This is what it feels like to be second rate.

It kinda hurt when you said, "Either change your URL or remove my name from your posts." I don't know how she found the link to my blog, and honestly, I didn't notice until you threw that fit, but I respected our relationship and I respected you. Don't get me wrong, I still do, but what you said hurt. 

You want me to remove your name? You got it.

Take care.

Adults

I guess this is what adults do. They disappoint.

They bring you in to their world and make you their best friends and they disappoint you. Mercilessly so.

I swore to myself I would never let myself become one of them. Turns out, I've become too much like them. Maybe worse.

My phone's been ringing all morning. Clients, friends, her and... her. They demand to know what's going on.

Clients wanting to know when glamorous stories of their company will be published, friends wanting to know if I'll be free today. All of them dismissed very easily.

But these two names that pop up on my phone are harder to dismiss. One my girlfriend who I owe an explanation to and the other not so much. Although it pains me to think what must be going through each of their heads right now regarding my current situation. My girlfriend worried to death not knowing if I'm alive or dead and Janice, well Janice is just overcome by guilt at what happened last night. I can't blame her. I specifically told her that I wanted none of anything.

But I shouldn't be so selfish in blaming her. It takes two to tango and two to, well, everything else.

I should deal with my girlfriend first. She deserves an explanation. A really long one followed by a talk. Come what may. Turns out living the sheltered life of  a recluse doesn't sound so bad after all.

Didn't get much sleep after I got back. Counted the blemishes on my bedroom ceiling. Anything to keep my mind off this fuck up.

I'll probably end up single after this. Worse case scenarios, Haziq. Worse case scenarios. I kept telling myself that this morning when the sun blared through the curtains of my window. My eyes burning from keeping them open for far too long. Maybe I wanted to burn off my irises. The searing pain and dry eyes a small consolation to what I'll be getting later.

How the fuck did it get to that point? I'm still kicking myself stupid for it.

Jeez.

Talked to my cat about it. She was no help at all. Absentmindedly licking herself while I paced up and down my room unloading my guilt on her. And yet she did nothing. Merely purred and expected a stroke.

I could talk to Fi, but that would be a stretch.

Guess we'll just have to see how things go. Never mind the fact that you feel like shit (as you should) and scared as fuck (as you should!).

Go fuck yourself, Haziq.

Cheers.

Guilt ridden

He opened his eyes and stared blankly at the darkness. As they adjusted, he slid his left arm from under the pillow and groped for his phone on the nightstand beside the bed.

Grabbing it, he slid the bar to unlock his phone as his eyes read the notifications glowing crystal bright against the darkness. 24 missed calls and five messages from his girlfriend as well as a text message from Sara. He ignored them for the moment and continued scanning the screen for the time. The analog digits flicker and change. "3:13 am" it flashed menacingly at the boy's drooping eyes.

"Still early," he whispers.

Suddenly, he feels the bed. The texture was different. Smoother and softer somehow, not like the usual bed he always slept on which was rough and hard.

He groans, an overwhelming sense of dread enveloping him.

He rolls over to his left just as an arm reaches over and wraps him in its embrace. The guilt he felt was overwhelming.

He pushes his body against this new restraint and looks at the woman lying next to him. Her eyes were closed as her shoulder-length hair, dyed red, covered the left half of her face.

Janice was sleeping soundly next to him. Blanket wrapped around her torso defending herself from the cold emanating from the vibrating air-con unit above them, her left arm resting on his neck.

Very slowly, he lifts her arm and places it beside her while he pushes his body up off the bed and walks to the dressing table across the room. He averts his eyes from the reflection staring back at him from the mirror. The guilt riding on top his shoulders was bearing him down.

'How did the night end up like this?' he asked himself. How could the boy have known that when she texted him that evening after arriving home from Germany for work, the word "present" didn't mean a souvenir she'd brought back from Munich or Berlin?  How could he have known that while he was talking to her about boundaries and restrictions and the prospect of keeping their relationship strictly platonic, she had other things on her mind? The boy could never have known.

His relationship with his girlfriend was rocky, but for this to happen was unacceptable.

The weight of the guilt began to cut into his shoulders. The drove him to the ground. He knew he needed to get out of there.

Putting on his pants, he looked around for his shirt. He glanced towards the bed and decided it was best to go home shirtless - it was snugly being worn by Janice.

He crept quietly out of the room and out of the apartment. Riding the elevator down to the lobby, the boy stared at his reflection in the glass. His eyes, once bright were now dark and emotionless. He averted them from that pitiful view.

As he crossed the threshold of the lobby to the steps outside its front doors, he stops and sits down on a step.

Pulling out his phone, he reads the five texts. The usual, 'where are you?', 'why aren't you picking up my phone calls?'. Each text was more persistent and demanding than the one before.

He dismissed them and dreaded having to face her later that afternoon. Instead, he opened Sara's. 'Accomplishment (y)' it merely read. Well at least someone had fun. He reminded himself to congratulate her later. He knew he would have to talk to her about what happened and would feel the brunt of her disappointment. He'd like it if she would scream at him and tell him how disgusting he was and how ever find it in himself to do this to someone. But that's up to her. He wouldn't mind it the boy told himself. Sara had earned that right and several times over. He needed his best friend. But she's probably dreaming of her recent escapade involving a bloke and lots of tongue.

'Let her have that dream tonight,' he told himself. 'She's deserved it.'

He picks himself up off the ground and walks to his car. Just as he reaches it, his pocket buzzes and cell phone rings. 'Janice' it glows. She's finally woken up and was wondering where he was. He'll call her another time. He has more pressing problems to sought out. The straps of guilt were still digging into his shoulders wearing him down.

'Oh, god. Why?' the emotional bombardment ruthlessly hacking away at his insides, throat expanding as the sudden wave of nausea overcomes him. He suppresses the urge to purge.

The drive back should be hell with him left alone with his own thoughts. He knew they would be just as merciless.

Dreamscape. chapter 1 pt 1 - Power addled minds are the Devil's playground.

Marcus evades the incoming fist aimed at his head, he side steps left around his attacker and places a well aimed jab to the man's temple disorienting him. He then launches a hook and a succession of blows to the back of the man's head, abdomen and ribs ploughing through skin and muscle to target the nerves and organs inside. His attacker stumbles from each hit.

Barely able to find satisfaction with the victory, Marcus ducks as another punch comes from behind. He catches the outstretched arm and plants an elbow digging it into his second attackers solar plexus. Hand still clutching the man's wrist, he turns and twists it behind the man's back. Standing behind him, Marcus slams his foot to the back of the man's right knee dropping him to the ground. He takes a step back and places a well aimed roundhouse straight into his second attacker's right temple, dropping him.

Even before the man thuds to the ground, his first attacker launches himself towards Marcus, all 350 pounds of him. For a big guy, he is agile and fast. Mere seconds he closes the gap between the both of them. Marcus sidesteps, catches the man's right arm and neck and drives him to the ground. He then mounts the man's shoulders from the front and pins him down with his knees. With all his ferocity, Marcus drives his knee continuously into the mans shoulder - once, twice five times. He picks the man up to face him, jumps up with all purpose and determination and drives his elbow into the man's sternum breaking his collar bone. The first attacker convulses, his body going into shock.

That'll buy me time, he thinks.

