Monday, October 18, 2010


Disclaimer: The following piece of fiction may hint at references of the author, be it decisions, thoughts, or actions. The following piece may be inspired by a true life story; however, it does not reflect the true life of the author. The piece is meant to be fiction, and is meant to be read as such. Rest assured that the author herself is currently living a very happy life, and has no thoughts of killing oneself imminently anytime soon.

“It’s a game that can be replayed over and over.”

1 March 2010
Drawing. Have this weird urge to express self. Through drawing. Writing. Sketching. Dancing. Done in my head, mostly. Images in head never got transferred onto paper, ideas never had chance to be put into words, moves never performed for fear of rejection and ridicule by others.

For now, am drawing. One of those rare times when my urge gets so much, I need to. What’s word for it? Pour out? Express? Whatever. Was in bus, sitting in one of seats near aisle. Never liked window seats. Wonder why some people do. Hate feeling of being in between window and somebody else. Prefer aisle seat. Feel self have more freedom.

Was sitting in bus, staring into nothingness when lowly thoughts of self emerged. Everyone else are successful. Everyone else are doing what they love. Everyone but self. Everyone has own talents. Abilities. Darren shines at dancing. Gerald recreates photographs into magnificent pieces of art. Alice’s very own online store is growing well. Fred is straight A student. Mandy is godly at the piano. Eddie sings like a nightingale.

See? Everyone has talents.


Self is just student. Third year undergraduate majoring in Mechanical Engineering. Sure, was top of class back in secondary school. Sure, was straight A student in O Levels. Sure, got self enrolled into one of top 200 universities in world.

So what?

Feels self utterly useless. Grades are mediocre. Have no talent. Feel shallow. Not even popular among friends.

Slowly turned thoughts around to self in another universe. The successful self. Self with recognized talent. Self with brand – self with something people recognize by. Decided then that self in current universe could do it too. Decided to sketch. Have done other drawings before, boyfriend had complimented them. Said they were good, said I had talent in art.

Know I have. But just a little. Not enough.

Need more. Recognition, at least.

Decided to sketch current view of bus once arrived in dingy hostel room (okay, to be fair, it isn’t that dingy; it’s actually pretty comfy but had wanted to sound dramatic).

Took in view of bus. Eyes darted around, focusing every detail available. Forced self to memorize a virtual image of current view. Tried to visualize the borders of where sketch would end. Found that could not.

Wondered about how the eye sees. Funny how our eyes never see border of end of view. Every time try to focus on border of view of sight, eyeball tends to turn towards that direction, making border shift further away. Annoyed. Now, will never know where picture ends.

Never mind that. Focus. Angle of view not staring directly at front. Current view about 30 degrees out towards bus aisle. Seldom sit straight towards front, unless busy playing with PSP or phone. Sitting straight towards front is boring. No view, except for view of back of seat in front of mine. Another reason why hate window seat. Nowhere to stare, except front. Know that staring out of window is option, but uninterested.

Current view looks pretty good. Can see other people from here. Mostly students like self. Some look wasted. Must have been hard day for them. Not that I pity them. Life’s like that. Some days are hard, some aren’t. Nothing to be pitiable about.

Can see bus driver too. Back of bus driver, and quarter of steering wheel. Can see aisle. Can see seats on other side of aisle. Above seats, holes. Probably where cold air from conditioning comes out. Probably? Definitely. Duh. Silly self.

Back in room. In search of paper and pen. Didn’t know it’d be such a task. Could not find a piece of decent paper (reminder to self: buy paper supply from nearest bookstore) so tore a page from note book. Hate the faded lines on note books meant to help you write in straight lines. Irritating and annoying in drawings. Sketches will never be perfect with those straight parallel lines in the background, as though saying “no matter how awesome your art is, we will always be there to ruin it.” Reminder to self: scrap that paper supply thingy; invest in decent sketch book.

Didn’t have black gel pen at hand. Had only blue. Annoyed. Never drew with anything else except for black gel pen. Not pencil, nor ballpoint pen, nor any pen in any other color. Only used black. Gel. Pen. Period.

Unfortunately had no black on hand, only blue. Contemplated against drawing, was feeling kinda lazy to do it anyway. Let it be one of those many failed inspirations of getting myself to accomplish something but never doing it. Guess that’s one of my many flaws that has gotten self to current sorry state of uselessness. But there was time to kill, before Astronomy Club meeting starts at 6 p.m. Fine. Draw.

Okay, done. Took 30 minutes. Doesn’t look too good. Picture out of proportion. Never mind. First time sketching view. Always drew, but never real life views or scenery. Usually drew abstracts and caricature, never views or scenery. Not too bad for a first timer.

Okay, it’s 6 p.m.. Just on time. Just so you know, I’m in main committee  of Astronomical Society. Scoff all you want, but am proud of self even if it’s just tiny achievement.

6 March 2010
Ever mentioned I loved reading?

I do.

Mum introduced me to words when was about two. Wrote words in red, bold markers on homemade flashcards and read them aloud everyday. When about three, gave me the Peter and Jane series. Remember first sentence on first page of first book: This is a boy. On second page: This is a girl.

By time I went to primary school, reading talent was astounding. Shocked everyone. Especially teachers.

Love reading. Fiction, in particular. Non-fiction’s okay too but fiction’s better. Always had nose buried in book when young. Been reading my way through all of kindergarten, primary school, and secondary school. Less when in university, because of piling assignments and difficult syllabus. Have recently taken up reading again.

Am not pretentious. Am not pretending to sound intellectual and educated. Am really in love with books.

For past few months, have been reading novel after novel. But financial status cannot keep up. Books are expensive. Went to check out local library, but membership fee was expensive. Free membership not applicable to foreigners. Reminder to self: Get Permanent Residency after graduation. Not as good as real citizenship but good enough.

When grew older, found self to have talent in creative writing as well. Began to write more and more. Wrote first short essay when was seven. Personally, think is huge achievement. Most seven-year-olds can’t even read yet, let alone write an essay.

When was 14, in one of English classes, teacher asked to write a short paragraph, approximately 100 words, about anything. Anything at all. Everyone groaned, but not self. Self got to work. Managed to stretch what was supposed to last just 10 seconds into whole paragraph. Inserted lots of adjectives. Expounded on every detail. Made every second seem like eternity. Teacher loved it. Said my essay was good. Said I managed to explicitly describe what was supposed to be simple situation, i.e., student walking to front of class to retrieve exam grade, into full paragraph.

In other words, expanded simple sentence “I walked to front of class to retrieve my exam grade” into something that was 100 words long.

Teacher loved it so much, requested to read it aloud in front of entire class.

