of course you would remember the first time you met eyes.
at that time he was no one. he was another person to fill the pores of your skin. then he talked to you with those eyes.
of course you remembered that time he said hi to you at that corridor. it was no big deal; just a hi. but not to you, who felt invisible under the sheets in your bed.
of course you would avoid the road where you two met eyes and waved at each other. of course you felt special. he made you feel like you exist. like he saw you.
he saw nothing.
of course you would be upset to know that he was not who you thought him to be.
of course you would be heavy-hearted to smile at his jokes, or the stories of him your friends tell you.
of course you would be hurt.
of course you would cry.
there is no wrong in being weak; in being human.
it's okay, it's okay.
you can live without him in your life. you don't need him. you don't need anyone to fill your life with greatness; you are the epitome of potential. you were made for lazy nights and ocean waves. and it's okay to want to have someone, but know that that won't destroy you.
it's okay, really. it's fine, you are going to be fine. of course you are.
When we read each other’s hearts and minds, but on the outside we pretend nothing’s going on.
It’s somewhat a secret; a silent joke. We look at each other and we know, but we don’t say a word. What’s left written in black and white, we don’t mix with our colourful world. It’s all too complicated to handle in real life anyway.
We know. But we keep silent. It’s our tiny little secret.
-
the other day it was just me and him in the kitchen waiting for a pizza to cook and I asked him "If you could go overseas, where would you go?" and he said he wanted to go to U.S., specifically, he mentioned New York. "Tau New York tak?" and I nodded, smiling. "Best dowh, kalau pergi New York." before I could ask him what he would do there, a customer came in. and continuously, it was always that; work, people, time. things that stop two people from just talking, dreaming.
-
so i was out with an old friend that i haven’t met in five years and i told her “you wanna know something weird? i love those knives that have that rigged part on the back side” and she was like “yea we saw that in frozen when they cut the ice” and i’m like “yea maybe it has like a better cutting effect like the back-pull will cut the ice more evenly?” and she was like “this is very weird elyna, having preferences to knives” and i just realized that all these while my mother told me that i was weird? it wasn’t our generation gap. it was just me.
-
i wanted to look at the back of his head and his face.. his nose, his eyes, how his eyebrows were slanted and his cheekbones protruding and his square jaw and the lines of his neck and back… but he turned so i had to look away. now all i can remember is the shade of brown of his shoes when he stood next to me.
-
As I reached for the familiar glass bottle filled with dark liquid from the door of my fridge, I started to wonder if all cough syrup addicts start like this. First, it was just to get some sleep. Then, they start getting dependent on it. Soon, they can't pass a day without a bottle full. Maybe this is how I'll start intoxicating my body with medicine I don't need and get into hospitals for over dosage.
But I knew it wasn't gonna happen. Because before I took a spoon of the thick dark liquid (not the pink syrup like I read and had taken when I was younger before we knew it was addictive) I whispered "Bismillah".
Dammit fiction seems so much more interesting than real life. How did my brother do it? It feels like i've been stamped and delivered to the good girls' boarding school for life.
-
I didn't realize what I was really feeling about certain things until I talked about it with her. "I never really understood when those people say they have to put on a mask when they go out," I told her. "I didn't feel like putting on a mask so that everyone else likes you was necessary. But later I find out that putting on a mask doesn't just mean you're pretending to be someone you're not, it's to--"
"--hide what you actually feel," we said simultaneously. Smiling at something like this felt sad. It felt like it was something we can't change, therefore we both agree against frowning about it and smile instead.
It's awful because he knows that in a way I'm trying to avoid eye contact with him.
It's awful because he has such a handsome smile.
It's awful because he's not worth the thought.
It's awful... because when I saw him this morning I didn't hate him, I didn't want to avoid him, but in a way I know I ruined it, or I never had a chance at all, and I was so upset I ran away from the world.
extracted from a letter to m.jup dated 18th April 2015.
only the walls have heard
my cries
and only my skin has tasted
my tears
so if you want to know
if i'm happy
ask the walls
and my salt stained skin
and if everything in this world
had mouths
then humans would be the best
at keeping secrets
Two black shadows formed on the black tar road of an alleyway. The bodies faced each other, both standing straight, their eyes at the same height, fighting to loom against the other. One was steady - his hair was cropped short and black, his body dirty but comfortable enough. His hands rested by his sides, only his facial expressions playing a role in movement. At first he was surprised when a sudden click was heard from behind him. Then a smirk formed on his face as he turned around, smelling the familiar scent of medicated soap - the smell of The Wires, right after one had been brainwashed. Then his confidence changed to disappointment.
