Tag Archives: oneshot

Prologue (mostly just word vomit)

She blinked, confused. Her eyelids curtained her sight, showering her with visions of the corners of a low-lit cafe. It was not that she was unsure that this large space in front of her is a cafe, she knew right away after her first intake of air. The nutty smell of freshly grounded coffee -most likely single origin- and the sweet smell of molten dark chocolate from her half eaten lava cake gave it away. She heard the clutter of porcelain against porcelain, the result of graceless lowering of cups to its designated saucers. She knew this place is what it is but the unanswered question keept repeating in her mind like an overplayed vine that just did not know when to stop: Why is she here? How did she get here? Why was her first conscious breath in a cafe? It should have been in her room with the smell of her lavender laundry softener waking her up as she nuzzled deeply into one her numerous pillows. Her first sight should have been the window with the view of the sun, angry at her for wasting precious time or the blank ceiling with lights as eyes and a water blotch for a mouth, probably from a leaking pipe from the unit above her. But it is not.

She took a deep breath, as deep as her lungs could manage. ‘Okay’ she mustered silently, running her eyes slowly from the small wooden table with a cup of untouched latte and high calorie dessert to the outfit she was spotting. She swallowed, her mouth tasted minty with a hint of chocolate but what surprised her was how she was dressed. She looked poised and classy, the kind of person who would frequent places like this. Well she does, but she never looked the part. Today was different and it was not just because of what she was wearing.

‘Excuse me?’, she cleared her suddenly dry throat. The waiter passing by turned back, snapback covering his eyes but a warm smile spread over his face, too widely stretched.

‘How long have I been here?’, she continued, her eyes wondering around trying not to show any hint of fear or panic but she accidentally swallowed hard at the last minute, too nervous at the answer she was about to hear. He squinted his eyes but she could not see. With his head slightly tilted as a silent sign of ‘are you okay?’, he answered, ‘Around 15 minutes  and I’m assuming you were waiting for someone.’ His smile faltered as a look of concern started to morph onto his face.

‘Oh, yea. Of course.’ she answered.’ Just completely lost track of time’, she tried to justify, putting on a well controlled smile and shrugged.

‘Alright, then.’, he said without a hint of sarcasm. ‘Anything else I can help you with?’

‘No, thanks.’ she lied, clumsily taking a big gulp of her now cold latte while looking away just wishing the waiter would leave her alone.

Through the corners of her eyes, she saw the retreating back of the waiter wearing all black except for the grey trainers he had on. She approved of his fashion sense even if it’s nothing much, it was something she would definitely be spotted wearing: an all black gear with a hint of colour if you were lucky.

She closed her eyes, wanting to block out her overreacting mind and frenzy thoughts. ‘Alright.’, she muttered. Starting from the beginning, she coerced her brain to recall the last thing she could remember before it all went, blank? How did it suddenly go blank? What do you mean thoughts just went blank? This is no movie, memories do not go all sci-fi and turn into a self-destructing black hole. Her mind went on overdrive and she tightened her knuckles, feeling the distracting pain of her blunt nails trying to pierce her soft, fragile skin. ‘Let’s do this again’, she mumbled to herself not realising a certain pair of dark eyes locked on her from behind the espresso machine. He too was doing some thinking, completely ignoring the milk frothing over the mini metal jug he was holding.

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Drowning in the dark

Fingers splay on the side of her neck, tips pressing down with slight pressure as they move in minuscule circles just enough to wake the nerves. The massage is almost a movement of plea for it to stop being so sore. Her personality is sore enough -at least to everyone else- and there really is no room for her body to add up to it.

…..

She has no rights to nag her own body, it was she who decided it was easier to let her head hung low. Not for a day or two but as long as she could remember, ever since her insecurities became visible to her. Her movements too harsh, her voice too much of a screech, her smile too crooked. It was obvious to her how people reacted when she was herself around them. The slight shift of the body, the millisecond frown of judgement, they were all tell-tale signs screaming at her although they do not deafen her, they still shut her from the rest of the world. In a way, her eyes are too observant. Paying attention to things she could live without knowing. Another flaw carves on a section of her brain that is taking up more space than it should.

…..

A sigh releases from her heavy lungs, not from the damp, salty air but the constant burden she carries for being herself. Her existence is more of an imposed duty. Days do not pass, they drag. At the pace of a Giant Galapagos tortoise. In the middle of a stone quarry. Under the burning Sun of the Iranian dessert. Every breath accompanied with a burn in her heart. It is a wonder how her heart is not the darkest shade of black on the html colour code. Wait, it is the second darkest, almost an achievement.