Felt awesome. Felt worthy, felt proud of self’s achievement.

When was 16, joined creative writing competition advertised in some magazine. Didn’t expect to win, but won anyway. Set of 8 books, and letter of offer to join team of creative writers. Promptly accepted offer, but later was told that had to submit another piece of work for consideration. Aghast; had been having writer’s block. Decided to give it up – gave self two excuses for it: O Levels was only 8 months away, and wasn’t good enough a writer anyway.

Know. Was stupid. An idiotic coward giving self lame excuses, preferring to stick to norm. Study hard, get good grades for upcoming O Levels, get into university, graduate, get 9 to 5 job. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Had good opportunity to make something out of self but gave it up. That branding self thing - could have been a writer. A writer!! How awesome would that be?

Lowly thoughts of self reemerge. Self is failure. Never had any achievements in life. Always hoped something would happen, but never pushed self to do anything about it. Understand that nothing will happen if nothing is done, but that’s another huge ugly flaw of self: Self never does no nothing about own dreams and shit like that. Self only sticks to  traditional study-hard-play-hard typical student.

Look at drawing of bus interior done yesterday. If look at it long enough, looks pretty good.

7 March 2010
Showed boyfriend picture drew six days ago. Says it’s not that good, out of proportion but overall its okay. My supportive and honest boyf. That’s why I love him. Honest to goodness, he doesn’t have much accomplishments either; guess he’s pretty much like me, but at least he’s got good grades. Unlike stupid old self.

It always boils down to this, doesn’t it. Lowly thoughts of self.

21 March 2010
Examinations looming near. Bummer.

10 April 2010
Summer break! Yesh!

2 August 2010
Suddenly recalled reading somewhere (newspaper? Magazine? Internet?) that some entrepreneurs actually slightly crazy.

Let me explain. Know how some people have disorder where they do crazy irrational stuff? Don’t remember what that disorder called, but assure you, am not making it up. Real disorder. Happens to people all the time. Think might be similar to bipolar. You know, disorder where people experience extreme mood swings and sometimes have urge to do crazy stuff. Stuff like, “I wonder what will happen if I ride my bicycle and ram it into a tree?” and then they really do it, just to find out.

Think self might be bipolar too. Sometimes finds self thinking of crazy stuff like ramming bicycles into trees too. Sometimes finds self having mood swings. Like recently. Been thinking lots about insignificant self, unpopular self, and self with zero achievements. Am bipolar or not? Probably not.

Correction. Of course not.

Back to idea of crazy entrepreneurs. Entrepreneurs are people who have these crazy business ideas where we normal people would usually think, “heck, human civilization has been around for years and years and years. If that idea actually worked, why hasn’t it been accomplished already?” Entrepreneurs are people who get hyper about ideas and get extra excited about accomplishing the impossible.

Experts are now saying that these entrepreneurs with crazy business ideas actually have slight manic disorder (yes! Got the word! Manic disorder!), but not completely crazy. People who have manic disorders think irrationally and make crazy decisions without thinking. Entrepreneurs, however, are brave enough (read: crazy enough) to take risks while also being sane enough to evaluate rationally and making decisions based on logical thinking.

Why am thinking of crazy entrepreneur article?

Am like crazy entrepreneur.

Have had many crazy ideas to carve for self road to success. Not necessarily entrepreneur-like ideas, but ideas like being successful dancer, singer, artist, writer.

Think self worse than crazy entrepreneurs. Though crazy, they get successful. Self? Self  is crazy as well as failure.

Wanted to dance. Remember when  was 13, friend (not so close now) telling me I had talent. Wanted to go to dance class but parents had forbid.

Wonder why am in mechanical engineering school when obviously have other interests and talents. But talents never good enough to be made into profession. Stick on safe side, study science stream and study good ol’ engineering. Jack of all trades, master of nothing. Nada. Nil.

3 August 2010
OMGOMGOMG am featured in New York Times. Even my picture (albeit being ugly – why couldn’t they pick a prettier one?!??!) was up. No kidding. Seriously, click here to view.

Wasn’t such a big deal at first; heck, how many people actually read NYTimes? Am just another random stranger who got on news, someone whom people probably forgot the next moment they stopped reading.

To amazement, was kinda big deal. Thought was nothing much to be noted of, until people started commenting. Viral emails forwarded, calls made, Facebook statuses shared. All in the name of spreading the news “Lookit! Rachel is on international papers!”

Middle of night, received phone call from friend. “Oi, didn’t tell you were featured on New York Times!”

Self thought, “Is it such a big deal?” Said as much.

Friend replied “Heck, it’s on everybody’s lips. YOU’RE the hot topic now.”

Asked, “How did you find out I was on the news?”

Replied, “EVERYBODY knows you’re on the news.”

Amazed. People do actually know me. Talk about me. Had never happened before.

At least think not.

Went back to hometown for weekend. Everyone talking about it.

Wow. Have been drowning self in lowly thoughts for so long. Even when self was featured on papers, did not think that anybody would notice. Happy that people actually do. Happy that finally – oh, thank God, finally – got self some achievement of some sort.

Friend said he was jealous of me. Said he’d never get so lucky as to get on news. International news, at that. Said thanks, but wished could say, “You think getting on the news is big deal? Self has not gained anything by getting on news. No getting smarter, no improved grades, no extra talent. Unlike you. You don’t get on news, but you have many talents. Popular (well, not quite, but at least in a better situation than mine – I think), smart. You get onto Dean’s list, I get onto papers. Wonder who’s supposed to be jealous one?”

See? Every time people congratulate me, that’s what self thinks of the congratulatory goodwill. Am hopeless, no?

Got curious of exact degree of self’s fame. Googled self. Typed “Rachel Liew” into Google search bar.

Many results.

First few were (naturally) self’s Facebook account, blog, etc. etc.. In third or fourth result, THERE! Name in International Herald Tribune, NY Times. Scrolled down. Article reproduced again and again in other websites. Was in Malaysia Chronicles. Singaporean forums. Some Malaysian blogs. In short, was all over. Not only in NY Times. Other places as well.

Okay, am kind of famous now.

Happy that self finally has small achievement of self. Finally made self proud.


“She was a cheerful, sociable person. She was always the centre of attention, always the one who made people laugh, someone whom every group of friends should have - the socialite. She didn’t have many friends, though. Just us. But she seemed happy enough with her life, she didn’t seem to mind having a small social circle. I had no idea she was that depressed inside – if that’s what you would use to describe someone who could make drastic decisions such as this.”