The angular face that hid behind a mass of blond hair was once dirty like his, but now it was white and cleaned out, a set of blue eyes renewing his soul. His clothes was not torn as it was when the man last saw him. One hand held a pistol, shaking as he pointed it at the other. His face revealed his anxiety, his eyes twitching as he struggles to control the way he thought and acted. His stance was strong though, worried that if he shifted the other would take the opportunity to kill him off. He was not gonna let that happen. But he was not sure if he will kill the other, neither.
"I'm disappointed," the unarmed told. And he was; he could not hide it from the way his smile turned down and his eyebrows arched. "I thought you were stronger."
"You don't understand, Yongguk," the blond told, his voice shaking. He spoke what he believed in; or at least what he thinks he believes in. Everything seemed very vague now. What was going on? Who is this guy? He knows who this man is, but he was not sure if he knew him anymore. "The Wires don't take away your soul - they give you true ones. Ones that... That makes you clean. Pure. Don't you want to be pure, Yongguk?"
"Bullshit," Yongguk replied. The other gulped. "And you know it, Himchan. You're in there, somewhere, I know you are. Come back and see what real purity is. Killing children isn't pure. Tearing apart families isn't pure. Taking people's souls away isn't fucking pure. You've heard this a million times over and you know it. The Wires is a conspiracy. And they're pulling their strings on you... Shit, I should've never let you go alone."
Was what he said true? Himchan involuntarily pushed away the thought. "I'm glad you let me go alone. Th-they took me and cared for me and gave me love... Th-that's all you need, Yongguk, love. And you'll see that all of this is nothing but rubbish."
"Love?" Yongguk smirked sadly. "Love. Damn it Himchan. I gave you love but you never took it. And now you're taking it from The Wires? Well fuck you."
Himchan's grasp in the pistol's grip tightened. His other hand curled into a fist, his nails digging into his palms. The pain in his chest bled through his loud thoughts. His eyes throbbed, letting clear liquid drop down his cheeks. He bit his lower lip, trying to control his shaking. He did not want to think anymore. It hurt too much. He knew what was right but his body was tied and it did not move as he wished. His arms and legs felt numb from the thin threads that held them together, keeping them in tact. He traced the cold, metal trigger with his index finger. "I'm sorry."
Yongguk's eyes widen at the sight of the tear, reflecting in the low light. The next thing he knew, two gunshots were heard. Two sharp, cold pieces of metal pierced through his chest. It punctured his lung and he felt the blood rushing into his throat, making him choke and cough. He held his chest as he coughed red liquid onto the black ground below him, drops splattering onto his shoes. He looked up shakily at the blond. Himchan fell on his knees, the barrel of the pistol now on his temple. He sobbed, watching the one person he truly loved die. Yongguk's sight blurred, his body falling on its back as his breathing ceased, the muscles of his body worn out. But before he exhaled his last bloody breath, he heard another gunshot and smirked.
The bathroom echoed painful coughs, her throat feeling rusted and peeled over. She washed her face and started coughing again, the blonde lock of hair that she had swept behind her ear falling over her eyes. Her eyes closed shut as she bent over the sink, feeling her coughs echo through the drainpipe. She scrunched her eyebrows, the fit lasting longer than usual, her lungs giving out for air. She opened her eyes, pausing to take a breath. Her lids widen at the sight of the white sink. It was tinted with blood red liquid, and as she looked up at the mirror in front of her, she observed a similar colour tinting her pale, thin lips. She looked at her bloody palm, and felt tears forming in her sockets. Her heart ached, and she felt the room tumbling down over her body. Her knees grew weak so she let herself fall on the tiled floor, biting her lips. She wanted to cry, she wanted to cry so bad, but her lungs hurt and she felt like coughing again and and her muscles ached for bending for so long and at that moment, she felt like the weakest person on earth. She hugged her knees and hid her face in her arms. She wanted to sleep. She wanted to sleep forever. She doesn't want to know what's wrong. She just wants to go away to a better place. She felt so much agony that she thought maybe it was the last time she would ever feel pain. She felt cold. The cold tiles touching her naked skin, the cold blood in her palm, the coldness running through her blood and bones. She felt cold and numb, and later, she felt nothing. She closed her eyes and fell on her side, and knowing she would wake up later, she prayed to God that He would take her life before that happens.
“Hello, Mr. Kim?” a female voice ringed through the receiver. The man in a black suit and a dark red tie with his black leather suitcase in his other hand stepped into the train that he rode to work every day, bringing him 170 miles per hour from station to station across the city, along with thousands of other citizens bluntly walking by every step of their lives. They walk in what they call reality, thinking that this is their lives and this is what they were supposed to do; what they were born to do. Never had they thought of what they could do.