Marcus stands his ground. Confusion addling his brain and fatigue at keeping pace with the flurry of blows launched by these two men is making it difficult to maintain an air of hostility needed to intimidate his attackers and dispel any chance of an opening he might present.

He takes slow deep breaths, exhaling them in ragged proportions, his head pounding as he turns towards to the other man. Confused, tired and in need of answers, he keeps his hands up, fists clenched tight and paces his breathing.

"Who sent you?" he demands."And what are you doing in my Dreamscape?"

His attacker, 7 feet maybe 7 and a half looks down at Marcus' 170 cm lithe frame and smiles. The waistcoat and vest the two of them wore tucked into fly front trousers with breeches suggested that they weren't from this era. It didn't matter. A man was a man no matter what century he came from and a man challenging Marcus in a fight would be met with much resistance. With 10 years of experience in Kickboxing under his belt, Marcus wasn't an easy target to put down. Like a Pitbull cornered, Marcus was ready to lunge.

"Answer me!" Marcus screams. His anger levels were at an all time high. Spurred by the confusion and surprise of being ambushed in his own mind, Marcus needed answers and he needed them quick before either of them had any time to devise a plan in this hole of a box. However, before another course of action could be contemplated, a sound much like one made by a vacuum could be heard over the din in that small space that hosted the three men.

Marcus panics as he knows what would enfold following the sound.

He launches himself forwards in a last bid to plant a wave tracker on one of his attackers that the next time they enter his dream, he'll be able to know. Yet, before he could reach them in time, the men disappear with a 'pop' leaving Marcus to stand in the stark white room devoid of any features or details, a prisoner within his own mind.

He relaxes his body and scans his surroundings. Mere moments before he was walking down an unfamiliar street lined with stores and stalls in the city created within his own mind. He didn't remember creating the street and knew that the bricks and tar used to create the buildings and road he walked on were not his own. The dream signatures were too distant, far too alien for them to be his.

Just as his mind made way for a thousand and one questions, his entire surrounding was plunged in a blindingly white light. Someone had dropped limbo on him, a room that blocks the artist to his dream world. That's when the two men came into the picture. Decked in outfits fit for the Victorian era, they just lunged. Their waistcoats and notched collars drawing Marcus into a whirling of fists. Both the attackers fought like boxers. Weaving in and out of his jabs and crosses, shoulders bobbing with their fists balled up in front of their faces. It wasn't a style Marcus was familiar with and he thought that it seemed archaic, comical even. But their attacks were forceful, controlled and looking for a break in his defenses.

Marcus sits on the floor and looks around his plain, blindingly white surroundings. The small wave tracker, meant to monitor the specific brain waves of the people he plants them on blinks red against whiteness of the room.


With a thought, he dismisses the small item and sits. He can't go anywhere. They must have used a device of some kind to trap me in this place, he thinks. That, or they must be really good Dreamscape artists.

Marcus is talented, he gives himself that. At only six months, he had managed to hone his Dreamscaping abilities and create his own domain. People who can create their own space usually take years to perfect and some still aren't able to bridge others into their dreams. Building your own world, using your dreams and linking other people through their own and bringing them into his is truly an impressive feat.

So far, Marcus has created a utopia for a few hundred people. Some of them he knows while others are friends of friends of friends - linkers they're called. Brought into his own world by catching the same dream wave and plunging themselves into the tiny 'city' Marcus had created. Usually, people looking for a cheap thrill or a unreal high, they prowl forums and websites that host Dreamscapers and ask to be included into their world.

Marcus always thought they were the lowest of the low. Too lazy to develop their own Dreamscape abilities and latching on to hosts in order to get what they want, material wealth lacking from their own real lives. Marcus is their god, their king and every title you can throw at them and these linkers will gladly buff his shoes, or pay their requests with real dollars for a chance to live the life they wish. They called him the almighty. But in this small white room, he is powerless.

Marcus stands and surveys his surroundings. He doesn't see a small gap or crack in the walls and to be able to cover such details, plaster the surface smooth and paint it insanely white takes talent.

Whatever or whoever it is amid the fact that they're targeting Marcus and sending goons to attack him has him a little worried if not on the edge.

Just then, the room darkens. Great. What's going on now? he thinks. He flexes his jowls and braces himself for another brawl should one come. Muscles tensed and feet planted firmly on the ground, Marcus readies himself.


The walls mere seconds ago blindingly white, are now turning a darker shade of blue. That comfortable and familiar connection he maintains with his Dreamscape is slowly getting stronger. Marcus relaxes his muscles and walks over to the walls to inspect them. He runs his hands down the surface and senses a few cracks forming. Just as he peered curiously at this new occurrence, the walls fall away bathing him in the darkness that was his city.

Curious stares greeted him from onlookers standing around the dissolving limbo cube.

"Excuse me, excuse me, coming through,"

Marcus sees Angel coming in from between the many faces and constant murmuring that had formed around him. He needs answers and Angel is the person who can help figure it out. Marcus stands and fiddles with trouser pockets, the white long-sleeved t-shirt drenched with sweat from the fight earlier. Somehow, he's not too comfortable being stared at by all these curious faces.

"Move aside people" he directs. "Nothing to see here. Well, actually, there's a lot to see here, but now's not the time or place so I suggest you go about doing whatever it is you were doing and give... the man... some room!"

Angel finally squeezes past the crowd and stumbles in front of Marcus.

"Well, that wasn't hard at all," he grins.

Angel is short for a Caucasian. Standing a mere 160 cm, what he lacks in height, he more than makes up for brains and charisma. With a nice form and classic southern good looks paired together with an Aww-shucks type of smile, it's no wonder Angel can get away with almost anything.

"Nice limbo cube. Where'd you get it?" he asks with a sly grin on his face.

Marcus surveys the ground beneath his feet at what's left of the cube. The remainder of the walls that held him prisoner folded itself inwards on itself and disappeared from existence leaving a charred tar road that felt once again feels much more familiar to him.

"Someone dropped a limbo cube on my head and sent two big brawlers from the 19th century on me," Marcus explained. "But before that, they created a street within my city. I want to know who's doing this and I want to know why?"

Angel pondered the questions that were presented to him. His tongue licking his upper teeth, face peering upwards as if the answers were readily available from on high, he stares back at Marcus with somber expression.

"Fair enough. But before that, there's something you ought to know."

Marcus looked at Angel inquisitively. He knew that Angel wouldn't just turn off his Southern charm for anything light. Something had happened while he was in the cube and this something is worrying Angel, someone who doesn't get worried too often.

"While you were in the cube, one of your linkers was murdered. Whether or not the murder had anything to do with you being in there remains to be seen, but what is for certain is that your world has had a death occur and this is getting way too serious for you or for me," Angel stresses prodding a finger into Marcus' chest.

Marcus' eyes snap open. He knew death was possible in the Dreamscape, but it was a rare occurrence and not many people reported it considering that whatever happened in the real world is no concern to those in the Dreamscape. He always regarded it as 'if it doesn't happen to me, I shouldn't have to worry about it' kind of circumstance. There's never really a guideline for having your own world, no order save for the kind you reserve for your own purpose to protect your own expense.

However, this time he has to be held responsible. His main income is derived from the activities within his own Dreamscape. His linkers come up to him with requests and he supplies them with what they want accordingly. The only catch is that he doesn't charge them the same amount in the real world. Waking up to $10,000 a night for providing his 'customers' with Ferrari's, private jets and girls isn't such a bad way to earn a living. Thus, should this fall out of hand, he might have to go out into the real world and get a legit occupation. For a former professional fighter with a torn knee ligament and no previous working experience whatsoever, it's going to be hard to survive.