8 August 2010
Was talking to mum the other day. Had always wanted to go to art school when younger, never ever in life had thought about self as engineer. Always thought self of many things: Lawyer, doctor, artist, singer, dancer, TV host, celebrity.

Never engineer.

Self had wanted to study arts, but parents advised science. Obliged.

Imagined self in art school. Future would be so different then. Current situation would be so different. Circle of friends would be different. Concepts and viewpoints would be different. Even (dare I think) personality might differ from current self’s.

Now, third year in engineering school. Engineering student with small circle of friends, very logical mindset, zero inspiration. Regrets?

Told mum was her fault that am studying something not of interest. Told mum wishes of going to art school. Mum retorted “Nobody’s stopping you from going to art school now.”

Mum was probably joking, but was pissed. Damn pissed.

Had wanted to go to art school so bad, but took parents’ advice. Studied engineering instead. 3 years later, mum says I can go to art school. Felt like she treated my life as game, as though 3 years of effort and time wasted on engineering can be undone, as though life can be started all over, time can be turned back and I can go to art school all over again.

Like WTF you told me I couldn’t go to art school, forced me into engineering, and 3 years later you tell me I’m free to make my remake my choice. Sometimes I feel my parents enjoy playing games with me.

Like the time when was 13, told my parents wanted to wear braces. Parents said “absolutely not, wait till you’re gown up and earning your own money, then you go do your own braces.”

Had protested that nobody wears braces when grown up, would look like freak. Everybody wears braces as kids, nobody wears them as grown ups.

Parents didn’t care.

Now, 7 years later, told parents wanted braces.

Parents said “Isn’t it a little late to do it now? Why didn’t you do it when younger, when still in school?”

See? They treat my life as though it’s a game that can be replayed over and over.

‘Nuff said.


“I knew there was something wrong with my daughter. At times, she talked so much; other times, she shut herself in and would not talk. I tried to talk to her but she’d only shrug me off. I thought she was just going through a rough patch, as some young adults might experience. You might call it late puberty, being away from home and learning to be independent and all. I didn’t know she’d commit… I can’t even bring myself to say it. I should have done something to stop her. She’s a smart girl, she knows her parents love her. I don’t know why she had done what she did – sure she had her mood swings, but she had never hinted at doing something so extreme. Her father and I miss her so much.”


30 August 2010
Sometimes feel self is worthless.

4 September 2010
Am working at ExxonMobil. Correction. Am interning at ExxonMobil. Yes, yes, nice achievements, is huuuge international company, everybody trying to get in, yadda yadda.


I suck at studying, suck even more at working.

9 September 2010
What else do I suck at?

Everything, I guess.

10 September 2010
Parents treating my life as game. In some ways, guess it kind of is.

What's stopping from starting over? Not bad idea. Mistakes undone, decisions remade, choices changed.

Game over.



“I knew she was always a little eccentric, that’s what I loved so much about her. She always poured her heart’s contents to me, and I took it all in. I knew she loved art, I knew about her inner talents, all about her passions and dreams. She’d always tell me I was the love of her life, she’d naively told me she’d want to marry me one day; I don’t know why she’d do this. Ever since I knew her, she had been always like that – this cute, funny, bubbly, crazy girl who never had her mind made up on anything. At one time, she would be laughing, at another she would be all serious, and then she’d be crying, then laughing again. I guess I didn’t seem to mind this craziness coz, well, I guess that’s what made her so special, interesting, and exciting to be with. She was always on the go, trying new things, drawing, singing, playing the piano, always using various means to express herself. Sure, she’d told me about her contemplations – she’d express her feelings of insignificance of herself, but I’d never known that it’d come to this. I feel like we’re having a love-hate relationship, y’know? Sometimes I miss her so much and at other times I feel like I could hate her forever for doing the thing that would hurt me most. The worst part is, I will never know why.”

13 September 2010

Wonder what it’s like to fly.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009


In Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, Gregor Samsa, a travelling salesman, awakes one morning and finds that his human form has been transformed into a gigantic insect-like creature. The line: “...his brown, arched abdomen divided up into rigid bow-like sections.” (page 1, para 1, line 4) gives us an idea of what kind of insect Gregor might resemble. From the said description and by our general understanding of insects, one of the presumptions we can make is that Gregor has turned into a giant brown coloured beetle.

It is not stated clearly the process of Gregor’s transformation; we are merely told that Gregor awoke one morning and found himself in his insect-like state. However, it is stated that in the previous night, he might have experienced something unnatural: “One morning, as Gregor Samsa was waking up from anxious dreams...” (page 1, para 1, line 1). It may be that something in Gregor’s ‘anxious dreams’, his subconscious mind must have triggered something which made such an impact that it literally morphed his physical form from that of a human into that of an insect. This, of course, would be unexplainable by common sense and logic; this explanation is merely an interpretation of what Kafka might imagine or want to depict.

Another interesting thing to note is that Gregor transforms into a creature whose appearance is fairly common in our real life, i.e., a beetle. Why does he not transform into something else which no human has ever seen or even imagined before? It is sensible to say that it is impossible to imagine the unimaginable, and hence, Gregor must be only able to dream of something he has encountered before in real life (and thus be able to dream of it), and, presuming that his ‘dream’ on the previous night affects what kind of creature he transforms into (or else it would be redundant for Kafka to state that Gregor had anxious dreams on the night prior to his transformation) can only be able transform into something which is imaginable, for instance, a beetle.

In the whole course of the story, Gregor does not show much dismay or shock over his transformation. When Gregor first awakens, he first notices his physical body, but he does not get overly surprised about it. In fact, one can even notice that he is calm enough not to overreact by struggling or exclaiming; instead, his attention diverts to his surroundings in his room and is even observant enough to notice that it is raining outside: “The dreary weather (the rain drops were falling audibly down on the metal window ledge) made him quite melancholy” (page 1, para 3, line 1).

One way of explaining his calm nature of reaction is probably due to his expectations. It may be that in the night before, in his ‘anxious dreams’, he already had in his subconscious mind the expectation that he would find himself turned into an insect when he awoke in the morning, thus, lessening his shock when he consciously finds himself in the state of one in the morning. In other words, it may be said that Gregor might have already known in his subconscious mind that he would transform into a giant insect.