…..

One leg hovers above the covers with the other underneath, she blinks in the dark but it makes no difference. Nothing does anymore. Her friends are a constant blur of waves and unimportant chatter. A pleasant distraction on good days, a mass of wasted cells and organs on certain days of the month (seven straight days every month to be more precise). They are not stupid, her friends I mean, if we do not take into consideration their school grades. They know. She thinks she has an eye for details but she has forgotten that others could have the same qualities as well. She thinks that that made her special, if that is the case then she really isn’t. They know from her over calculated smile and the way she taps her fingers to the rhythm of when-will-you-shut-up. They discovered it for quite a while now but they are staying right where they are. It is always on the back pages of those glossy magazines, mostly life advices recycled from last decade’s edition: ‘…do not push them away’, ‘stability is important…support them’, ’10 ways to…’.

…..

Humid air makes her nerves tingle with excitement, a vast contrast from the dry air conditioned building she just exited. She looks up to the sky, questioning why she is wasting money on people who asks the same questions and tells her the same things. She begs for something different with hands clasps tight, eyes doing the same as she chants ‘different’ repeatedly in as many languages she remembers hoping that one of it is understood by whoever it is who decides her destiny. The trick -or spell? or mantra?- works. ‘Different’ greets her in the form of a lanky boy crouching against the wall with a smirk stretching across the side of his face that is not visible from where she is standing. The wind sends her an omen through the shivers travelling across her spine but she shakes it off, rapid blinking the only movement she makes for a while. The same wind pushes the light strands of his dark hair as his fingers try to tame it down. The same gush causes the crumpled piece of paper she has been holding onto to slip and float a couple of seconds before it lands in a puddle of muddy water. The already unreadable writing smears leaving a large blotch of blue under the bold, printed word: Prescription.

…..

Fall has always been her favourite season, the warm hues of orange and brown versus the slightly chilly air carrying the sweet scent of cinnamon and pumpkin. That year, autumn never came but she is not one bit sad. Spring took up all four quarters of her life, and it shows from the radiant bloom of her cheeks and the smell of blossoms in her hair. Her odd year consisted of wasting an extra 5 minutes everyday due to waiting and the consistent phone beeps every few minutes filling her phone memory with ‘what are you doing?’ and heart emoticons. Although she felt a certain kind happiness she has never felt before, her unfamiliar body cannot help but cringe at the constant show of affection but accompanying those cringes are no longer scrunched up noses but achingly wide smiles.

…..

He is an enigma, a rubix cube of mood swings and soft touches with far more baggage than the usually capped flight allowance. But she has her own too and although they try and try to pretend that they are better for the sake of the other, at the end rules are still rules and the fine has to be paid. She has always adored puzzles, envying the life of the man whose slender fingers have memorised the deep lines of her palm. She endures the pain her scalp makes whenever she tugs her hair out of frustration as the door closes slowly, broad shoulders fading away. The house feels too big for her and her soul that is shrinking with each minute she spends without the presence of a certain hot headed, cold hearted man who only knows how to do things in extremes. Like spending the night leaning opposite her front door with his head on his knees gently rocking to the tempo of regret, a thousand thoughts on ways to apologise but none that could wash away the guilt that stains him.

…..

She wears a white dress today, the one that makes her look like those characters in children books who always gets the prince. The hem floats around her ankles as she sits on a chair in the middle of the room, her breathing is even, even as her heart beats so loud that it echos in her ears almost making her cover them with her hands to make it stop. A lone tear slides down from her left eye breaking a promise she made to herself earlier this morning, her eyes suddenly find the ceiling peculiarly interesting and continues to stare from a corner to the next for the next couple of seconds. This is it. The day she has imagined multiple times growing up. Today, when the rays of sun woke her up from her slumber, eyes fluttering open while she clears up the haze of a groggy mind, she knew she could never be more than ready for today. With a determined breath, she stood up. Legs a little shaky as she gets in position. 1, 2, 3. She smiles as she took her final step forward, eyes close shut as she begins to feel the pull from her legs as it travels up her body. In the state that she’s in, she has lost sense of everything. She tries her hardest to control her body hoping it will not trash around like a fish out of water. The needle of the clock continues to move even after she has stopped, hands limp by her side while her neck looks slightly crooked. She is still beautiful even after everything that used to define her beauty left her, her personality, her smile, her kindness. Even with the pattern of a braided rope engraved around her neck.

She did not get the prince.

…..


I did it! Writing more than 300 words was always a challenge but I did it! Took me two nights and morning to complete this and I (really) hope it’s not too bad. 

And yes, she died.

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