Marcus stands in silent contemplation weighing the various decisions that flash through his mind. As each decision is dismissed, equal amounts of questions form heavily on their stead.

"What do you suggest?" He asks Angel.

"Tomorrow morning when we wake up, you meet me by the cafe on the corner of 22nd and 3rd street. I may know a guy that can help us out," he suggests.With the attention you're pulling, it's high time you had someone teach you to control your Dreamscape better."

"I can control it just fine," Marcus snaps, insulted that anyone would suggest he couldn't control his own mind.

Sensing the defense, Angel reassures him that that wasn't what he meant.

"Calm down. No one ever said anything about you not being able to control your Dreamscape. I'm only suggesting that we get you someone who can help. You've been in the game for a few months. Don't you wanna know what else you can do with this little talent of yours?"

That's certainly piqued Marcus' interest. He relaxes his shoulders and grins at his friend.

Marcus met Angel on a lucid dreaming forum on the net. He had been looking for answers for the dreams he'd been having. At first he thought he was having nightmares. Marcus would find himself in places that resembled familiar spots around the city, coffee shops and bookstores that he'd frequent. But they all felt so real, so vivid. And when he woke up, he'd be more tired than ever, like he had just run a marathon.

Surfing the net one day, he found out about lucid dreaming and how you can create your own dreams and control them. Chatting with the people on the forum and telling them of his experience, he always found his dreams and theirs never really fit. Their dreams were still just that, dreams, while his was like going through a door and coming out in a different world, another life. That was until the day he received an IM on his email server asking him if he really wanted to know what he was going through.

'Sandman' he called himself. Marcus always said he liked Angel's real name better. He and Angel would spend countless hours chatting and discussing the talent that Marcus had. Marcus with a million questions and Angel exhausting his effort to keep up with the answers.

"Dreamscaping it's called. A way to build a world from the moment you close your eyes to the moment you opened them," Angel explained. "You can create anything in your Dreamscape. Always wished you had a Ferrari? Always wanted that swanky little penthouse in the upper east side? Anything and everything my friend."


"Like Inception?" Marcus asked.

"It's nothing like Inception. And don't say that, we might get sued." Angel tutted.


'The sky's the limit,' Angel would always say. As Marcus' questions became more technical, Angel knew he needed something more concrete to back up his answers.

So one day, Angel invited Marcus to meet up with him. Prior to this, all Marcus was getting were tutorials and explanations so Angel suggested Marcus train. As much as Angel knew about Dreamscaping, his abilities were limited. He could only catch the dream waves and not create his own world.

Angel always said that he'd seen far too many drug addled brains and perverted minds to last him a lifetime, often jumping from one Dreamscaper to another.

"But with your talent, we can build a perfect world. Why stop experiencing life when we close our eyes? A perfect utopia for you and me... and other bums you care to invite," Angel said.

From then on, Marcus and Angel would meet at the 'Sleep Cafe' every weekend- a boutique cafe that catered to Dreamscapers and those looking to sit and sulk in the darkness away from the blinding light outdoors, immersed in their own unique style of brooding.

Six months on, Marcus was able to conjure exotic cars, private jets and hand out personal invites to non-scapers, latching on to their dream waves and pulling them into his. A frightening advancement for such a greenhorn.

Brought back from his reverie, Marcus stares at his feet then scans the walls of the small buildings enclosed around them.

Even with his potential and mastery of his talents, Marcus created a modest city, mirroring the one he currently lived in. No tall skyscrapers or Italian made cars on the streets. Just cosy two-storey terraced homes and small shops lining the stretch of road. 'It keeps people humble and grounded' he would always say. Even his and Angel's attires were simple. Angel was wearing a t-shirt and jeans. "Who am I going to impress in here?"

"Do we know who the victim is?" Marcus asked, his mind still euphoric and lethargic from the fight.

"Unfortunately not. Once you die in real life, your body in the Dreamscape disappears. The only way we knew that the person was being murdered is because she..."

"She?" Angel interrupted, shocked further by the fact that the victim was a woman.

"Yes, she... started altering the dream waves around her, mangled books, exploding chairs, that sort of thing. But Marcia was able to plant a wave tracker on her just before she disappeared," Angel continued. "Once your dream state is ripped from your body prematurely, it tends to addle your host's dream waves. The shock of that is powerful enough to rip through connecting waves and into yours."

"Is death the only way to do that?" Marcus asks inquisitively.

"Fortunately, it is." Angel's tone grew hushed. His mind was still contemplating if there were in fact another way to create an impact on the Dreamscape similar to that of death. When he couldn't think of any, he looked up at Marcus. Their expressions portrayed equal amounts of concern.

"Show me the last place she was seen and we'll see if we can't find out who she is." Marcus kindly instructs Angel as he turns to leave.

"With luck, Marcia's machine will have a track on the victim in the real world." Angel says giving a small amount of assurance that whoever or whatever did this will be dealt with accordingly.

Citte Silencia

As his dark equivocal demeanor stood atop the rugged rooftops splattered by rain, he looks down at the dirt enveloped cobbled streets far below.

The moaning of men and wails of women can be heard over the din and bedlam of the silent streets that criss-crossed between the rough and weathered alleys that the beggars and bums called home.

With a swish of his long black duster coat, he slid down the mismatched walls of the old and forsaken building, bruising and battering the already blemished stones below.

As he landed, he looked up towards the street sign that sparkled and shimmered under the shining streak of scintillation emanating from the moon above.

"Adelaide Street," he whispered whipping his worn and tattered tail coat around him.  


It had always been his favorite street. Housing the many stores that sold books and spells that charmed the mind and captivated the soul. This street was where poets pondered over parchments of prose to give birth to works of wonder that wiled the wits of mice and men.

He traipsed across the street to an old store with its whitewashed walls and worse for wear signboard. Peering inside, he saw the books lined up on the shelves, their spines facing outwards to display the many titles offered.

He remembers reading each and every title sold by the store. But tonight wasn't about this store. Tonight was about the city.

She had been good to him. Saving his solitary and sequestered soul from his own sad and sorrowful spirit that housed his many demons, and acting as a crucial compass on his journey for salvation.

Citte Silencia had been home and tonight he would bid it goodbye.

Long has he taken refuge within its warm and hospitable walls and sat atop its soaring, statuesque spires with the birds and gargoyles that would often help him find his answers.

However, he knows now he must find his own path.

He walks solemnly through the silent streets that mere hours ago was bustling with activity. Now, not a soul in sight. He prefers it this way. No one to see him strut about between the shadows and the dreams of those wanting something more out of their morose and mournful motion they call life.

"Be good to her," he says to all the ones that would come thereafter. To the poets and the writers and the men and women who find her intriguing and interesting, who fall for her mystery and mannerisms he bids them luck. She is a difficult one, but worth it nonetheless. "As she has been good to me."

At the end of Adelaide Street he glances back. He gives a final salute for the service and salvation the city has given him and trots off, coat tail whipping about around him towards the waning moon.

The night is still young and many more adventures await.

It All Ends

From citizen high, to citizen low.

It was expected. It's high time I disappeared.

Ciao.