His other family members, however, were evidently not prepared for this. At first sight of Gregor, his mother collapsed “she then went two steps towards Gregor and collapsed...” (page 19, para 1, line 11) and his father was stunned so that he became uncertain of how to react.
Later in the story, his mother remained helpless about the situation while his father became hostile towards him. Even at the start, his father had already been rough towards Gregor by hastily forcing him back into his room, injuring Gregor in the process: “Then his father gave him one really strong liberating push from behind, and he scurried, bleeding severely...” (page 26, para 1, line 4). As time goes by, his father becomes more and more violent, to the point of injuring him badly by sinking an apple into Gregor’s back, which presumably becomes the (debatable) cause of his death. For the most part though, Gregor’s parents seemed to be avoiding him as much as possible, as though ignoring him would make the situation normal again.
As human beings, we have different reactions towards something we have never encountered before. Mixed feelings of surprise and fear may lead us to unleash our most basic instinct: to defend and if necessary, fight for our own safety. This would be the case of Gregor’s father, where he does not know what to do with the giant insect and hence, plays safe by reacting violently towards it.

Gregor’s mother, however, still loves her son and with the hopes that her son will return to normal again: “ that, when Gregor returns to us, he finds everything unchanged...” (page 43 para 2 line 10). She finds it hard to accept the fact that Gregor has transformed into a giant insect, and so the best she can do is to pretend the problem is not there by avoiding it, i.e., Gregor himself.

His sister, on the other hand, tried her best to be positive about it by taking it upon herself to care for him. Shocked as she was, she maintained her calmness and did the best she could for Gregor, despite her obvious disgust and detest at the mere glimpse of him: “...but when she noticed him... she got such a shock that... she slammed the door shut...” (page 30, para 2 line 5). However, towards the end, Gregor’s sister was the one who raised the idea of getting rid of him (this, I had expected Gregor’s father to do), despite the fact that at the beginning she was the one who cared most for him.

When Gregor overhears this proposition by his sister “...this monster, and thus I say only that we must try to get rid of it.” (page 68, para 1, line 1 ), he feels a pang of disappointment and hopelessness that even his sister has given up on him. With no more will to live on, plus with his injury from the sunken rotting apple in his back, he becomes weak and dies.

“In this business, his own thought that he had to disappear was, if possible, even more decisive than his sister’s.” (page 71, para 2, line 12).

Rachel Liew

What is Cinema?

"Cinema is truth, 24 frames per second."
- Jean-Luc Godard-

The first time I read the quote, I thought of something along the lines of "Does this mean the truth is told 24 times per second, with a (slightly) different picture every time?"

A picture speaks a thousand words. With some math thrown in, that would make it 24,000 words per second. Make that 24,000 truthful words. With a little more calculation, one can easily deduce that an average movie would then tell about 130 million truthful words. That's a whole lot of
truth. Of course, assuming the fact that the idiom 'a picture speaks a thousand words' is taken literally, and that the title isn't as un-understandable as it is.

Unfortunately, the only truth I can see is that a picture does not speak a thousand words (in fact, pictures can't even talk; they're inanimate, if you haven't noticed) and the title is, without doubt, pretty vague, as far as I'm concerned.


This is where we are deceived. A movie is actually made up or 24 pictures per second, but as they flick though our eyes, our brain perceives them as one entire moving picture, much like an optical illusion.

What is truth, and can it be told through cinema?

So, what is truth and can it be told through cinema, which is, in fact, just a bunch of pictures replacing each other in rapid order for a full 90 minutes?

Any idiot knows that in cinema, everything is fictionally made up by creatively gifted people, more widely known as movie directors. That said, can truth be told through cinema?

Anything brought on screen would already be edited (even in some ways which we do not realize) so even if the movie were on a biography about a person and it is claimed that the movie is never edited, it's probably fake because at the slightest, it'd be edited. For instance, in the process of filming a movie, it would be inevitable that some parts of the movie would be omitted and edited before being produced as the final piece. Even the mere presence of the camera alters the truth, since people who are aware that they are being filmed tend to act differently.

Reality shows give a very good example on this. As much as they are allegedly the kind of shows which gives the most truths, ironically, they're just as truthful as an entire fictional movie.

Since movies are actually translations from something else (like how reality shows are meant to translate realities into shows on television), it can be said that nothing can ever be completely

Hence, it is pretty much unlikely that truth can ever be told through cinema.

So, if everyone knows that in cinema, nothing is truth, then why are we overwhelmed with emotions?

That then brings us to another question to ponder about.If everyone knows that in cinema, nothing is truth, then why are we overwhelmed with emotions(do I need more proof for the mere fact that it has obviously happened to everyone before?) - on most occasions, may I add - when we watch as movie? Allow me to use some famous examples:

1. Titanic.

Ah, the classic. Who cried when watching the movie? The last time I asked, I found more than a few dozen raised hands. Don't believe me? I once heard of this lady who watched the movie more than 80 times (my gosh, she must be an awfully sad, sappy freak with too much free time on her hands and nobody to have sex with; otherwise, she would be too busy having sex than to watch the movie eighty freaking times, wouldn't she?) and she - get this - cried every single time she watched it. I bet she suffered from a really, really bad case of puffy eyes after that.

I've noticed that I tend to digress.

Back to the point, Titanic is one of those classics that works up most peoples' emotions so much that they shed tears.

Unfortunately, the last time I watched it, I was in Primary One, and the only reflection I had about the movie was to wonder why a movie with two people having sex on a ship (don't ask me why the sex part was apparently the only scene I remember most vividly) of which one of them eventually died in the end would make such a great movie. This fact has also made me ponder about the like why Titanic makes perspectives of people with varying ages towards a certain movie (grownups cry but sex is the only part that sort of 'makes sense' to a seven-year-old) of which will be discussed in the later portion.

2. The Grudge
I believe everyone has, at some time or other, regardless of the reason, seen an Asian horror movie - or at least the trailer of it. The Grudge, more commonly known by its Japanese name Ju-On, is an interestingly scary (at least to me, others may beg to differ) horror movie which stars a
dead yet still animated female with long, disheveled hair.

The movie scared me so much that I jumped at almost anything weeks afterwards.

Of course, in the back of our minds, we all know that the ghostly female is in fact very much alive and kicking; but why do we fall into delusion, and hence, allowing her to scare us half to death?

The other thing I really don't get is why people still choose to watch horror movies, even though they know very well that they'd be having nightmares for weeks afterward. But again, who am I to judge?

From those two examples, it can be shown very clearly that as much as we jolly well know that movies are usually fiction, we still can't help but allow them influence our feelings. As such, it can be said that even though the movies are 'fake', they are somehow able to give us emotions and feelings, of which we inevitably cannot deny as real.

So far, this has not very much answered the topic of discussion: If everyone knows that in cinema, nothing is truth, then why are we overwhelmed with emotions?

In order to answer this question, we must first explore the human perspective towards a certain object and the distance between us and the object itself.

