Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

Well, Fuck You Too.

Posted: February 11, 2014 in Fiction

She wants you to fuck her. She wants you to fuck her hard.

Is she confronting? Does she scare you?

Then fuck her.

Fuck her so hard that all these bullshit thoughts leave her head. Fuck her so that she’s too occupied to calculate how many pills she needs to go to sleep and never wake up.

Or better yet, make love to her. Make love to her so that maybe, just maybe, your love can make her love herself a little bit more.

Just enough to let go of the blade.

She’s staring, squinting, trying hard to see herself in that mirror. There’s no romantic mascara stains down her cheeks. She hasn’t been able to bring herself to do her own makeup for the past few days. Or has it been weeks, she doesn’t even know anymore.

Her mind is in a frenzy. Her body, taking deep calm breaths.

You know what?

Fuck you.

Flash

Posted: November 7, 2013 in Fiction

Curled up in one corner of the couch, clutching the warm, pink blanket.

Zoning out.

But intensely aware that so many things are happening to the body.

Heart’s racing in leaps and bounds.

Nausea.

Every single blink changes the fabric of reality a little bit more.

The warm light in the kitchen, fuzzing over.

Hand waving side to side, leaving trails. Like dragging it through a body of light gold and orange dust.

So many things to be done.

Can’t. Move.

Need to pee.

Navigate to Toilet unsteadily.

Can’t feel liquids. Everything feels like liquid. Liquid. Liquid’s a funny word.  Lick-weeeed. Liquid.

The paint on the walls. All those layers. Uneven. Patches here and there. How come they weren’t noticeable before? Could’ve done a better job.

Wipe. Flush. Turn tap on. More liquid.

Mirror.

Face; so unfamiliar. Could swear the light is flickering. Each flicker highlights every flaw.

So ugly. But so beautiful, too.

It just is.

And body is just a vessel.  A hardworking vessel. Does so much, every day. Thank you, body. All the things it can do. Like, dance.

Dancing in the toilet. Is that weird? Perhaps. But no one is judging. So listen to the music that’s coming from the speakers in the living room. And. Dance.

Okay, maybe it is a litte weird. Exit Toilet. Back to Living Room.

Actually, it’s been hours. Days? No, hours. So, pay a visit to Bedroom, so it won’t feel lonely.

Open the door.

Every.

Single.

Thing.

Jumps out at you.

How do humans live in such filth? Disgusting.

Must. Clean.

Fold fresh laundry. Put away. Desk. Reorder. Everything in place. Neat. Bits of paper, dust, things on the floor. Sweep it all up.

Trying to do all this.

Trying.

But where to start? And where to stop? So many things to clean.

Scream.

Scream.

Scream.

But only on the inside.

“Hey.”

Get the fuck out!

“Hey.”

“You alright?”

No! Just fucking go already!

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Silence. Alone now.

Get up. Do something. Get up. Get up now.

Walk into Kitchen. Open cupboards. Close. Open drawers. Close. Open again.

Pick up knife.

Everything is numb. What would it feel like?

Just try it.

Just a little bit.

Just.

A.

Little.

Nick.

Scar Me Again

Posted: September 15, 2013 in Fiction

How did it get to this?

You wonder distantly, staring at the ceiling. You vaguely realise that his tongue is sensually stroking you.

It’s pleasant. Your body responds, but your mind.

Your mind is approximately 3,955 miles away.

A thud. Your knee on the wall. It barely registers.

Also, the fact that he’s scooping you around with his arm so that he’s now lying under you. The crackling of a condom package, and the familiar smell of lubricated rubber.

He’s big.

The pain of him inside you, more than anything, is what yanks you back to the here and now.

Warmth. Flesh. Silence in between grunts. You’re under him. His scent. So unfamiliar.

Thrusting.

Gasps torn out from your body by the physical act.

Tears.

Silent, unnoticeable tears.

He stops.

“Are you okay?”

“Don’t stop.”

He continues thrusting.

Until your body is racked with sobs.

He rolls off you. He says nothing.

You lie there, facing the wall. He says nothing.

His fingers run along your back gently, bringing goose bumps and making you feel better and worse at the same time. He says nothing.

He says nothing, and you’re glad he doesn’t.

You don’t want to hear his voice. After all, you don’t need another reminder that the man in your bed right now isn’t the man who should be.