Sooner rather than later

This, I guess, deserves to be here. It took effort ok!

Twas the morning of Wednesday and all through the streets, not a creature was stirring save my gas pedal pushing feet. 
I zoomed and I raced to get there before four, to get there fast enough and see her face once more.
 
As I reached her house under a blanket of stars, my heart skipped a beat as she yelled from afar. 
"Are you sure you have the right house?" she asked me amused, I laughed awkwardly as my ego was bruised. 
She walked towards me not wearing her shoes, I hugged her warmly, my inspiration, my muse. 
 
We walked and we talked and we kissed and we smiled, we spooned and we hugged our passion went wild.
As we ended up on her couch I did something I regret, something disrepectful that I'd wish she'd forget.
She stared at me blankly, irritated at best, my mind went full retard as it became such a mess.
"I'm so sorry," I said, apologising profusely, she smiled and she said to me ever so cooly.
"You have to promise me two things," they ended up as four, most importantly "I cant break your heart anymore."
I agreed to her wish and told her my own, "dont fall in love with me," it isnt something I'd condone.
As we said our goodbyes and sealed the rules with a kiss, I knew it'd be rare for another night such as this.
But a guy can hope and wish for another, it was a few hours of bliss spending time with each other.
　
I do hope my actions didn't cause you to hate me, my fears are more stronger than the need of you to date me.
I wish I could rewind time and take it all back, my guilt and my fears screaming, "Boy, have some tact."
 
It was a good night although the time spent was hardly enough, the walk back to my car was for me "Damn, really tough".
So I leave this message with a hope and a prayer, that we might spend time again sooner rather than later.

Lewis Carrol References and Hesitant Goodbyes

The black and blue string tied around his wrist dug deep into his skin. It had wound itself tighter and tighter till the thin cord choked and blocked the flow of blood to and from his wrist.

He knew he had to take it off.

Her shirt he held each night in his slumber prickled and poked, making his skin itch and kept him awake throughout the night. The memories of her, her smell had all but disappeared.

He took it off.

His lips which had tasted hers tingled with the sweet satisfaction of a once known passion had truly hurt. It became chapped and bleeding, constantly dripping scarlet onto his fingers each time he brushed them against his lips desperate to find again that feeling of bliss when his lips touched hers.

He ripped them off.

And so too did he do with his eyes that have held her image, his hands that have touched her skin, his ears that have heard her sultry voice and his heart, oh his heart that has carried more pain than all the others.

His heart should have been the first to be ripped from him, yet he saved till the very last.

He thought he could take the pain, ignore the jealousy and continue loving her from afar. He believed his heart to be stronger. He was wrong.

Ripping his heart out and all the rest, he is left an empty shell.

Last night, as the thumping bass reverberated around the walls of the club and the soft white skin of the Asian girl he held his body against was grinding against him, the image of her flashed across his mind. The alcohol-induced stupor he was in did nothing to numb the pain he was feeling. It did nothing to take his mind away from the longing his heart had for her. He stopped. He pushed the girl aside and made a beeline for the bottle of Whiskey calling to him from their table. He needed more. More to numb the pain of wanting her. More to make him forget he loved her. More to make him empty and cold and... and... frightened.

Frightened that he would not have a place in her heart for him. Scared that his name would just be another profile on her Facebook list of friends.

It was unfair to her that he would assume such things. Did he think so light of her? He's been assured that outcome will never come to pass but his paranoia has always been the prevailing emotion.

The text message, the a.m phone call, it wasn't that he needed time to forget her, it was that he needed time to come to terms with the new role he had in her life. The role that she had always saved for him. Regardless of the things that have happened between them, foreseen or unforeseen, he had always been given that role. Much like Mark, Mischa and Ivan. He should be proud of that role. Each of them given their own specific roles in her life. And so has she given one to him.

He assured her that he will always have her back and scratching the surface, so too does she have his.

His love for her will never diminish, merely evolved. They loved each other as friends, and evolved to lovers and in time, so too will his love for her progress from lover to friend. Although this time he believes, the evolution of that love transcends even friendship. For the respect and admiration he has for her deserves more than the title of mere 'friend'. He hasn't found a name for it yet, but what's in a name when the emotions mean more ey.

I'll always have your back S. So if it's ok with you, I'm taking time off to better prepare myself to fit the role that you have for me in your life.

Lots of love.

Haziq.

p.s. you owe me a resume.

Meh

My paralyzed form hung over the side of the bed like a rag-doll thrown carelessly by its owner. I stared at it. As if in an out-of-body experience, I looked at my own form, criticized it and loathed it.

I had been feverish for a good three days, yet yesterday the fever decided to manifest itself into something more malicious. I had been bed-ridden and there was nothing anyone could do about it, myself included.

I painstakingly crawled out of bed and into my car disregarding all other factors of my existence and drove myself to the nearest clinic.

The events of the day were a haze. What did I say to the doctor? How did I pay? and more importantly, how is it that I found myself staring at my limp form laying on top of the bed, mouth agape.

The staring contest I had with myself was short-lived as once again the medication kicked in knocking me unconscious for a good 5 hours.

I awoke to darkness. Groping for my phone, I found it nestled inconveniently under a bundle of pillows and blankets at my feet. Safe to say, I had turned a full 180 degrees and my feet had the comfort of what my head desired.

Tch.

I forced myself up. Leaning precariously over the side of the bed, head throbbing from the long hours of being benumbed, I crawled, meandered and dragged myself to the bathroom.

I still hadn't found out the time thinking that the effort it took for me to unravel the blankets in search of my phone was too much to be exerted.

I looked up into the mirror and found death staring back. Good looking fellow that death. Still, the heavy bags under its eyes and the crusts of dried-up saliva peppering the corner its his mouth was a disapproving sight indeed.

My irises expanded as the cold water splashed over my face with the force of  slap. I immediately perked up. Coupled with the grumbling of my tummy and the growling that issued forth from my throat, I needed to escape this four walled tomb and get on with my life.

Easier said than done. I found myself collapsed on the bed again and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Just the way I like it.

Blood is thicker...

"A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity."

                                                                       King Solomon

The heavy stench of blood permeated the air. Like a fragrance, it wafted all around him. So heavy was the smell of the liquid that ‘Ziq could almost taste the iron on his tongue; a metallic mineral that left a foul taste on his lips.

He looked down at his pants. The thick, sticky substance had seeped through the fabric moistening his skin.

His eyes wandered to the patch of red slowly spreading across his lap. His head turned ever so slowly to stare at the blood drenched face looking up at him from his lap.

Omar was bleeding profusely from a giant gash on his head from the deliberate swing of a machete; the result of a mugging gone wrong.

Earlier, ‘Ziq was driving towards Melaka town when he received a phone call from Omar. Tragically, it was not him. The stranger had dialed the first number that appeared on the call list and instructed ‘Ziq to come quickly. By the time ‘Ziq got there, a throng of onlookers had encircled Omar’s sprawled body and he had lost a considerable amount of blood. The ambulance was nowhere in sight.

‘Ziq looked around; his eyes pleading for assistance. Only this morning were they talking to him, laughing. Now, just past midnight, ‘Ziq was cradling his friend’s head in his lap, watching him drift in and out of consciousness, in and out of death.

They stared into each other’s eyes. Omar’s growing smaller while ‘Ziq’s grew wider.