In cinema, we have to have a certain kind of understanding to be able to truly enjoy the movie, yet, we cannot be too clear about it, or else the purpose intended of the movie will not be effective.

In simpler terms, this simply means that in order for us to truly enjoy a particular movie or show, we have to allow the movie to deceive us into thinking that it's real, though in the back of our heads we know that it's not, hence persuading ourselves into not really understanding the real thing behind the movie (which is the fact that the whole thing is actually pure fiction), yet having to understand its purpose and storyline, accepting the fact that it is true as far as the movie is concerned.

Funny that we don't want to be deceived, yet we have deceived ourselves in some way or other, because that's the only way we are able to enjoy a movie.

Maybe deception isn't such a bad thing after all.

Perspectives of people with varying ages towards a certain movie.

Of course, it could be very well be the fact that people of different ages perceive things differently, which gives rise to the possibility that maybe the ultimate truth may never be realized, as people of different ages see different 'truths'.

This then brings about the discussion of the perspectives of people with varying ages towards a certain movie.

Since enjoying a movie is all about deceiving ourselves, it could also be that the different ways we perceive a movie is due to the way we deceive ourselves. That is to say, it could be that people of different ages deceive themselves in a different way.

Up till now, I have not figured out why the only thing that appealed to me in Titanic was the scene where Rose and Jack had sex in the steamy car, but I have come up with my own theories, which hopefully, can also come in handy on the discussion about the difference in perception and deception in varying ages.

From what has been discussed earlier, it can be noticed that the difference in perception and deception in varying ages, in simpler terms, basically refers to the types of elements which has the most effect on the viewer.

In reference to the Titanic sex scene, it was pretty much the only part that appealed to the seven-year-old-me the most, probably because of the very fact that I had no idea what it was.

Isn't it funny how we are usually more interested in the things we aren't clear about, compared to the things we already know very well?

Inexperienced as I was, I was probably watching the scene wondering what the hell was going on and why viewing it gave me a strange feeling in my nether regions yet still feeling uncomfortable knowing the fact that my parents were right there beside me, viewing it with me.

At that point in time, I was so innocent that I even believed my peers when they told me Titanic was a dirty sex movie. I thought it was porn.

Now that I have got the freedom to have sex whenever and wherever I want, I don't think I'm pretty much interested in watching 'that part' of Titanic anymore. Not forgetting to add, I understand the movie way much better now.

In short, lack of life experiences in a certain element of a movie somehow rouses one's interest in it, probably because of curiosity, which may in turn change one's perspective towards the movie and hence, the interpretation of it.

Okay, okay. I get it. So what is truth, and can it be told through cinema?

Hence, it is pretty much unlikely that truth can ever be told through cinema.

But then again, who am I to judge?

Friday, December 26, 2008


“…And the world wouldn’t be complete without you.”


She was dying.

No, not literally.

But she knew it. She saw it coming. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

He was her only chance for survival. He abandoned her. Not wanting to risk his life for her, he left her. She felt betrayed, but what could she do? She loved him, and she thought he loved her too.

Her heart was dying.

He told her it was some sort of celebration for a business achievement and when she asked more, he just brushed her off.

“It’s a guy thing. You wouldn’t understand, even if I told you.”

With that, they said no more.

She was there when he was with his friends, half drunk. He forgot his package. She brought it for him. She was right at the door, about to knock and enter.

“My gawd, did you really think I married her because I loved her? It’s just for the inheritance, my friend. Just for the inheritance.”

His voice still echoed in her head.

Just for the inheritance.

For three years, she kept lying to herself. She told herself that his lack of attention for her was not personal. That he was busy with his work and she should understand his constant absence from home. That his inattention and disregard towards her was due to working stress; the stress that many men would normally face at that time. It was a man’s obligation to provide for his family, because who knows what gossips may the neighbors conjure if he didn’t feed his family well.

She’d cry herself to sleep at night, sleeping on her side of her bed, waiting for him to come home. Whenever he came home late at night, he was usually drunk; she’d pretend to be asleep, quietly reminding herself that he was compelled to his situation, due to business matters.


Those dreams – no, more real than that; I think I’ve probably been warped into another dimension - have been bugging me.

It has been getting more and more intense lately, and just last night, she almost seemed like she was actually alive. No, more than that. It seemed like she was living in me, like she was me.

In those visions, I saw a lady. She was young and pretty, with a trail of poise and elegance. Well clothed and well fed, her eyes were radiant and her skin glowed like sparkling dew in the dawn. Her hair was neatly tied in a bun, like how they used to wear their hair in the times of old. Her dress was simple yet beautiful and flowing, well pressed and decorated with expensive, extravagant lace at the hems. It was not something anyone would usually wear in this time and day, though I wished I could be able to wear something like that.

Oh, if only I could.

Global warming has yet posed another disadvantage to us humans – not being able to wear dresses like those in the past, we the female species has taken advantage of this as an incentive to dress as skimpily as we can, all in the name of heat.


Maybe she knew all along that her husband did not love her; but she chose to live in denial, because sometimes it just seemed easier that way. She was so sick of her misfortunes that just this once, she wanted to believe that she had finally found her happily ever after ending.

Sometimes, people tend to get convinced by their own lies.

He did not mistreat her; on the contrary, he gave her everything she needed. She knew it, and she respected him for that. However, he did not love her. He protected her and provided her with everything she wanted, but he did it out of duty; he was merely abiding by the unwritten rules set by the society.

She loved him, but that was all.

From the very start, she should have known. The signs were obvious, never once did he tell her he loved her, and all his embraces seemed a tad too formal. But she chose to ignore them, naively telling herself that he would grow to love her one day.

On their wedding night, he attacked her like a wolf, ate her at every orifice available, and went right to bed after penetration.

In short, they did not make love; they merely fucked.


At times, I really wonder who she is.

In my dreams, she always seemed calm and composed. Yet, her eyes seemed to be covered by an invisible veil, like she was trying to hide a deep, dark secret. Like she was trying to conceal her sufferings (how did I know it was suffering that she was hiding, I am not sure) from the outside world.

She seems so lonely and sad.

I feel for her, yet on the other hand, I am glad that I am not like her. I have my parents who love me very much, my friends who are always by my side, and my dear Ryan, who adores me to bits.

Who is she?


“I love you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Don’t you love me too?”

“My wife, I have my honor and reputation to keep. You should know that.”

It hurt her that their conversations always ended up like that.

Are all women like this? Is it the fate of the female species to have to live in a loveless marriage for the rest of their lives, where their only responsibility is to uphold the honor of their husbands and provide them with heirs?


She’s getting more and more real, like she’s travelling towards me from another dimension. I don’t know what to do.

