Once (Poem)

Once,
I was part of the color,
The voices, the life, the emotion.

Once,
I was part of the rhythm,
The flow, the beat, the tempo.

Emotions,
I could feel them.
Jealousy, anger, sadness,
My heart twisted in bitter agony.

Voices,
I could hear them.
Whispered malice and lies,
My ears were ready and listening.

Rhythm,
I followed it.
Going along with everything,
I led other people's lives.

Yet now, I've turned to the shadows,
Fading into the grey background.
Observing, listening,
But no longer caring.

Once.

My Perfect Life (Short Story)

"So will Richard get to kiss the only girl he has ever truly loved? Stay tuned for the next episode of 'Teen Rebel'!"

As the credits rolled and the show's ending theme song started to play, a young boy sat in front of the television screen, stuffing potato chips into his mouth. Though he was lying comfortably on the couch, his eyes did not show any trace of sleepiness after having watched the hour long episode.

The Teen Rebel was his all-time favourite TV show. Somehow, the idea of a male character who led such a perfect life with problems that were solved within a single episode’s time frame, had appealed to him greatly.

And he had watched every episode up till now.

"Robin, lower the volume of that stupid television show!" his mother yelled in exasperation over the catchy tune of the show's theme song.

Ever since Robin’s father passed away two years ago, she seemed to have less patience with anything that Robin did. Yet he could not understand why his mother still seemed so depressed. After all, to see his father around the house was more of a monthly occasion and Robin rarely even got the chance to talk to him.

Rolling his eyes, he switched off the television set and padded into the kitchen where his mother was preparing dinner. Sliding into a kitchen chair, he rested his face against the cool surface of the dining table and watched his mother pour a ladle of cooking oil into the iron wok.

A question had been burning inside him after having watched today’s episode and now seemed like a good time to ask his mother about it.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"Why do characters on TV lead such perfect lives? I mean, they have good looks, perfect skin, good grades ... why doesn’t it happen to me?"

His mother laughed. She sounded amused by his strange question.

"Darling, you're only seven this year! Why are you so worried about these kind of problems?"

Robin’s mouth began to set into a sulk. He hated it when his mother did not take him seriously. And she always never did.

"Because I don’t want to be ignored ..." he said softly.

When I’m already being ignored by you.

"Well, these characters are simply following a script," his mother said in a preoccupied tone as she began frying the onions.

"Really?"

Robin suddenly perked up when he heard his mother’s answer.

A brilliant idea had just struck him. He could not imagine why he had never thought of this before.

"So ..." he said slowly, "if I write my own script and follow it, my life will turn out the way I want it to be?"

There was a long pause. Robin patiently waited for his mother’s response. But she already seemed to be lost in her own world, standing motionless in front of the stove.

The smell of burning onions filled the air.

"Mom!"

She gave a start, accidentally knocking her hand against the frying wok. Uttering a sharp cry of pain, she pressed her scalded hand against her lips and grabbed a wet towel to soothe the burns.

Scrunching her eyes shut, she looked as though she was trying to force back the tears that refused to stay put. Robin wasn’t sure if her scalded hand was the only reason his mother was crying.

"I'm sorry," she finally murmured distractedly, turning to take a plate of carrots and empty them into the wok. "I'm sorry ... I wasn’t listening."

But she did not ask him to repeat his question. And Robin did not feel like talking to her anymore.

Without a word, he ran back to his room. He couldn’t wait to get started on his script.

Grabbing a pencil and a stack of paper, he sat at his desk and started to scribble down his idea about how his life should turn out to be.

My Perfect Life
By Robin Tan
"It is a brite & suny morning when Robin wakes up the next day. He yawns and smiles as the birds outside cheaps merily ..."

After adding the finishing touches to his work, he stuffed the four page long script into his school bag and skipped out of the room to have his dinner.

He couldn’t wait for the next day to arrive ...

**************

He awoke to the sound of rumbling thunder in the distance.

Scratching his head, Robin yawned and sat up in bed gloomily. He’d expected it to be a sunny morning and yet here was the weather, looking decidedly glum. There were no birds outside his window to serenade him either.

Was there something wrong with the way he’d described the start of morning in his script?

The very thought was rather demoralizing.

Never mind, he comforted himself, this is only the start of the day.

Feeling slightly more cheerful, he got out of bed and plodded to the bathroom to get ready for school.

After having brushed his teeth and washed his face, Robin continued to stare at the mirror, frowning at his own reflection. With a cherubic smooth face and bright black eyes, he looked just like any ordinary young boy out on the streets. But he wasn’t satisfied with that.

Today was a different day. Today, he wanted to look different.