The sudden crunching of soft gravel pulled his tearful eyes from his friend’s face as he looked towards the arrival of M and H, their faces stark white as they took in the scene before them.

As Omar slowly closed his eyes, ‘Ziq’s heart began to pound faster. M noticing this rushed to his friend’s side. He knelt on the cold hard gravel of the tar road that would eventually become Omar’s final resting place and continuously slapped the boy’s face.

“Wake up!,” he shouted in Malay. “Don’t sleep! Whatever you do, don’t sleep.”

M was hysterical. “Please! Wake up!” He continued to shout and scream while tears poured down his face as he tirelessly shook his friend awake.

H stood there transfixed at the sight before him. A thousand and one things were going through his head and not one of them could persuade his feet to move, to rush to his friend’s side. He watched as M was screaming and shaking the limp form of Omar, furious to keep him alive.

‘He should never have left the house alone,’ he thought. Why weren’t any of us with him? This should never have happened.

He didn’t notice it then, but tears were rolling down his cheek collecting at the sides of his lips.

As M shuddered to a halt, H knew that the day had just become a nightmare. His mind released his body and his heart furiously pumped blood into his veins launching him forwards.

Soon the three friends found themselves clutching the lifeless form of their friend.

Then ‘Ziq heard it, it echoed like the sound a wounded animal would make only this was amplified a hundred times over. Mixed with the howls of the dogs and the murmuring of the crowd around them, ‘Ziq was hearing the sound of his own agonizing scream. He let rip a roar of anguish.

M draped his body across Omar’s torso, sobbing uncontrollably with no strength left in it. He should have tried harder he thought. He should have shook with more force. Blame could go to no one but himself. As he buried his face in his friend’s chest, an infinite amount of possibilities went through his head always ending with the same question. What if?

H awkwardly grinned, not yet ready to accept this outcome, not yet ready to accept the departure of his friend.

‘This can’t be happening,’ he thought. ‘It shouldn’t happen. Not to Omar.’

As he knelt beside his friends, the realization hit him like a brick wall as his lips began to quake. He let out a wail. H has never known true agony than what he was suffering at that moment. The fragments of his life he thought were slipping away. No friend should mourn the loss of another in these conditions. But his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of ‘Ziq’s scream.

The boys mourned for Omar then. The tears they shed that night for their friend were painful. The tears sliced and burned at their eyes and their hearts felt as if they were about to explode from the sheer pain that was pumped through them. They screamed and cried and to them, let the world know their pain and the world be damned for it. For that night, they didn’t lose a friend, they had lost a brother.

*** 

‘Ziq stared blankly at the white-washed curtains hanging down from the wall. The bed he sat on creaked in protest as he shifted his weight on top of it. The phone that rested on the mattress buzzed to life pulling him out of his reverie.

He looked towards the neon light.

[1 New Message] it read. He slid his phone open.

[Are you coming?]. The name on the screen read R.

His fingers typed slowly and deliberately making sure to feel each click of the buttons.

The almost immediate buzzing greeted his eyes which had never left his phone. He didn’t need to read it to know what the reply was.

He stood up, bed creaking, and pulled a bottle of whiskey out from the bottom drawer of his wardrobe. His eyes trailing the room finally resting on the calendar that sat atop the table. It was the only thing besides the furniture that he cared to keep.

A date was circled. August seventeen. It had been a three years since Omar’s death.

He threw the unopened bottle of whiskey inside the duffel bag he had been packing and zipped it up. Drawing a breath of courage, he stood, grabbed the bag and walked out the door.

***

R’s fingers were furiously typing away on his phone when ‘Ziq saw him sitting on the stone divider in front of the house; a wide smile crept across his thin lips while his mop of brown curls flew about following the direction of the wind. His wiry frame followed suit.

“Glad you could make it.”

“Don’t I always?” ‘Ziq replied smirking.

“Are the others here yet?”

As soon as ‘Ziq asked the question, he was knocked forwards in shock as E hugged him from the back, a medium height, portly guy.

“Glad you could make it bro!” he smiled.

‘Ziq recovered and shook E’s hand. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Besides, who’d bring the whiskey if I didn’t?” he jokingly pointed out.

It was customary during this occasion that every year, the members of 319 and the new members of Puyuh 14 gather together at the old house in Melaka to pay their respects to Omar. They would take turns to bring the whiskey. Always the same blend of malt; a Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7. A true southern homage R would say, “As a tribute to our boy downstairs.”

“How was your drive down? Heard the roads were pretty jammed up.”

“It was fine. I don’t know where you get your info from but I bet the signal gets jammed by all that pubic hair on the top of your head.” ‘Ziq smirked.

E guffawed while R could only snigger in amusement by the loving insult directed at his expense.

“Well...,” he began. The sounds of multiple engines distracted them from their traditional game of insults.

M and H stepped out of K’s car as K dropped them off first in order to find a suitable parking spot, all eyes squinted towards the pair.

“Well, well. Look at all you losers grinning there like a bunch of starry eyed pussies.” The insults were harsh, but that’s just M. H grinned beside him.

“Haven’t you guys seen a celebrity before?,” M continued.

“If celebrities were fat and bald and carried a colostomy bag, then no,” said R. He got his comeback.

M was tall and carried a beer belly with joy, but one wouldn’t go so far as to call him fat. H was similarly built like E except the years have not done him justice as he tirelessly tries to cover his growing tummy under his t-shirt.

Soon after, K approached walking side by side with A.

K was medium height, small and carried with him an air of what people would call ‘swagger’ while A was tall, almost 6’4” with a good build and an air of business about him.

“Should we get started?” he asked.

“What’s the hurry?,” ‘Ziq asked. “We’ll be here all night plus shouldn’t we wait for Z, F and B?”

“I just don’t want to tarry. It’s getting dark and we still have to check into our hotel room remember?”

A being a member of Puyuh 14 was new to this gathering. M gave him a look of indignation but of understanding and agreement.

“It’s best if we do this fast. I’m sure all of us are tired and we can meet up tonight at the hotel. Plus, the others couldn’t make it, but they’ll be toasting just the same.” Said M

‘Ziq nodded. He gingerly took out the whiskey bottle and the coke (some of them didn’t drink) and passed the glasses around. Those that did drink he poured for, those that didn’t poured the coke themselves. As the golden liquid filled their cups and each of their glasses were filled, they raised the whiskey glasses up in the air. It was E’s turn to give the toast.

He unrolled the creased up paper with his free hand and read aloud.

“We met five years ago on the day of registration at our local uni. You were a dumb tall kid with your parents in tow and your little sister holding on to your hands. Smiling up at the faces all around you, you instantly knew you would be a hit at that place,” E’s tear ducts began swelling with moisture as he started his eulogy.

“You were taken from us too soon brother. We miss the signature laugh you had (H imitated the laughter).We miss how, one night when after you finished playing guitar hero, you swung the plastic guitar over your shoulder and walked out to order food at the mamak in front, whether it was deliberate or not, you made everyone laugh and question your sanity. “

“Brother. Do you remember when none of us had any money to eat and we pooled all the coins we found in our cars together and bought a week’s worth of instant noodles? There were six of us in the house and two of us shared one cup. It was the best meal I ever had.” ‘Ziq’s tears were flowing freely down his face as he solemnly nodded in agreement.