I told Ryan about her the other day but he shrugged it off, saying that it was probably because I was allowing my imagination to go wild again.


He married her just for the inheritance. He did not love her.

Her heart ached.


Ryan came into my life three years ago. We were in our final year of high school then. I attended an all-girls’ school, while he was in an all-boys’ school. The first time we met, we did not talk much. He was pretty much nerdy, and I did not think I wanted to be associated with anyone like that.

After graduation, I pretty much forgot about him, but fate brought allowed us to meet again at college. Being alone, I had no choice but to talk to him, because he was the only person I knew in college. We quickly became best friends and we began to do things together. We studied together, played together, watched movies together, and even frequented each others’ homes.

I developed a slight jealousy when I received news that he had a crush on another girl, and I then realized that I actually liked him.

Like a fairy tale story, we both fell in love, after realizing that he didn’t like that other girl after all. Our love for each other grew with each passing day, and up till now, we’re still happy together.

We’re going to celebrate our third anniversary together in four more days. Ryan said he’d bring me to the posh restaurant I have always wanted to go so badly, but never had the chance to.


She wanted him to love her. Maybe a little too badly, and that made her want to do something for him. Something which could make him fall madly in love with her and to make her his reason for living.

She knew exactly what to do.


I think Ryan’s right. I was probably imagining things.

Now the dreams are getting less and less vivid, presumably because I have been keeping myself busy thinking of what kind of gift to get Ryan for out anniversary.


She wanted their wedding anniversary to be as grand as possible. She would invite all his friends, and they would see just how lucky he was to have such a lovely wife.

She busied all her maids with cooking, and cleaning. She even had her favorite tailor make her the perfect dress, made of the finest silk and finished with a touch of glitter and lace. The dress was exactly how she pictured it; white and flowing, tightening at her breasts, where she knew her cleavage would be revealed by the right amount – not too little that nobody took a second glance, and not too much that men drooled all over her , but perfectly cupped so that everyone looked at her in envy - and she was proud of it, for how many women had full assets like hers?

She even invited a man gifted in carving, ordered a large chunk of ice, and gave the man the task of carving it into delicate angels with beautiful wings on the day itself.

On that grand day, she had five maids attend to her to make sure her primping was flawless. Her hair was done in a fashionable manner; not that her hair was not always already in fashion on normal occasions, but this time she did it far more pulchritudinous than ever.

She made sure the floor was well swept and mopped, except for the section where the ice was to be carved.

She gave the man very precise descriptions of how she wanted the ice carving to be, and she was especially particular about the shape of the angels’ wings; she wanted it feathery yet had sharp and pointy ends with some sticking out of place - she thought it would bring out the natural beauty of imperfection of the angels.
As she busied herself with the testing of food (she did not trust her maids’ taste buds and she would never rest until she had personally tasted every dish) she was again reminded of the mess the ice shavings would make on the floor, and she still did not know if she should sweep them up immediately, or wait for them to melt and then wipe it away.

Her marbled floor would make it very slippery if the ice melted, she knew.

She pushed the thought to the back of her mind. That could be dealt with later, she told herself.

At about six in the evening, guests began pouring in and she began to get anxious that the man had not finished with his ice carving yet, and began wondering if she made a mistake by giving him specific orders not to arrive to early. Most of the people began to linger around chatting with each other, while she anxiously waited for her husband to come back, silently praying that the ice carving would be finished by then.

An hour later, the ice shaving was finally done and at the same moment, her husband stepped in. He awed at her beauty, yet his sixth sense told him something was amiss.


Our little anniversary celebration went well. Ryan gave me the sweetest chocolates ever and he even had a violinist serenade us the whole time we were having our romantic candlelit dinner.


She gracefully received her husband, managed the attention of the guests, and proposed a toast.

After the meal, she invited her husband for a waltz to the song they were both familiar with – the one which first brought them together. Her eyes were filled with tears of joy as she snuggled her head into her husband’s shoulder, reliving the times when he still loved her.

“Why are you weeping, my wife? You’ll disgrace us in front of all my friends.”

She wiped away her tears, smiled at her husband, and said no more.

As the waltzed across the room, she led him nearer and nearer towards the ice carving; probably because she wanted him to notice the beauty of it.

She put her right foot over her left and carelessly tripped over her own dress. She would still have been able to save herself from a humiliating fall, if she was not wearing a dress made out of soft and extremely smooth silk, with such abundance of lace.

Her left foot slid across the hem of her dress, got caught in the lace at the hems, and she lost her balance. On instinct, she caught hold of her husband’s sleeve and pulled him down along with herself.

On the very fortunate event that the floor was not marble, the floor was not wet, and the ice carving was not there, the couple might still have been saved by fate.

That, however, was not the case.

The marble floor, wet with melted ice shavings, made her husband skid across the floor. His heavy body rammed right into the ice carving, where one of the out-of-placed angel’s wings pierced right through the centre of his abdomen.

She quickly jumped out of the way and escaped the fatality, unharmed.


The haunting visions of the lady have long left me, ever since the last time I saw her crying at a funeral, most presumably of someone close to her, by the way she wept so badly that she might as well have blinded herself.

Of course, it is nice to be able to lead a normal life again.

Something else is vexing me, though.

Ryan hasn’t been his normal self.

Lately, he has been losing his appetite, not eating for days on ends. His skin has become scaly and pale, and on occasions, I do not even dare to look at him because he reminds me of a corpse.


Thrown in with a few days of wailing and crocodile tears, she was soon known as the most beautiful widow in town.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

The Eight Princesses

Once upon a time, there lived a great king who had eight beautiful daughters. The first born was able to turn cow dung into 24K gold. The second could change Nokia 3310 phones into iPhones. The third could produce sexy underwear out of rugs from unwanted dresses. The fourth laid chicken eggs. The fifth could read her own mind. The sixth could read other's mind, but not her own. The seventh could recite the value of pi, up to 43,502,388 decimal places. The youngest, however, owned all the abilities of her seven sisters. She was also the most beautiful among all her sisters.

Therefore, the king loved his youngest daughter the most.

The family was rich and lacking in nothing, because whenever they needed resources, they would use their abilities to feed themselves.

They owned a huge herd of cows, which were all very well fed. Their dung were collected each day, and sent to the first princess to be transformed into gold. They also had a warehouse full of unwanted Nokia 3310 phones, which the second daughter would diligently turn all of them into iPhones. Many old dresses were also collected, and a pile of sexy lingerie would magically appear every morning, in place of the old dresses. A room full of bedding was also prepared for the fifth daughter to lay her eggs. The fifth daughter could read her own mind so well that she never talked much to anyone else, so nobody really bothered about her. Because the sixth princess could read the minds of others, thus revealing all their secrets, she was locked away in the dungeon. It didn't help that she couldn't very well read her own mind, much to the annoyance of others. The seventh would stand in the streets, reciting over and over again the value of pi, for anyone who bothered to listen. 

