They called him Mat. No one knows his real name,
but nobody has ever asked. Why would they? They all come from a place where no
one goes to make friends. A place where no-one wants to be, where the law puts
you to repent for your sins, or just leave you to die. It’s their fault for
breaking the law. Useless scum, father used to call them, murderers, pillagers,
rapists, thieves, the lot. You break the law and you’ll just end up like them,
he would also say, looking at me right in the eyes. Mother said they are people
who are just a waste of breath and life, who are nothing but a burden and shame
on the rest of us normal folk. A bit unfair, I think. Not all of them were bad
at heart.
Mat was one of the good ones. Quiet guy, never
really said much, or start a conversation. But when he did talk, he’d treat you
like an old friend, with sincerity that was reflected on his face. Not everyone
could do that, make you feel welcome with just a look, but I guess he had just
the right eyes for the job. Like sparkling marbles they were, resting in his
wrinkled eye sockets like someone crudely stuffed them in there. Whenever you
spoke to him, all you would look at are his eyes, and thank god for that too,
as the rest of his face wasn’t really a pretty sight. He had the bulbous nose
of a Dutch monkey and the lips of a donkey, with wrinkles that traveled around
his face like mountain ridges. And as if that wasn’t enough, his cheeks sagged
like old dough. But he didn’t give a rat’s arse how he looked. Mat was happy in
his books. He loved them more than his life.
Mat worked in the library. Not the public library,
of course, but the useless scum wanted to read too, so they made a library just
for them. And Mat called it home. He spent his days, his evenings, and his
nights in the library, reading every book, savoring every word. Dickens, Dante,
Lovecraft, Hemingway; Mat would read them all. Heck, he would even read them
twilight books if there was nothing else to read. And when not burying his face
in books, he’d find enjoyment in arranging the books by letter, or sometimes by
author, or sometimes by year. He’d switch the system around now and then, out
of boredom most probably, but Mat had always been a perfectionist. Even though
his clothes were drab just like the rest of inmates, he always made sure to
keep them clean. Mat liked it that way.
Friends? Mat didn’t need them, but I guess he had a
few. There was Yusof and Talib, who shared his interest in books. Those three
would talk until the cows went home in the library. But they talked strictly
literature, nothing else. There was Kassim, a young fellow, who treated Mat
like a granddad of sorts – asking for advice, that kind of thing. Heard that
the advice did Kassim quite a bit of good too, if the tales are true he now
owns a shop down Ampang street, which he bought with the money he worked for
after being made a free man. Nice to hear that, a former scum turning things
around for himself after being released; wish I could say that about Mat.
What happened to Mat, you say? Well due to good
behavior the law let him out early. Mat never asked for it, mind you, he was
probably let out to make room for more inmates. Poor guy, the library was all
he ever cared for; he had nothing left for him on the outside. But the law
didn’t care, and Mat was set free, and given a job at the grocers. An old man
like that, working 9 to 5? Of course Mat couldn’t handle it; drove the poor man
crazy. And then one day, just like that, Mat took his own life. Sad really, but
no one expected different from a guy whose entire life was based within those
walls. They shouldn’t have ever let him out, he didn’t belong with us normal
folk, especially because he didn’t have his books with him. But I guess that’s
just fate, and Mat died by his own hands. I wish I could say that there is
moral to this story, but there really isn’t. Maybe I could say that, even
though we normal folk think otherwise, life and happiness can be found in the
weirdest of places, even in a place filled with useless scum.
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