“Omar. The adventures we shared could never be replaced and I, we, would be damned if we would ever trade them for the world. The light you brought into our lives is irreplaceable. We will always remember you. Here’s to you Omar, always a friend, ever a brother.”

They raised the glasses in the air as a final salute and drew them close to their lips. The alcohol drinkers swung the liquid into the back of their throats burning them, while the coke drinkers sipped their drinks and whispered his name.

Teary eyed, they hugged one another. A silent embrace among, not friends, but brothers. They would meet at the hotel and as tradition would go, sit till the wee hours of the morning and exchange stories about their lives and about Omar. A, Z, F and B were not the original members of house 319, but they knew Omar and have had adventures with him just the same.

There was a certain morality that Omar brought to the table. A sense of humility that would bend any person no matter how high and mighty they thought they were. He was always down-to-earth and never expected anything from anyone. Until you proved your weight in rice, as they say, only then would he show you his true side to you. After that, if you didn’t get a stitch in your side from laughing at his antics, you weren’t considered human.

We still meet to this day, every August seventeenth we would drive down to Melaka and book a night at a quaint hotel in town. A 30 minute drive from house 319.

For us, we still mourn the death of Omar. But, I guess from his death also comes celebration as sadistic and insulting as that sounds. But from his death we realized that we aren’t just friends. No, we’ve evolved past that. We’re brothers through and through. As the St. Crispin’s Day Speech from Shakespeare’s play, Henry V said,

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;  for he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother”

We few, we happy few. Omar’s absence has been hard, but we’ll never forget the laughter shared. Puyuh 14 and house 319 have been through a lot together. We have stuck together in sickness and in health.  While one was sick, the others would care for him. A smile always finds its way to my lips whenever I think back to all the times I played nurse to three of the boys (Two were with fever and one had chicken pox). I had isolated the one with chicken pox and was continuously running up and down in and out of the house tending to them. After several days of caring for them, H and M who were with fever got better, I was bedridden with my own fever for a full week. They never left my sight. They bought food and tilted my head to feed me. At night, they slept in my room with me with no air-con and no fan in the blistering heat just because they wanted me to sweat the fever out. Needless to say, they were suffering from the heat too. Still, they never left my sight.

If you asked me about friendship, I would say it was about sacrifice. You sacrifice your time for the people you love. You would go to the ends of the earth for them knowing full well they would do the same in return.

One night, I received a phone call from M who was in Melaka looking after K who had recently broken up with N, his then girlfriend. I made plans to drive down from Kedah to meet up with them since we were all concerned for him. We stuck by him when he found out his girlfriend dumped him for another girl. He kind of wished we hadn’t. We made fun of him to no end. But that’s us. We can insult you to the point you feel worthless, but teach you to insult us back and pick your pride up off the floor. A few months later when I had broken up with A because she got married, they came to Kedah. A 5-hour drive just to tell me that I am Good Luck Chuck and that all the women I sleep with will eventually get married. A harbinger of matrimony, M called me.

It takes one grief to bring us together each year as friends and all our memories shared together to keep us brothers. And I wouldn’t trade that for the world.

In loving memory of Omar.

A muse by any other name...

The tiny beads of sweat glistened off her skin reflecting the neon lights that glared overhead. She moved with an awkward rhythm that made it hard to turn away from.

Her labored breathing a soft hymn to those who chose to listen. As I held the kick-bag for her, my eyes stood transfixed on her face.

She was oblivious, and she was beautiful. Her disheveled hair swinging wildly as each kick connected. A cushioned pain that he soon grew to enjoy.

His heart was heavy as I talked to her. The combination of words that came from his mouth a confusing tangle while the words that came out of hers were perfectly strung together. Her light accent playfully drawing him closer.

He drew from within him the courage to ask her out. She looked at him almost confused, unwilling. He noticed it and took the hint.

Several weeks passed that he grew to know her. A burden the place was. Had he known what anguish it would bring him and what pain the people there, some, not all would slice into his heart, he would have avoided it. However, that place was the same place that brought them together.

The cool night air was blissfully playing a melodious tune as the gentle winds passed through the trees and the branches. His phone sat idly on the table while he stared blankly at it. 'Sara Trett' was glowing on its screen with her numbers displayed across it.

He absentmindedly typed in a sentence. *Delete* *Delete* *Delete*. He typed again. The same outcome. 'Last try,' he told himself. The words were jagged, not his own. But they were sent. Music, songs were coming from a source he didn't know, yet the deafening sounds of his beating heart was the only music he heard.

"Really? that's it..," she replied. "Obviously you can do better than that." Throughout the night his fingers typed away furiously. He didn't even remember what time he slept. All he knew was that he awoke to my lips in a  peculiar contraction. Almost as if, almost as if he awoke smiling.

He walked the empty halls leading to the place. His heart was beating fast. This could be because he had rushed to the place after a workout, but he knew better. He stepped over the slightly elevated steps into the dark, cold bar and made his way to the couch.

Her legs on top of the other with a smile on her face. She looked calm and contented. The place did that to her he knew. It did that to him to. So at ease in there. The closest place you could compare was home. And yet, nowadays, it feels so dark and foreboding.

He talked to a few friends and hugged a few others. After the usually pleasantries shared, he finally reached her. He held out his hands and she looked him up and down almost insulted. "I don't want a handshake, I wan't a hug," she said. No better words could have been uttered from those rose tinted lips of hers. He soaked himself in them.

The embrace was warm. He needed it and coming from her, it was better than the numbing sensation of alcohol or the sharp pierce that any drug did to you. Her hugs were an elixir and the fountain of youth be damned.

They sat and talked for hours on end. He joked and laughed and they whispered and smiled. He placed his hands on her calf and drew in its warmth. She looked at him and smiled. He took comfort in its warmth. He didn't know that it would be his salvation.

The roads were dark with little cars on it. The row upon row of tall lamp posts lined the almost deserted stretch of tar leading to her house. "If I kissed you, would you push me away?" "You can try and see".

Her soft rose tinted lips. The sweet taste of them. The moist sensation. The movements. They both make him and break him.

The rest is history. For what more can be said? He found comfort in her. His muse. He'll always find comfort in her. However, we're all destined for other things. Her warmth heats his blood and makes him feel alive. But his does not necessarily do the same for her. He was never hers. He knows it deep down inside. But he found comfort in his muse. And she will always be that.

Destiny and fate be damned.

Todo Para Familia

In certain parts of the world, the days have grown more frigid as January was opening its eyes to the cold winds of winter. Christmas trees and sparkling ornaments still stood erect and some would even stay up well into July.

For him however, living in a tropical climate, he rarely had any choice but be constantly exposed to the piercing rays of the summer sun. Where he came from, it was always summer. And today had been particularly warm, proof from the moisture forming on his brow.

The stainless steel keys he twirled around his fingers jingled merrily. The taste of metal still lingered dryly in his mouth from a moment before when he had to maneuver his way out the car door and the only solution to do so successfully was to bite the keys.

He always hated the taste. “I guess this is what vampires taste when they suck on iron-rich blood,” he mused. Dismissing the thought as surely as it had entered his mind, he replayed the events of the day.

It had been a good day for him, he thought. He’d been out with friends, had met up with his ebony sweetheart and to top it all off, a package had arrived for him earlier that day. 

‘Probably the leather bound journal I’d bought three bloody weeks ago,’ he thought aloud.

