[The following screenshots of the Statue of Demuul is from Marlboroma1n’s Flickr Page. I love the photos so much that I’ve written a BearFic out of it. Wait for it… LOL.]
From Just Marc’s Flickr Page
The Statue Of Demuul
I’ve always done crazy things. I once thought that I could defy gravity and broke my right thumb while rolling down Nayramadin Peak when I was but a child. Another time, I thought that I could sense moving objects while my eyes remained closed while crossing the busy streets of Ulaanbaatar. I thought I was fearless, but my mother always reminded me that I was simply crazy like my father. My father left my mother while I was in my youth. She had never said it, but I knew that she blamed me for it. Maybe I do blame myself which was why I did the things I did. I wanted to know why I was alive. Or maybe because I wanted to be with my father, wherever he was.
But I knew that I was really crazy when the Statue of Demuul spoke to me.
“Thank you,” it said.
I thought it was Batukhan playing another silly prank. I always wondered if he knew that I would always pass a secretive glance at the beautiful Statue of Demuul. I circled the statue and did not find Batukhan.
“Up here,” it said.
I faced the statue and it looked exactly like it had always been. Solid, firm, and strong. I could not stop gazing at its wide and bulky chest.
“I want to thank you, Bataar.”
“Thank me, for what?” I foolishly responded, trying to stop from laughing.
“For loving me.”
It suddenly did not become a joke. I would find this joker and beat the living daylights out of him.
“You’re the only one who notices me. I have sat here through decades and no one has looked at me the way you do.”
Not only was this strange, but I was even more angered at someone knowing about my deepest secrets. I started to run away.
“Bataar! Please! Come back!”
There was something in its voice that prompted me to stop. Its voice was very familiar. it was the same aching voice I hear in my heart when I think of finding my father.
I was crazy anyway, I told myself, and returned to the statue.
“What exactly do you want me to say?” I asked.
“Through the long winters I was covered in ice but did not know what the cold felt like. And in the short summers, I saw the sun, yet never knew the warmth of its beams. But, Bataar, every time I saw you pass by, you would look at me and I would feel either coldness or warmth. I could even hear the rustle of the distant trees and songs of the little birds nested within. You have given me a gift. And I want to thank you.”
I took it all in, as though I was talking to a real person. There was an honesty to what it said and I could not help but feel sympathetic.
“But how can you be, well, alive? You are a Khunbish. You are not human!”
“I may not be human, but your love has given me life.”
“I am either insane or truly insane.”
“Perhaps. But is it truly a bad thing?”
I proudly showed it my fractured thumb and the scar on my left hip that I got from a swerving motorcycle while crossing the streets of Ulaanbaatar with my eyes closed. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
The statue laughed and said, “I was actually there when they happened. Look at my right thumb and left hip.”
I stared dumbfounded at its fractured thumb and scar. “This cannot be real.”
“I never believed it myself. I just know that you have given me life, and I want to thank you.”
“This is unfair. What exactly do I do now?” Suddenly, I now have that aching voice.
“There is always purpose, Bataar. I now know why I am alive.”
I stared at its unmoving lips, waiting for it to explain.
“I am your pain vessel. I store your pains.”
“That does not make any sense,” I replied.
“I am not sure of it myself. I just know that that is my purpose. Please. Look into my eyes.”
I looked at its eyes and I felt an electrical surge going through my body, except that it did not hurt at all. I saw a bright light and I thought that I saw my father.
“Look at your thumb. It’s not fractured any longer.” I looked at my thumb and it was indeed healed. “Look at your scar and you will not find it.” I did and was amazed at it being gone. “Do not worry, my little Bataar. I will protect you from all your pains…”
* * * * *
The doctor walked inside Room 405 and found the mother crying besides her son’s hospital bed.
“Doctor, will my son be okay?”
“Your son has suffered through a severe head concussion and he will be unconscious for quite some time. The x-rays and police report have indeed verified that he was beaten multiple times on the head and was possibly thrown down a flight of stairs. Mrs. Ali, you may want to talk to the police outside. They need to know where your husband might be.”
A nurse assisted Mrs. Ali as they left Room 405.
What the doctor did not tell Mrs. Ali was that her son, Bataar, had only a few hours to live. The doctor had learned to lie during traumatic moments such as these as honesty was sometimes a bitter pill to swallow. A gust of wind then opened the windows as the doctor walked over to close them. And as he closed the windows, he saw the mighty Statue of Demuul from a distance.