The youngest daughter, however, was loved so much by her father that she was made supervisor over all her sisters. 

In due time, the king's wealth aroused the jealousy of many all around the world.

Apple company was also very pissed that the king kept selling iPhones at a very low price. 

So, the people of the world teamed up with Apple to attack the king and his family.

They killed all the cows in the world. Next, they destroyed all Nokia 3310 phones. Then, they destroyed all fabric so that the third princess could not produce anymore sexy lingerie. They also killed all the cocks so that the fourth princess was not able to have sex with them, thus she was unable to lay eggs. Since the fifth was of no threat to the people, she was numerously raped, because she was beautiful. The sixth was remained in the dungeon. The seventh princess was placed in a science exhibition, where she recited the pi for the rest of her life. They killed the youngest daughter, and made the king their slave.

Henceforth, nobody in the world ate beef, and everyone was clothed in paper. Slowly, all the chickens in the world died and everyone forgot how chickens tasted like. 

Of course, it would be much easier if the people actually killed the eight princesses off together with their father, but that idea just didn't cross their mind.

Such was the folly of the people of the world.

Since everyone in the world was wearing outfits made out of paper, trees began to diminish rapidly. Soon, wearing clothes became a crime and anyone caught covering their body with material of any sort was put to death.

Raping cases became more rampant, as it was generally easier to rape naked people.

Rape was soon deemed legal.

Before long, over 60% of the world's population was infected with HIV or AIDS.

And the people of the world lived happily ever after.

The end.

Monday, June 16, 2008


One sheep. Two sheep. Three sheep. Four sheep. 




It's no use. I can't sleep. I'm tired, but my eyes refuse to shut. 

Eight sheep. Nine sheep. 




Go to sleep, dammit!

Maybe I'll get myself a glass of water. I can't go to bed with a dry throat.

*gulp, gulp*

Now, back to bed.

Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn.

Damn. Maybe I'll go pee. I can't go to bed when my bladder isn't emptied of its contents.

Gosh. The bathroom seems scarier without the lights on. Should I turn on the lights? Nah... I'm way too lazy. I'll just pee, wash my hands and get out of here. Who needs the light for that? Besides, it'll be quick.

The mirror, huh. I see my reflection under the moonlight. Wow, the moon is so round tonight. I'm glad there's at least a small window to allow some light through. It wouldn't be very pleasant to pee in utter darkness.

My reflection. With my long, flowing hair, my reflection under minimal light reminds me of the evil homicidal spirits of young women, generally featured in most Japanese horror movies.

Why is it that all Japanese ghosts have to be female, complete with long, messy hair which covers approximately seventy-two point five six percent of their faces?

I scare myself silly every time I look at my own reflection in the dark.

Don't think. Just pee and get back to bed. Nothing's gonna happen.


I mean, it's just my own reflection. I'm getting paranoid. Probably due to my lack of sleep. 

Wait a minute. The girl in my mirror. I think I know her. I've seen her somewhere.

Think, think.

Hah. Of course I know her. She's my own reflection...

Isn't she?

Hey, what is that glistening on her face? Wow. My reflection's eyes are like two crystals, shimmering under the soft moonlight. The crystals are beginning to multiply. Now they're running down her cheeks in two symmetrical vertical lines. Wait. They seem to be some sort of liquid. Could it be... tears? Is she crying?

She is.

I seldom see people cry, nor do I find myself crying very often. Come to think of it, I think in my eighteen years of living, I can only recall myself crying on two occasions. The first, when my friends picked on me. That, of course, was the first and last time they ever did. I never did give them any chances to even talk to me ever since.

The second time I cried was when I fell in love. I thought love could overcome everything therefore, I gave him everything I had. My hopes, my dreams, my life. Everything I did, I did it for him. He became my reason for living. 

Then, he crushed me. He dumped me and left me aside. He moved on. I wondered what else I could live for. Wounded, I let my tears wash my deep cuts. I swore never to fall in love again. 

I never did believe in crying. I'm the sort of girl that would never cry, no matter what. I'd face all my hardships and tribulations with a strong heart. I believe that crying will never help solve any problems, therefore, it's no use to cry. Perhaps, because of that, people see me as one with a strong personality; and when they're around me, they, too, are influenced to hold back their tears. 

Perhaps - no, probably that's why, I seldom witness people cry. Because I do not cry myself. Generally, most people are not willing to allow someone who has never cried to witness them doing so.

The wonders of human nature.

So you could say that I'm finding it quite astonishing to see somebody crying right now. 

That girl in the mirror. Do I know her? 

No, I probably don't. 

Why is she crying?

Damn. I'm no good at situations like this. I can be a fun person to be with, but when it comes to seeing people cry, I don't know what to do, or what to say.

Maybe I should try talking to her. What should I say? I feel like an idiot. My mouth is open but no sound is coming out. Say something!

All of a sudden, I'm feeling for her. Is that what people call compassion? Ha, ha. Me, having compassion? Nobody would ever believe it, even if I said it.

But the truth is, I do feel for her. Is it pity? Sympathy? Or empathy?

I don't know. I'm not good at discerning my feelings. I feel, but ninety percent of the time, I'm not sure what I'm feeling.

All I know is, I feel for her. I want to comfort her. I want to giver her an assuring hug or even a light squeeze on the shoulder, telling her that everything will be okay. No matter what it is, it will be fine.

But I'm afraid to touch her. Somehow, I'm afraid that if I do, she'll back off. Disappear, even.

Hah. She's just a stranger. Who cares if she is crying? I don't even know her. Why should I even care for her?

I'm about to walk away when all of a sudden, she talks to me. Her voice was soft; barely a whisper. Almost inaudible.

"Don't go. Please. Don't you remember me?"

Huh? Do I know her? 

"I remember you."

Who the hell is she?

No, I definitely don't know her. But she says she remembers me. What does she mean? 

I want to speak, but I can't find my voice.

She continues talking.

"Don't you want to know why I am crying?"

I eye her curiously. Who the hell is she and why is she crying to me? Annoying bitch. She should just go home and cry to her mommy.

"I'm crying because of you."


"I'm crying because of you. Don't you remember me?"

Stupid bitch comes right up to me, cries, and then blame me for it? For goodness' sake I don't even know her. 

She's walking towards me. I find my own feet advancing, too.