He tentatively walked across his porch and headed to the side door. As he neared the grille, he slowed to a halt. Something was amiss, he thought. The house felt empty. He scanned the marble flooring before the wooden front door for any hint of slippers or shoes. The slippers strewn across the mirrored marble were missing a few pairs.

Before he left the house this morning, he distinctly remembered that as he crouched down to put on his shoes, the voices of his parents could be heard coming from the kitchen. They’re usually bickering. He’d gotten fairly used to it, knowing full that as the days went by, what was violent before now was only emotional anguish.

He had left the house while his parents were in mid fight. During the drive back, he expected to come home to a quite environment as he didn’t think either of them had the energy to prolong a shouting match well into the evening. Old age has its advantages.

Yet, somehow, standing in front of the wrought-iron grille, he heard silence. 

He fumbled for the bronze pass-key that would open the grille as a host of unwanted thoughts entered his mind. The thoughts aligned themselves from the worse to the rational. He dismissed the rational knowing all too well that Murphy's law applied strongly in his house, "Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong,” he repeated to himself almost like a mantra.

'What if?,' he thought. A lot of ‘what ifs’ were swirling around in his head neither of which consoled him.

He shook the mental images out of his head as he continued fumbling with the keys. When he finally found the right one, in his haste, his clumsy fingers missed the cold metal rings and the entire bunch fell to the floor. He stared at them.

He didn't know how long he'd been doing it, but by the time he snapped out of the staring contest he had started with the keys, he found himself on the warm grey floor of the car porch, arms clutching his knees. He breathed. In an instance there, he thought he had forgotten how to. Once again he found himself staring off into space. But this time, it wasn’t at anything tangible.

His thoughts had wandered and had brought him back to a specific moment in time. 

It was a warm night in Kedah. The car he was driving cruised along the pitch black road heading back to the university campus him and his mother were staying in.

The only view that greeted him was the inky black tar road and the menacing trees on either side. 

He kept his calm and his eyes on the road knowing all too well what wandering eyes would invite on a road such as this. He'd heard the stories and known the encounters people have had in the area all too well and wasn’t in any mood to entertain neither his imagination nor the things that go bump in the night.

He applied pressure to the gas pedals and felt the car rev forward as the meter slowly climbed to 140, 160. His determination and daredevil driving paid off as a patch of light finally greeted him a few meters ahead.

As he neared the guard house, he habitually lifted his hand up in greeting to the security guards and drove past.

Parking his car in the spot provided, he walked along the dimly lit corridor back home.

The cool night air wafted around him. They danced across his skin as if they were putting on a show just for him. The ballerinas of the night. Constantly caressing his bare skin and running their intangible hands through his hair, a silent reminder that he was not alone.

The soft hooting of the owls accompanied him as he crossed the court the girls during their semesters would use as a picnic area as what few lights that existed around the cold dark pavement strewn across the open space illuminated his every step.

It was a nice night and few things could erase that image from his mind. However, even before he finished the thought, he was brought back to reality by the shrill sound of a scream. He knew the scream well as he’s heard it a few times in his life. Something no son should have to hear.

His heart sank and instantly his legs felt heavy. He ignored the sudden change in gravity and darted across the last few expanses and barged through the door of the three-storey house. He always thought this place was cursed and this just cemented it.

As he entered the door, looking up, what he saw made what little blood he had left in his face drain away completely.

At the top of the stairs stood his father, clutching his mother by the throat as he held her with his outstretched arm in an attempt to push her down the steep flight.

The sudden realization that if any wrong movements were to take place and the impact that would take place at the bottom of the stairs would certainly kill her chilled him to the bone.

He summoned what little strength he had left and ran up the stairs taking two steps at a time in order to reach her.

He pushed her back up over the top of the steps using his body weight as a momentum and launched his mother to the left out of his father’s reach, he pivoted to the right out of the his father’s outstretched arm. Contented that his mother was safe, he turned to his father and with all the weight and strength his right shoulder, elbow, wrist and fist could conjure, punched his father across the face. Fist and jaw connected sending his father sprawling across the living room floor. He didn’t stop there, he pounded and pounded on his father’s face taking a few hits back. Blow after blow were traded between the two, the man and the child. This was the first time he was punching his father. The fear multiplied but was buried under years of hate and disgust for the man. He felt the bones and skin of his right knuckles crack and peel. He didn’t know whose blood was on his hands whether it was his or his father’s. All he knew was that the hatred he had for this man and the fear he instilled within everyone in the family went numb and all that was left was emotional pain. One that he had never felt before. One that he knew he would feel again.

Slowly, the screams of his mother asking them to stop slowly drifted in silence like it were moving further and further away from him.

He was brought back to the present. In front of his car he sat and breathed a sigh. He slowly unlocked his arms from around his knees and placed his right hand down in order to push his weight off the floor.

He inserted the keys into the hole and turned. The harsh metallic click greeted him as he turned the knob of the giant wooden door swinging it forward.

Just then, he felt his pocket vibrate. ‘MUMMY’, it glowed. He swiped the bar on the glass screen and gingerly lifted it up to his ear.

“Are you home?” the voice of his mother asked. He grunted.

“Come to the hospital if you can. Your father has had a relapse.”

He disconnected the line and took a step back out the front door.

He stood there contemplating his next set of actions. The oak door stood open inviting him in. He placed one foot inside past the threshold and reached for the door.

With his mother in mind, he pulled it shut once more and locked it.

Climbing back into his car and turning the ignition on, he couldn’t help but remember another incident that would persuade him to leave the air-conditioned comfort of his car and re-enter the house.

The memory manifested itself and now he could hear his father’s voice swearing at the top of his lungs.

The house has changed. No more steep staircases or dimly lit corridors. No more open spaces or living room floors. He peeks into the house and sees his mother cowering in a corner. He had never seen such a proud and strong-willed woman capable of staring down a man be left huddling in the corner of her own house. Tears were streaming down her face and her hands were clutching her cell phone.

He rushed to her side. He rushed to comfort and console his mother for he knew that the screaming and swearing was terrifying to her.

“He suddenly went crazy, throwing things around the house and swearing and cursing at me with the foulest tongue I’ve ever heard,” she sobbed.

He could only hug her and assure her that as long as he was there with her, nothing would hurt her. Apparently, his father had been dumped by his at-the-time flame. He couldn’t take the disappointment and lashed out at the only person he could. His wife.

The same wife who had, through countless years, supported his many failed businesses and provided a roof over his head after he had sold off his home for a few million as start-up capital for his next failed endeavor. The failed endeavor became a multi-million ringgit company and with the wealth, he cheated, drank and whored around.

He went into the room to confront his father. The punching and fist fight started. Blows were traded as normal as though they were words.  

The sound of the blows were slowly muted and the house they were in was transformed once again to the interior of his car.

He saw a face staring back with sullen eyes and pursed lips. For a few seconds there he didn’t recognize the face that was staring back at him. For a few seconds there, he thought it was a stranger.

Prying his eyes away from the rear view mirror where he sat staring at his own reflection, he pushed the hand brake down, edged the gear into ‘R’, slowly and hesitantly lifted his foot off the brakes and eased the vehicle out the driveway.

Cruising along the highway towards his destination, he found himself drifting in and out of his own mind to memories from the past.