Of Lies & Lovers

Posted: August 22, 2013 in Fiction
Tags: , , , ,

Lies, like poison spreading through the veins. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop. You ponder the so-called immorality of it all. A lie never dies, you decide. It’s wrong. A stain upon one’s soul.

And yet, you lie. By omission, yes, but it’s still deceiving someone innocent. Lying by omission ranks pretty highly on your ladder of immorality, and your guilty conscience constantly reminds you that what you’re doing will land you a one-way roller coaster ticket to Hell.

Oh, who am I kidding? You think, flicking your cigarette. I’ve practically secured myself a position as Satan’s concubine or something equally damning.

Ash floats in the air, and lands, with the same ease and nonchalance as a parachute, only to stain the wooden floor with grey flecks. You breathe out a sigh and with it comes a spiral of smoke, which eventually drifts away to add its signature to the smells in the room. You sit curled up in the chair by the window, an arm around your knees and your other hand grasping the cigarette. You wear only a pair of boxers and your favourite lace bra, on which one strap has slipped off your shoulder to bare pale skin invitingly. Outside the window, the night continues its valiant watch on the sleeping and keeps a stern and warning eye on those awake.

Your nose twitches slightly. The scent of your rampant lovemaking predominates the air, along with that of spilt alcohol—a mixture of Heineken and Glen Morangie that is testament to your differences—and a certain mustiness that belongs to the room itself. The only light in the room comes from the bedside lamp that casts an ethereal glow onto your lovers’ reclining body, and the angry, red glow of the cancer stick. It’s life is cut short soon after and it goes out with a protesting hiss as you flick it with the expertise of one smoking since age fourteen into the ashtray and then run your fingers through cropped, black hair.

Cerulean eyes settle on the sleeping woman and trace the soft, feminine curves of that body like a finger stroking and caressing every bit of velvety skin. As if the gaze carries physical weight, the chest heaves in a profound sigh as eyelids lift slowly and seek the gaze that has snatched her from slumber.

“You’re staring at me again.”

“Can’t help it. You’re mesmerizing.”

A sleepy giggle. “There you go again. Who even uses words like that? Mesmerizing.”

You shrug somewhat coyly. “But you love me for it.” It’s a statement but you’re asking for reassurance.

She stretches her body, sore from the sex, and beckons you to join her in bed. You don’t get the reassurance you want, but then again, you never do. She’s not one to waste idle breath on something as trivial as your insecurities. The invitation to her bed is assurance enough, so you take it, because you have no choice, and climb in with her. You grab a fistful of red hair and kiss her, your frustrations finding an outlet in the pleasures of handling her roughly. You want to punish her, but she enjoys her punishments—prefers it this way even—and this aggravates you even more. It’s endless, this devils’ circle. You want to break free but you know, the moment her lips touch your sex, that you are bound to her with emotional chains that won’t break no matter the pain she puts you through. Perhaps, you wonder fuzzily as the familiar stirrings of pleasure begin to envelop you, perhaps this is her way of punishing you, too.

She asks that question again. “Can your husband make you feel this way?”

You feel her hot breath on the most sensitive part of you. She has you at her mercy; you both know it. Hands grip sheets. You mewl a negative, and finally she says those words again; the words that you always wait to hear because it keeps you going when you think you want to give up.

This is love.”

***

You sit on the side of the bed, stripping your clothes off. I smile contentedly and wrap my arms around you, kissing the arch of your neck.

“I missed you,” I murmur into your skin. Closing my eyes, I inhale your scent and nip your neck slightly. It’s a mixture of smoke and vanilla; a thick heady scent that gets my heart skipping and beating faster; along with that other scent that sends a shiver of yearning through the pit of my stomach and stirs up my manhood, but not for you.

You twist away and smile. “I’m gonna take a bath.”

I lie back and watch as you stand up and walk over to the bathroom. You’re a tall woman, just an inch under my own height. Short dark hair accentuates your neck and you move with the lissom grace of a stalking predator, belying your very tender and really quite naïve nature. I think that is what has always intrigued me about you. You give off that air of an independent woman, but really all you want is to be cared for. You’re like a child in that sense and it has always been that boost to my ego to care for you and protect you from the world’s cruelty. Although it seems that I can’t protect you from myself, and Lord knows that I wish I could.

