingers over the paper.

“Interesting story.”

“Thanks.”

“Who is the character writing to?”

“I’m… Well, he’s writing to someone far away.”

“How far?”

He hesitated. “You know when you’re sitting next to someone, but you feel like they’re on a different plane of existence?”

“I guess that’s how I feel right now.” I gave a small laugh. “It’s cool that you’re a writer.”

“Yeah.” He looked away. “I guess it’s cool.”

He thought I wasn’t looking, but I saw him bunching up the paper from his notebook underneath the picnic table.

If that was a dream, then it was a very vivid dream. If I woke up, then I woke up feeling rather sad, and thinking of Sam. And perhaps I thought of him all day. I’m not sure if it was real or not. But I thought of him, and I felt like we had grown somewhat closer yet more far apart, even though I had not seen him for a very long time.

Perhaps that was just a memory that I had forgotten, among many other things.

And I remembered that sometimes, other fragments would come back, and he would be standing next to me in line, and he would murmur, “Remember the war?” And I would look up at him in confusion.

“Oh, nothing,” he replied. “I’m just rehearsing some lines for a play.”

“What play is it?”

He hesitated. “Hayarvia.”

“That’s an interesting title. What is it about?”

And then he turned his gaze to the distance, like that day he had been sitting underneath the tree. “It’s about a war.”

“Oh?”

“There’s a war between two worlds. And it hasn’t ended for a hundred years. There are two people from one world, and one of them goes to the other world, just for a little while, to see what it’s like. But the thing about the other world is, whenever someone goes into that world, they forget all about the first world. And so they stay there. But this person who goes, he does not forget. And that is a little secret that he carries around with him.”

“Why are the two worlds fighting?”

Sam shrugged. “Who knows. It’s been a hundred years, and they’ve long forgotten.”

“What about the other person?”

“The other person is the first person’s closest companion. But after the first person leaves, they become hardened, and forget about the ties they once had. When the first person writes to the other about his lack of memory loss, the other person realises that this person is the key to ending the war. So they want him to return. But the first person does not want to return. Not just yet.”

“Does this first person enjoy the world that he is in now?”

Sam gave a small smile. “A little too much.”

“Why doesn’t he ask his friend to come over with him?”

“Oh, eventually he does. But his friend forgets everything once they arrive.”

“Oh…that’s a bit of a dilemma. What happens next?”

“You should come see it. Then you’ll know the ending.”

“What’s it called again?”

“Hayarvia. Named after one of the worlds.”

“And what’s the name of the other world?”

He paused. “Earth.”

Later, I think I saw someone standing in front of a building. He was wearing all black, and when he moved, he blurred like a shadow. His eyes were dark and golden and sad. When I tried to look for him again, he was gone.

I don’t know why my memories of Sam Walters are like this, and I don’t know why I’m telling you this. The only time I talked to him was that time he sat next to me in class. But you…where did you come from? You have golden eyes…

No, I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I don’t know of this “Hayarvia” you speak of.

No, I don’t remember…

I think one time Sam Walters sat down with me, and explained everything to me, and left with a rather sad damper on his eyes, and I never saw him again. To be honest, I’ve said several times that I haven’t seen Sam Walters since a certain time, but I don’t remember when was the last time I saw him. 

“Hey…”

I saw him sitting at the picnic table, writing in that notebook of his. When I went down there to greet him, he was gone. There were only the pages of his notebook, fluttering in the wind.

I looked, and I read what he had written.

I’ve finally decided: I will go and end this war. I finally saw him again, and he looked troubled. His golden eyes have been a weight on my soul that I cannot shake off. I do not wish to see him like this anymore, so I will return, and I will become the sacrifice that you needed.

I have seen you, and I have spoken to you. You do not remember asking me to come back to become your sacrifice. You do not remember anything about me, or the war. You are simply happy to be with me, in this place called Earth. And that is enough for me. It does not matter to me whether or not you remember the troubles of the past. No, it does not matter. But you are here with me, and you are happy to sit by my side, and that is all that matters.

I will go back, and become your sacrifice. Do not look for me, if you find this. I will not be returning.

I think I cried that day. But there was peace in the air. The name of Sam Walters still hung in my mind. I did not understand his writings, his stories, yet at the same time, I understood them. I understood them full well. I just forgot that I understood them.

But how I wished that Sam Walters would come back.

You, you with the golden eyes, why are you crying? What is the matter? Who are you? I think that perhaps Sam cared about you enough that he chose to return to his world of Hayarvia. I think that he cared enough to end the war for you.

Oh? You say that he didn’t end the war for you? Then who did he end it for?

I saw the black shadow with the golden eyes a few times after that. He sat with me, and we talked, of the weather and coffee and Sam Walters. He claimed to be someone important to Sam, but not the most important person to him.

“What is Sam like?” I asked, because I did not remember.

“He’s like a prince,” Golden Eyes replied. “Like a prince that’s always far away, because he knows that he will not inherit the throne.”

“And what is he to you?”

Golden Eyes glanced at me. “He’s my brother.”

I mean, I guess you’re the same Golden Eyes. You never told me your name. Did you forget? Did you forget it all when you came to this world? Yet you still remember…

No, Sam Walters went away to end a war, he stepped through that door called Death, because only his death could bring peace between the two. At least, that was what was written in his notebook.

I guess you must resent me, eh? Because I asked him to come back and end the war…

Let me tell you one last thing, Golden Eyes, because the few times that we have come together, our hearts have been heavy and our spirits, sad. No, let me tell you something.

I know that he ended the war for me. Even though I didn’t remember.

I know, I know. I know that he did.

And I’m not sure whether or not this was a dream, but one day, when the outside world was filled with soft snow, I looked outside the window, and I was happy.

For Sam Walters stood there, grinning up at me.

**A note from Kads–This story was written for my short story contest. All rights belong to Linyang Zhang.**

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