He kept to a smooth speed of 100 km/h, a surprising choice as on the KL-Seremban highway, you would be hard pressed to find him driving at such speeds. He took pride in the fact that he could make it from his house to Hartamas in under 45 minutes. An impressive feat considering it usually took others well past an hour to reach anywhere.

The parquet floors glistened and reflected the neon lights hovering above. The Johor house was a warm abode. Passed down from mother to daughter, it ended up in the hands of his mother.

The memories in that house were second to none. It was only ten years ago that the Haji Hussin family members from all over Malaysia would converge at the house to spend Eid together.

It’s been a very long time since anyone, save his immediate family, would stay in it. It had become a vault of memories. Warm memories that would sing you lullabies as you slept at night. Memories that would accompany you to the local fireworks dealer, splurge on RM200 to RM300 worth of fireworks and stay up with you as you watched the sparkles and whizzes of lights and sounds propel and explode in a distant span of sky too far away for any 8 year old to reach out and grab. The memories kept you safe from the world and from the monsters.

However, tonight was different. Tonight, his father’s screaming was all he could hear. It was always the screaming. The sound of his father’s voice carried itself throughout the house and reverberated off the walls amplifying the horrendous noise and swearing that he never thought would come out of anyone’s mouth.

His father lay spread-eagle on the shining marble floor of the second living room where the large oak table was placed.

His face was contorted in anger with lines of fear creasing their way into his forehead. Hands clutching his abdomen as pain seared through his entire body.

The screaming was intolerable. His father had tripped and sprained his leg and he was trying to get up to lash out for the mistake that he himself had made. Through a higher power, the extent of the fall had sprained and crippled his entire back cramping it up and paralyzing him. Although, the pain he suffered was insignificant to the pain he would suffer through in the future brought on by the pain in his abdomen, it still wasn’t enough to pay him back for the misery he had caused him, had caused them.

He was fed up. He picked up the baton his father kept in the house in case of thieves and carried it with him to where his father lay.

He could see his mother pushing him back but his will was resolute and the sound became muted again. Too many years has he tormented the family, too many years has he brought grief to his mother. Tonight he didn’t see the man who was barely with him when he was younger, tonight he saw a monster. A demon in flesh that fed of the fear people around him gave off. He became stronger and stronger with every ounce of fear his own flesh and blood bled.

Yet, the image of the baton disappeared, and the sight of his mother shoving him away from his father slowly faded away. They blurred and became nothing.

He watched as the cars slowed to a halt and adjusted themselves into their respective lanes. The Sungai Besi toll booths had spared him the pain of reliving the memory.

However, the relief was short-lived as he began drifting back to another memory triggered by a sight? A sound?

Another tear stained t-shirt and painful ear drums. He thought his ears would have adjusted to the screams and shouts. He was brought back to another memory. One that culminated into one of the most terrible memories he would have.

He looked at the scene this time as a spectator, watching himself push his mother back and yelling to his father to get out of the house. The memory of him moved his lips. Even though he knew what was coming out of his memory’s mouth, he still mouthed the words as if reading his lips.

“Get out! We don’t want you here,” he screamed as his father tried to thrust a brown envelope into his mother’s hands.

She threw it back at him telling him to burn in hell.

“You and that little French whore can go to hell!” she screamed losing her voice in mid sentence.

His mother gasped for air. She collapsed. He panicked and bent down to help her. His father took the opportunity to slip out the door to the rental car that was waiting.

A blonde French woman was waiting inside, pursed lips and manicured nails. They drove away leaving a grieving woman to sign the divorce papers and a boy, not yet a man, to shoulder the burden of consoling her.

He hugged her tight. The woman who had brought him up single-handedly. She was all he had. As he looked down at her gasping for air, he reached for his phone to dial a number, he didn’t know which one, but thought that he would just dial a number, any number. As he pressed the buttons, his mother’s hand shot up wrapping themselves around the phone.

He noticed the house had become quiet again. The labored breathing of his mother was the only sound he heard. He looked down and saw his mother’s eyes. It wasn’t anger nor was it sadness. He knew then that it was a submissive stare.

She propped herself up. “Let it go,” she said. “We’ll manage without him.”

“We always did Ma,” he whispered.

They stood up and his mother turned towards him. “You pick those papers up and stash them somewhere, and I’ll make us some coffee.”

He didn’t drink coffee. He had never truly acquired the taste of it. But in his 21 years, he would have a cup of coffee. In his 21 years of not drinking coffee, he would have a cup of coffee with his mother.

He parked his car in the visitors area of the hospital. He took his time getting out of the car knowing full well what he would expect to find. But he did so. After all, his mother was there waiting for him.

His actions for the past 23 years had always been for his mother. And because of his mother too he was going at the hospital to see his father. For 23 years his actions had always been for his family.

Everything for the family.

A string of broken words

It's been a year since those damn jungle fowls bred behind my house have crowd, bitched or moaned. I thought it was going to be a good year. It should have been, it started out so nice what with the house and all.

I thought i'd grown up. Could I have been any more wrong. We sacrifice the people closest to us for our own desires, usually gaining a reprieve from the incessant habits we've adopted over the years.

The places we've been to and the people we've met. They seemed like, no, they felt like a permanent fixture in the delicately woven tapestries of our every days.

I still can't sleep on my bed. Whenever I try to I always wake up in a cold sweat. I never really mean to, how am I supposed to control my subconscious.

Every night it's the same dream, a stone staircase winding down from god-knows-where and i'm walking down it. The intricately carved masks, Fijian, Japanese or African in nature line the cold, grey walls mocking me with each step. They sing to me, they bid me take my place among them on the walls, proof of my humiliation.

A few words are uttered between the masks and they sneer at me. Blasphemer they cry, usurper they screech. I never truly knew what they whispered, just that it was ill and uncomfortable. I always assumed so for in my dreams i'm always the villain. Never truly am I the protagonist in my own mind.

I've made peace with others but not myself. On nights when the storms rage outside my window as the eastern winds and northern rains batter the panes, I can still hear the grief inside me. They echo like lost souls within an empty cavern. The internal turmoil I suffer through, constantly engaging with each other.

Most of the time i'm lost within my own thoughts not really knowing how to escape my own mind. The outside world is like a mirage. The more I clamber for it, the further it gets and as soon as I stretch my hand out to reach it, it dissipates.

I often find myself waking up at night with tears streaming down my face. Not knowing the source or reason, yet I embrace it. I'm lonely, yes, but I've found comfort.

She doesn't know it and i'm hard pressed to tell her. It's a scary thing to have to handle. You always thought you were a stone. A rock. A hard place. Immortal and omnipotent. But at the end of the day, you're still human. It's not god that reminds you. It's not the pain of the blade burying itself into your skin that reminds you how human and fragile that vessel made of blood and tissue is. It's the emotions that burn you and scream in your heart of hearts that remind you just how small and insignificant you are. How useless you've become.

I feel useless. I feel spent. Like a towel that's been wrung far too many times.

I stare at her through this sheet of plastic. The only thing keeping us sane and committed. Though I have no place in it. She can say all that needs to be said, but it doesn't change the fact that I feel like a nuisance. I have no place in her life. Neither does any other man.

Blood will always be thicker than water.

Today's post was brought to you by the word turmoil and the color grey. The word turmoil for the ever existing emotions I have. They speak to me as if they were my brothers. The color grey for the skies and the clouds that follow me constantly. A silent reminder of how the days will never seem to become bright again.