You don’t close the bathroom door properly, and through it I catch glimpses of your milky white limbs as you prepare your bath and get into it. A sense of déjà vu washes over me and I’m taken to another time, another place. Another woman.

A while later I’m awakened after dozing off, when you crawl into bed beside me, fresh and sweet smelling with damp hair. I shift and lie on my side, propping myself up with an elbow so you can curl up against me and nestle in the curve of my arm. Your eyes drift shut and your breasts heave in that sigh of end of the day exhaustion. I gaze at you for what seems like hours, going over the features I am so familiar with, drinking in the shadows cast over your cheekbones by long dark eyelashes; your rosy complexion; your cute upturned little nose; your lips, neither thin nor full, but somewhere in between and always that turn at the left corner. It gives you a look of perpetual apprehension, like you’re not sure whether to smile trustingly or scowl defensively.

I turn slightly so that I am partially lying on top of you. Bare skin against bare skin. You mumble something in your sleep and turn your head, but are otherwise undisturbed. I lay my lips at the base of your throat and run them up lightly until they hover just over yours. I slip my hand under the pillow the same moment I kiss you fully. A flicker of movement, barely perceptible and you gasp. Your body tense, eyes wide, you look at me. You look at me with more acknowledgement than you have in months and a flicker of doubt stabs my heart. In that moment every secret is laid bare, every emotion felt and understood. It’s an eternity and I feel as though my soul is torn out and stretched to reveal everything that I am—all the disappointments and hurt I’ve caused you magnified infinitely. Finally, your body relaxes and slumps. Your head lolls to the side, hand falling limply over the bedside.

I’m not sure if I comprehend what I’ve just done. There is a minute in which stunned silence fills the room. Then I retrieve my mobile from the bedside table and slide to unlock. I dial the number. I pace in front of the curtained windows, bare feet pattering on the carpeted floor. I think of what to say.

Beep, beep. Beep, beep.

Click.

“Hello?” Her voice is sleepy but it’s still rife with seduction, the same voice that had earlier proclaimed love for the woman now lying in my bed.

As we speak, glazed cerulean eyes stare accusingly at me. Her arm stretches out in an unheard plea of mercy and the liquid that has pooled at her throat and run down, staining her skin sinfully, begins seeping through the sheets, until the first drops reach the edge and begin to fall upon the carpet—red on red—in a steady drip, drip as insistent as a leaking tap.

Perspective Of An Innocent

Posted: August 22, 2013 in Fiction, Personal
Tags: , ,

The first time she sees a man’s penis, she is eleven.

Of course she’s seen male private parts before—showering with her cousin; and the way her parents are so open in front of her. Weird looking things they are, shrivelled and cowering into the creases of their own flesh. Nothing sexual in the way she’s seen them, of course. They’re just parts of a male body that are different from hers. Like how Daddy has a beard and Mummy doesn’t.

No, this time it is one that juts out, erect and proud.

It is one of those unadulterated days by the beach. The sun beams its’ warm four o’clock rays like a benevolent father would upon his young’uns. Baby waves reach out timidly at the shore, reminiscent of a toddler taking tentative sips from a cup. The beach is lined with the ghost of past waves as they’d wiped the sand clean and left offerings in the form of seashells, plastic bottles, mouldy pieces of wood and other miscellaneous treasures. Two islands break the ocean’s level horizon, a dark and resplendent sight. The leaves of the numerous casuarina and palm trees rustle softly, occasionally going still when the breeze pauses for breath—and when the breeze pauses, it’s one of those eerily still moments. That quiet instant where she knows something is going to happen, that always gives her the urge to pee in excitement. There is no one in sight, and nothing besides their farm except acres and acres of sparse jungle and beach land, separated by an inadequate, rutted road.

A lady in power, with an overview of all that transpires in her domain, she is nestled comfortably in her tree. All of the casuarina trees have little hiding holes or ladder like branches leading to a sacred thinking spot.

That’s what she calls them. Her thinking spots.

At eleven, she spends many hours contemplating life—there is nothing else to do, you see. After all, there are many hours in a day; many days in a year; and many years to come before anything in her life will change. Of that, she is certain.

There are also many casuarina trees. But this one is her special one. Erosion has taken away much of the land, and many trees have already been sacrificed. This one is still standing. Roots are already beginning to announce themselves; partly through the sand; partly through the grass it is still situated upon. It’s still strong though, and it stands at well over seven metres, right outside one corner of the fence outlining their land.