"Stop it!!!" I yell. 


Just a minute ago, I was dumbfounded. Where did this new strength of mine come from?

My heart is thumping against my chest. I hate her. Why won't she go away? Why is a stranger here, prodding into my memories? What is she trying to do? I don't even know her. 

Yet, I have to admit that just a minute ago, I felt for her. Most importantly, I feel a connection with her and somehow, it seems like I do know her. 


I don't know her. That bitch is invading my privacy. I hate her. She has to go.

"I don't care if you know me or not, and I sure as hell am not interested in knowing why you are crying. Just leave! NOW!"

She doesn't say a thing. Her tears continue flowing. 

Like two crystal clear streams flowing gracefully, they seem to be exploring the contours of her smooth cheeks. They end at the bottom of her chin, dripping onto the ground in small droplets, each containing a fragment of her sorrow.

"You really don't remember me?"

"No," I say through gritted teeth.

"And you really want me to leave?"


"Don't you want to know who I am?"

I look into her eyes. She's pleading; I'm sure of it. Her eyes are pleading for me to give her a chance. She want's me to know her. She's pleading for me to remember her.

A fraction of a second.

A moment of thought.

I remember now. I know who she is. Once a soul mate, now a stranger. 

I don't even remember how I discarded her; treated her like refuse.

"Yes, I remember you now."

"I'm glad you do," she whispers, as tears of happiness fill her eyes.

She vanishes. I'm left alone. My cheeks are moist. Her tears have now become mine.

In the hustle and bustle of life, I almost forgot her. But she came back for me. She returned me what I had left behind, because I felt that I was better off without it. She allowed me to feel again. She gave me what was essential to being human; to feel like human.

She gave me back my emotions.

She was me.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Jack and Jill (part 2)

Mummy, you may not understand what I'm doing, but I promise, I'm doing it all out of love. I just wanted to send you and Daddy to a happier place.

I'm coming, Mummy. I want to be in that happy place, too.


Up Jack got and home did trot,
As fast as he could caper


My head's spinning. It hurts. Hey, wait. My head isn't spinning. My surroundings are.

Oh. It's stopped. Now I can see better.

These white washed walls... Where am I? Am I dead? Is this heaven?

Gosh. Why does my situation remind me of the television dramas where the character awakens, sees white walls around him, and then proceeds to deduce that he is dead, only to find out later that he is actually in a hospital with a slutty nurse tending to him?

Ah... So I am in hospital. I see the slutty nurse.

Just kidding. She isn't slutty. At least she doesn't seem that way. 

I wonder if she is? I wouldn't mind some free sex.

Ouch. My head is hurting again. 

How did I end up here? I remember the water waves...

The sea...

I fell...

Then, what?

I can't remember.

Who am I? Shit. I can't even remember my own name. Hmm... I wonder how I look? Ah, there is a mirror over there. It doesn't seem like the nurse would approve of me getting out of bed, though. I guess I'll have to wait till she's gone. In the mean time, maybe I should talk to her.

"Hello, sir. You're finally awake. You were found on the sea shore two days ago and you were unconscious the entire time. I'm glad you're okay now."

"Unfortunately, I don't feel like I'm going to be okay. I can't remember a thing. How did I get here? What is my name?"

"Somebody found you lying by  the sea shore and brought you here. He's gone on some business and I don't think he'll be back anytime soon. He has already paid for your hospital bills, though. We couldn't find any identification on you, so unfortunately, we don't know who you are yet."

"Right. Doesn't help much if I don't know myself, does it?"

"Get some rest. I'm sure you'll feel much better soon."

Phew. She's finally out. Now, for the mirror.

Hmm. I don't look half as bad as I thought I would. 

Of course, feeling vain, I'd very much like to elaborate on my facial features, but I have much more important things on my mind right now. 

(Also partly because the writer has run out of good vocabulary and ideas.)

I want to go home. 

Where is my home? 

I think I can vaguely recall...


Jack stood in front of a deserted house, situated at the far east of a high-end housing area. How he got there, he didn't know. All he remembered was driving aimlessly for hours and hours in a stolen car, after sneaking out of the hospital. 

(No, the car wasn't stolen by Jack. It was stolen by some kidnappers, who abandoned the car after finishing their job. I know this sounds a little coincidental and unbelievable, but that's how fiction is. Live with it.)

Before he knew it, here he was, standing in front of the familiar abode. Why did he come here? His subconscious mind probably brought him here for some unresolved issues, he thought. 

Yes, you're here because we want to end this.


Who said that?

Was it all in his mind, or did Jack hear a voice speak? Or was it just his own inner voice, freaking him out? 


How could he be so sure that the voice was talking to him? Couldn't it be just one of the neighbours, talking among themselves?


The voice was whispering. A soft, sinister whisper, dripping with malice. A covenant that his arrival would certainly end it. 

End what?

Jack was confused. 

It didn't help much that Jack's mind was clouding up.

"If somebody was whispering, I couldn't have heard it unless he or she were standing next to me. Since I don't see anyone around me I'd have to deduce that the voice came from afar, which means the only way I'd be able to hear it would be if the voice shouted."

"But it was a whisper."

"So where did it come from? Come to think of it, I don't even know the direction of the source of that voice. It was just... there. Did it come from inside of me? Did I say it myself but didn't realise it? Or was I just hearing things? Gosh, I must be going crazy. Talking to myself like that, I should stop it. I feel like a maniac."

Jack gingerly stepped into the threshold of the said house, and carefully observed it's interior. 

He felt strangely courageous and confident. He strode across the empty living room, towards the wooden stairs.

And went to bed and covered his head
In vinegar and brown paper.

His feet seemed to be on auto-pilot. They brought him up the flight of stairs, up to a bedroom, which held nothing but a tiny baby cot, by the window sill. The window was wide open and he felt the cool night breeze ruffling through his hair. He thought he'd seen the cot somewhere. As the first atoms of his finger tip came in contact with the somewhat rotting wood of the cot, a surge of chill shot through his body, making him turn rigid for just a tenth of a second. 

You're here. Now, we can end this.

An invisible force hit him with great impact, hurtling his body onto the cot. The rotting wood gave way and before he knew it, he found his waist pressed hard on the window sill with half his body already leaning out of the wide window. Wood splinters hit him everywhere but he didn't feel the pain. 

He was already soaring...

"I love you, Rodya..."


I love you too, Daddy. Don't worry, I'm bringing you to a better place. A place where you, Mummy, and I can be reunited again. We'll be a happy family.


Why did I not have sex with the slutty nurse before leaving the hospital?

Too bad she isn't in heaven yet.