“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.
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.
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.
I think I already live in lies for too long. Or maybe it is actually acquired in real life? I think I was trained to pretend so much until I didn’t know what is my actual intention. It is easy to talk to someone and pretend that you are truly care about them, and ignore them later. I did that too much, until finally when someone about which I really care come around, I don’t know what to do to keep them. Someone in the back of my head repeatedly tells me to be aware; to be cautious to everything. It anxious me. What if this person -the one which I really care- leaves me like I did to everyone else? What if it’s something like a karma? And thanks to that, up until today I don’t have anyone who I actually consider as my best-best friend.
Last night I dreamed about you again, for the first time in this month. I don’t really know why you appeared in my dream again, since we have no actual interaction in these past months. Legend says that when you dreamed about someone, that someone is missing you. I hope it is true, then. I hope you miss me as much as I miss you. Oh, I feel so embarrassed when I typed that.
based on this post on tumblr
“Be happy, okay?” he said as he beamed ear to ear, totally oblivious to his surrounding. His eyes were fixated only to the boy opposite him, who wore an old black glasses, but he didn’t mind the slightest about that.
“What do you mean by that,” the opposite boy whispered. “We’ve lost our everything.”
“At least you still have me.”
It was the new year night. The gunshot was concealed by the sounds of fireworks. It was classic; nobody would hear that, nobody would notice the difference. Even though it was night, he barely needed his torch. The sky was full with fireworks, one after another, blasting in the middle of nothingness. It was beautiful, but he barely saw it. He was busy crying after the dead body.
His glasses were reflecting the firework’s color. Red, green, red, blue. They were flashing one by one, like the colored spotlight on the stage. This was indeed a stage, he thought. This was the stage when the main character was dead, and he himself was both the villain and the victim. He killed this body, but he mourned it as well.