She’s spent a fair amount of time surveying the world and contemplating life in this tree. It is easy for her slight, agile frame to find its’ way up to where the three main branches fork out, creating a comfortable niche for her to be cradled in.

It is inviting, calming.

She listens to the tree as it whispers secrets of the universe. Secrets she doesn’t understand, but is happy to be privy to. Plenty of the bark has already been peeled off from many hours of consultation, and these patches are soft and smooth. Unlike the roughness of the rest of it, pressing against her skin insistently. The breeze is invigorating. Fresh, yet almost heavy. The heady scent perforates her nose; salty, mixed with the sharp perfume of casuarina.

This is where she lies—skinny legs dangling from her nest, leaning back against the thickest branch—when she catches a glimpse of the man on a motorbike.

She loves people watching. It exhilarates her, observing people without being seen, and she doesn’t get to meet very many people. Her parents are—what is the word used to describe them? ‘Alternative’. That’s it.

She was nine years old when they decided city life was not for them and packed their dusty white Nissan Vanette with only necessities and a few items of nostalgic value. They braved severe weather conditions with a broken windshield. Mum had kicked it out in one of her fits of rage. After two days of nearly non-stop driving, they finally arrived.

To Daddy, it is a plot of land by the beach, which he’d purchased years ago. To her, it is The Middle Of Nowhere. Now, the only people she sees besides her parents are during school hours, and she doesn’t like these people very much. They think she’s odd, and they call her ‘anak matsalleh’. Daughter Of A White Man. The nearest village is a twenty-minute drive away and not many find reason to come out far enough to see that there is life beyond their community. So she is delighted when he drives his motorbike right off the road and towards the beach, right under the very tree she sits in.

The young man is lean and spotty, perhaps in his early to mid twenties, and dressed in jeans and a dark blue collared t-shirt. The size of his clothes emphasizes his lanky frame. He wears no helmet on his head of greasy dark hair and steers the motorbike to a halt before it gets to the sand, with one hand. The other hand clutches something she is unable to see clearly, something between his legs. She peers at him from above and then freezes as two things happen at once.

The first thing is: she realizes what his other hand is clutching. She is eleven. A tender age, yes, but not an uninformed age.

The second thing that happens is: he looks up, and sees her.

The foliage provides little cover and he sees her as clearly as she sees him.

Some part of her expects him to be mortified, to yell at her in anger, or rush away without saying a word. Instead, he does something that throws her completely off guard.

He smiles.

One might expect a smile coming from a man caught in the act of pleasuring himself to be a lascivious grin; somewhat sordid and perhaps even a little threatening. Or a chagrined smile, one that exudes shame.

It’s neither. His smile is warm and friendly, almost reassuring.

“Adik nama apa?” He asks, in Malay, as he clambers off his motorbike. It leans somewhat precariously into the soft ground, and then settles down without falling over.

The absurdity of it almost makes her giggle. Here he is; catching a little girl spying on him doing something naughty, and he asks her what her name is. As if it is just another normal conversation between two people who have just met. Hi, how are you? Fancy meeting you in a tree while I’m playing with myself. Yes, fancy that.

She doesn’t giggle, however. She looks away.

“Adik tengok la. Pandang abang.” He instructs her, his tone coaxing.

If I refuse to look, will he force me to? She wonders. A terrifying thought occurs to her. What if I’m not high enough? Can he reach me? Will he make me come down? Will he make me do things? What will he do?

She looks back at him. A million and one thoughts are running through her head.

If she jumps from the tree and runs to the house, will she make it? If she screams loud enough, will Daddy hear her and come to her rescue? If she does nothing, will he just go away?

He is standing beside the tree now, gazing at her as he fondles himself. He explains his actions as if merely discussing the remarkably fine weather today. She wants to look away. Staring at his manhood feels like a bad thing to do, but it’s almost comical. It is right there. A man’s erect penis, swollen and angry looking.

Angry. Daddy is gonna be so angry at this man, she thinks.

She decides to go with screaming. She opens her mouth. The scream rides on a puff of air; getting stuck half way through, leaving her gaping like an asthmatic scrabbling around for an inhaler.  It fights and struggles through her throat until finally, it breaks free from the constraints of her physicality, and shatters the tranquil afternoon atmosphere.