“Yes,” the male answered, his black hair, slightly tinted red slicked back with hair gel, his forehead flashing above his eyebrows, sharpening the look in his eyes as he walks to a space in the train, trying not to block the doorway.
“Mr. Kim, I would like to inform you that you still have a balance of twenty thousand United States dollars to pay for your credit card debt,” the voice said monotonously. No emotion can be found in that sentence, although Mr. Kim was already rubbing his temples, the suitcase in the same hand slapping his nose clumsily. “Please do so before this Friday or our people will be looking for you.”
“I’m sorry, but do you think you can postpone the date a little? I’m not really in the condition to pay for it right now.”
“This Friday, Mr. Kim,” the voice said sternly. At least she sounds human now, the male thought to himself. “Your assets can be taken away if you don’t do so.”
“Look, lady, I’m sure you have the heart in you to let me go this time,” Mr. Kim said in a soft voice. Time to change tactics. “I’m sure a pretty voice like yours have a name, yes?”
“Jung,” the voice said, careful to not show any signs of wavering.
“Jung, Ms. Jung, do you think you have some free time today? Maybe we can go for some coffee and I’ll explain to you why—“
A lady with red hair pushed against Mr. Kim’s shoulder, passing by him quick to not miss the door, her heels clicking loudly behind her. Too absorbed in trying to flirt his way out of his troubles, the male didn’t notice that two stations had passed and this was the third. He glanced outside to catch the station – it’s still a couple more stops till he reaches his destination – and went back to the phone.
“As I was saying,” the male continued.
“Listen Kim Himchan, by Friday you better have banked in the money or else you might not have a place to sleep these weekends. Thank you.” The receiver clicked. Himchan listened to the beeping for awhile, not surprised, but thinking. He chucked his phone into the right pocket of his blazer. How did he get himself into this? He knew the answer. But he refused to acknowledge it. ---
It was the best train ride of his whole life.
The green meadows glowed beneath the sun, the hills high behind them, vast against the clear blue sky.Water, white with foam, burst from in between two hills, forming a small stream cracking at the edge of the green canvas.
He smiled looking out on the other side of the window, safe in the moving train, vibrating softly on its tracks. The train was empty - as peaceful as his state of min. it was perfect. no stations to keep track. no destination. no rush.
no phone calls reminding him of his debts. Debts? what are those? It doesn't matter. Things were perfect without it.
But something feels amiss. Things were quiet, exempting the birds chirping somewhere on the other side outside the train. Maybe slightly too quiet.
He started tapping on the window sill out of boredom. What now?
His feet took steps to the right. There was no end to the train. he couldn't see it. or maybe the end was too far away for him to see. is there an end? there were no doors. only chairs and windows and handles hanging from the ceiling, waving about in it's area. He wants to know if there's an end. so he continued walking. and he just kept walking; each step silent and light on his feet. when he felt like he was too slow, he sped up and later ran, but then he would feel lazy and tired so he would start walking again. the steps never stopped; until he had a thought. His feet shuffled and faced the scenery again. nothing changed. the angle might be slightly different - way too similar for the distance he had gone - but nothing budged. The stream ran the same water and the grass gleamed the same green. It was funny.
A clicking sound was heard, If he was a cat or a dog his ears would have perked as he turned his head towards the way he was heading. Nothing. But the sound continued. I was familiar. Clicking? Clicking. Clicking... heels?
He turned his head the other side. A glance of long red hair was seen flowing behind a body that pushed his shoulder; quick and swift. He turned again, trying to follow the shadow, but it disappeared. Instead. he found the end of the train.
Jongup kept his eyes on the floor after loading his gun. Blood smudges can be seen on his clothes and bare skin, his brown hair unruly and dirty. What used to be a round neck under a leather jacket and camouflage-patterned sweatpants are now torn up, revealing his entire left arm which was cut at various places and his right arm from elbow below. His pants were torn at the knees from the several times he had ran and tripped, revealing torn skin. Next to him on the leather sofa sat a boy younger to him, but much taller with platinum blonde hair, totally unharmed. The living room they were sitting in belonged to him.
Their parents were gone, but it didn’t mean that they should stop fighting. So far, Jongup had killed three people.
“You’re going back out there?” the boy asked Jongup.
“I have to,” he replied. “They’re after you, Junhong. And until I can convince that they can’t touch you without going through me, I won’t stop.”
“You should take care of yourself.”
Jongup looked up, observing the black spots on Junhong’s neck. He was already infected, and it was obvious that with the amount of time Jongup had spent with him, soon he’d be infected too. But that didn’t change the fact that he had to protect Junhong.
