The calico cat across the road is licking its paw solemnly. Dean can almost hear it, slick-slick-slick, when the tongue rubs the cat’s front paw and then the nose. It seems like licking its body clean is a serious business. There is nothing cute about that cat at the moment; it is not like those cat videos, no. This one is a serious matter. It’s like the cat has a quest for Dean to do. It’s like Dean is the important hero, waiting for the call, leaving his normal, mundane life.
After a long two painful minutes of licking, Dean sees the cat sees him. No, they don’t lock eyes and the cat suddenly disappear, no. The cat flicks its tail, Dean blinks, and that’s all. Dean is secretly disappointed. He wants the cat to come to him. At least that will make his day less suck.
“Can you stand up?”
She asks, extending her hand. Her hair is getting longer, now the wind can rustles it and mess it up a little bit. She wears her usual blue jeans and gray shirt today. Her lips are coloured by her newest shade of lip cream; a faded pink lip cream.
“I don’t know.” Her companion replies. “I might be falling as well.”
“But you are already,” she lets out a sigh as she pulls back her hand. It seems like her offer is useless. Her companion doesn’t really want to get up.
Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.
Pulchra es, amica mea.*
As the Artemis went up, and her beam was outshone by the artificial shaft of light from the lamps on the ceilings, he stood up and was not blinded by both of the glows. Instead, his character radiated through the air, diffused onto the room, and it knocked down the windows and all the glasses from the bookcase. Slightly, very slightly, the floor trembled. The tables shook. The lift’s door quivered. The dust from the lamps up there was actually it fell apart. Yet these were unnoticed. All eyes were directed towards him.
For the record, he does arrived on time. He glances to his surroundings; he doesn’t recognise any familiar faces. It seems like he is expected to wait for a minute or more. He finds an unoccupied bench, so he drags his feet there and sits with a long sigh. He has expected this to happen, of course it will be happening. He will wait, and he will be the one who always wait.
It is six in the evening, and the temperature is twelve Celsius degree. Mercutio huffs, it creates a puff of air in front of his face. It is lucky that he decides to wear a sweater underneath his coat. He just forgets the gloves, and it results in him burying his hand in his coat’s pocket. It will be so nice if Rosaline is here with him now, her power is so useful in days like these. The snow doesn’t fall yet, but it is cold enough to form a ghostly vapour whenever he takes a breath.
It was like a termite hurricane; hundreds –or even thousands, of termites attacked every light in the building, seeking for warmth and confidence. He thought it was raining at first; the low drizzling sound in background, very similar to the rain’s sound. He was not suspicious until the first termite flying in to his room, from the open window. Suddenly the buzzing sound didn’t feel like the rain anymore, and when the second, and the third, and the fiftieth (who the heck knew) termites came in; the reality hit him like a truck.
He closed his laptop, literally slamming it shut, and walking across the room with one wide step, to reach the lamp switch, and turned off the lamp. In the darkness of his room, he still could hear the low buzzing sound of thousands small wings flapping, rubbing with each other; the small but persistent sound filling the room like a nightmare.
The bright yellow razor blade could be so endearing, so tempting, when the time was right. The gleam of it, touched by common white lamp, hanging on the ceiling, was calling her for the fifth time in this night. It was new, the blade. She just bought it from the local bookshop, another impulse-buying of useless stationary. She already had a pack of razor blade refills, safely kept in a white plastic box. But no, she thought when she saw the metal cutter. No, it was much easier when there was something to hold on to other than a sheet of tissue paper. At least she couldn’t hurt her finger–
–while hurting her hand, she continued in her thought, amusely.
When the mosquitoes were singing beside his ears, he did realise that his eye was about to fall down. His left eye, to be precise. There was a string of flesh that still holds it together so it kept sticking to his face. But with one harsh move, it would fall down, undoubtedly. He stared at his reflection on the glass door in disbelief. With this condition, he would never be able to live easily.
Her hair was now cut short; shorter than it had ever been. If she was a forest, her trees were whittled down near its roots; very short, and it might need an amount of time to grew back. Birds now didn’t have houses, and cloudy rain could kiss the filthy soil easily, yet the frogs were thirsty because their pond was dry. Everything was a disaster. The forest’s crowd were never encountered a total destruction like this.
When she passed down the street at night, it was too cliché to described. Street lamps were illuminating the road, tiny dots of light lined across the pavement, lots of people were crowding the way. It was not a busy night. It was just a usual, calming night, even though the sound of someone’s car beeping could be heard somewhere in the crowd. This was just a busy city.
This didn’t remind her of something in particular. Nothing could be remembered from a mundane view of the city at night. She didn’t have any important memories to be recollected.
“It felt like a long distance relationship, isn’t it?” the sentence had escaped her lips in whisper.
Tonight’s weather was abnormally nice. Usually it would be light rain all over the night or storm. But it was almost nothing in the sky today. No clouds, no stars. It was only the moon, hanging alone on the dark sky. Not that I liked the starry sky or something. It was weird enough to not having rain all over the city. I thought people used this opportunity to going out somewhere but their houses. The street was unusually crowded, snack stalls popped up in every corner of it. It was kind of nice. I bet the air smelled like tasty crisps and doughnuts.
“Are you going to bury yourself in this room?”
The High Warlock smiled at me, his fierce yet soft eyes scanned me and I knew he could read what I was up to without actually read my mind. Then he turned to the window, in his eyes lights from the street below reflected. The orange orbs flickered, as if the activity down there perked his interest. But I knew better.