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.
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.
I kept dreaming about running him with a car. It was raining and his blue shirt was wet. I ran into him and he was soaked in blood. His blood mixed with the rain, now his shirt was not blue any longer. Soon I saw crows flying near and they fled over him, who was laying motionless on the pavement. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t shut my eyes either. All I could do was sat up straight behind the wheel, and watch the crows crowding above the boy’s dead body.
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.
Have you ever think about dangerous thing? Like, how will it feels when you slammed your body to the road, or how will your fingers will survive if you drag your hands while your motorcycle is running. Have you?
Maureen lifted her tote bag, it was heavy on her left hand. Her right one felt like burning. She stared at her right palm for the God knows how many times. The red lines were still visible. Even though the scars were slowly healing, she still can felt the, yes, burn, and she, somehow, satisfied.
She just cut her right palm, one right below her thumb, made long lines across her palm; one on her middle finger’s side; one on the pinky finger. With a fresh and clean razor blade, of course. She couldn’t deal with tetanus or something similar.
I stare at my reflection. When I smile, she smiles. When I frown, she frowns. When I point the gun’s tip to my head, she does it too. And then there is blood running down our face, like honey dripping down from the bee’s nest. It is blue, not red, and when I push my index finger into the hole, it lets out the blue blood intensely.
The blue blood is making such a messy mess in this room. But it adds the colour. This room is lacking of colour. The wall is white, and the bed is too, and the lamp, and everything. The only coloured thing inside this room is me, and my blood now.