Jongup ruffled the boy’s hair, standing up and starting towards the door. He gave him one last wide smile of his, hinted with a little sadness, and said “Wish me luck.”
"Pinky promise!! If I lie, stick a thousand needles in my eye!"
***
Everything was red. It was all he could see. He blinked a little, causing tears of pain to dilute the red liquid that was disabling his eyesight. He had to blink a few more times - although painful - to be able to see. His eyes met Junhong's - wide and excited. His fair fringe fell over his forehead, and his smile reached his ears, twitching.
"Junhong?"
"We're not done just yet, hyung!" Junhong replied in a sing-song voice. Jongup glanced around him. They were in a dark empty room - the only light source was over his head. He was lying against a metal surface - cold and smooth - and beside him was a metal trolley stacked with needles.
Junhong fiddled with the needles - examining one, then putting it down to pick up another and repeating the process. Jongup noticed some blood stains on Junhong's sleeves.
"Junhong, who's blood is that?"
"It's yours!"
Jongup stopped breathing for awhile, a million questions filling his head. He tried raising his hands and feet, but they were tied securely to the metal surface. His breathing quickened when Junhong started towards him, a thin needle about 3 inches long in his hand.
"Wait, Junhong don't--"
Junhong didn't hesitate to press the needle into Jongup's right eyeball, causing the boy to scream in pain. As the needle sunk into the mediumly soft organ, the scream went on, in hopes that the pain would release with his voice. Jongup's feet fidgeted in its place, unable to run. Blood leaked, blinding Jongup yet again. He couldn't blink - it was too painful. The bloody tears streamed down his cheeks.
Jongup didn't manage to catch his breath before Junhong pressed another needle into his left eye. Jongup gritted his teeth, his nails digging into the metal surface. It made an eerie scratching noise.
"Junhong, stop--"
"But hyung, we've only done ten!" Junhong said, smiling at Jongup as if he was a patient and Junhong was treating him. "Another nine hundred and ninety to go!"
Jongup couldn't blink anymore, but neither could he take the pain. As Junhong approached him with yet another needle in his hand - was it just his illusion or is this one even longer? - Jongup felt his energy drain out of him, and he let himself black out.
But he could still hear Junhong whisper as he leaned in to press the needle; "You broke a promise, hyung."
It was a Friday night.Music, playing on the radio of Kylie's room.Her best friend,Christine,had gone out with some of their friends.Kylie,was naturally invited.But she turned it down.Something in Christine's voice when she had invited Kylie made her turn down the invitation.The little smile that had showed up on Christine's face when Kylie turned it down made her sure it was the right decision.
Kylie was in her room,with her laptop.Checking her mail.She wanted to e-mail Christine.To tell her how left out she feels.To tell her that when Christine left her eating alone at lunch-to join her other friends-it sliced Kylie's heart.When Christine complained about her boyfriend,Kylie listened,adviced.But when she told Christine that her step father had molested her,Christine ignored her,and went back to complaining about her boyfriend.Kylie wanted to tell her that she was angry with Christine.She had finished writing her e-mail.It was 7 paragraphs long.Kylie was just re-reading her email,wiping her tears as she read .
Halfway through,she stopped.Oh God,I'm such an idiot,she thought.She deleted the e-mail,every copy of it.She then returned to listening to songs on the radio.Somethings are better not spoken.
So here's a sneak peak of what's coming... Hope you enjoy!!
A STORY
By Hanna Hanfiah
‘Right, I can do this. I WILL do this,’ I thought to myself.
But when I saw him stare into my eyes, I lost count and myself on the train of thoughts that was passing through my head.
Why does he have to be incredibly perfect? People like this ought to be banned in an instance, but then I wouldn’t get to see him. You know what, delete that thought. It scares me.
Okay, so I’m a 13 year old girl, who apparently appears to have it all but is the total opposite. Everyone thinks I’m perfect, that my life is perfect, and that my future will be perfect. It was always this and that. I was never allowed to be out of the IN, never allowed to be me.
You see, I’m only 13. But I’m someone with a name. If you hear it, people pause, stop and admire. I get it all the time, and I guess I’m used to it. I do love it, don’t get me wrong. I’m not some useless person who doesn’t. This makes me look spoilt most of the time, and well. That’s true. Insanely though, I don’t love myself for it.
As I stare into his eyes though, all my trouble floats away and I’m drifting up and up and up. He’s talking with his friends at the moment, but it doesn’t take long for him to keep looking this way.
I turn my head around and start talking with my friends. Absently trying to pay attention but that’s impossible especially when he’s walking this way.