Opening the bathroom cabinet, he searched through the bewildering array of hair and skin products that his mother used. Selecting the various bottles and containers that appealed to his eye, he arranged them neatly at the sink and surveyed them critically.

Robin didn’t really understand what each and every single one was supposed to do so he decided to opt for the easiest one first. Hair gel.

He had often seen his mother using it to apply to her hair when it was all out of sorts so he’d a fairly good idea on how to use it.

Dipping his fingers into the gooey substance, he raked them through his hair and started spiking it up. He tried to base it on one of the punk hairstyles he’d remembered seeing in a teenage magazine a few days ago, but somehow he could never get his hair to stand the way he wanted it to.

He gave up after a while and moved on to the other products, spraying himself with perfume and dabbing his face with anything that looked like white cream. Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom, feeling like a whole new person.

Breakfast was simple, white bread spread with margarine and hot Milo. His mother had already left for work so he sat alone at the table munching on his bread.

Though he’d hoped for a more interesting breakfast, Robin was only thankful his mother didn’t get it in her head to cook one of her bizarre dishes in the morning.

Grabbing his school bag, he swallowed the rest of his bread and left the house. As his school was a ten minute walk away, Robin decided to walk and save on the bus fare. Furthermore, the Robin he’d written in the script was someone who was suave and charismatic, and he wanted to have enough time to get into character.

Strolling down the pavement in the early morning, he adopted a casual swagger in his walk. His face was a perfect villain’s caricature of a person smirking exaggeratedly. He had practiced this expression in front of the mirror earlier on and decided, after a few tries, that this was the best version of looking cool.

Passers-by who walked past him couldn’t help but stare in surprise. After all, in such early, rainy conditions, no one would have expected a young boy to come strolling down the streets, looking as though he was going to dominate the world.

Robin kept up with his newly formed character even when he walked through the gates of Greenvale Primary School. Even when students who walked past him kept whispering and giggling as they looked at him.

Until he saw her.

His newly found confidence seemed to falter as she walked past him, a hidden smile on her lips.

Melody. Even though she was a new student transferred over from another school, she was already considered one of the more popular girls amongst the students. With her clear features and easy going personality, it was easy to see why she was so likeable among her peers.

And Robin had a huge crush on her.

Half of his script was dedicated to her, fantasizing about how he was going to successfully win her heart.

"Robin strols up to Melody, kewl as a cucomber.

ROBIN
[charmingly]
'Has anione told you wat beutifool eyes you have?'

MELODY
[eyes fluterring]
'Oh Robin! That’s the swetesst thing anione has ever told me!'

Seene ends with Melody conffesing that she lykes Robin."

But reality felt different. And scary.

Robin decided to wait till recess to tell her what he wanted to say. Time seemed to crawl past as the teachers droned on and on about things which he barely listened to.

Yet when the recess bell rang, he dreaded the moment more than ever. I’ll tell her after lunch, he promised himself.

After a big bowl of fishball noodles, two curry puffs and three cups of drinks, he knew he could delay no longer.

Taking a deep breath, he ran a hand through his hair and sauntered over to Melody. She was sitting in the canteen, laughing and talking with her friends.

His legs seemed to have taken a life of his own, taking him nearer and nearer to her. It was as though someone had pressed the mute button on the surrounding noise; so loud was the pounding of his heart.

He could not back down now.

"H-hi ... Mel ... Melody ..." he stammered.

Everyone had stopped talking now and turned to stare at him. The same question could be seen clearly on every girl’s face.

What was a guy like him doing here?

"Hi Robin," Melody said cheerily. She did not seem to think it odd that he was only greeting her and not the others.

But then again, she was the sort who took things as they came.

"Has ... has anyone ever ..." he began, and paused.

What was wrong with him? He was supposed to be acting as cool as a cucumber.

He could not afford to lose face now and the girls knew it instinctively, their eyes challenging him to say what he did not dare to.

Please let the script work.

"Has anyone ever told you what beautiful eyes you have?" he blurted out.

The girls started to titter amongst themselves excitedly. All attention was now focused on Melody. Yet, she merely looked rather surprised if nothing else.

"Well, no ... but thank you, Robin," she finally said, smiling faintly.

The bell for the next period rang and she got up to leave.

"Wait," Robin wanted to speak.

You were supposed to say you like me.

But when he opened his mouth, he threw up instead.

He should not have eaten so much for recess. His fear had pushed all the excessive food back up.

Wailing in disgust, Melody tried to move back but it was too late. The puke had gotten all over her skirt. She started to cry while the others gathered around to comfort her, shooting dagger glances at Robin, the culprit responsible for all this. Someone went to call the teacher.

Ashamed and red-faced, Robin could only stand there silently as the teacher who arrived on the scene started to reprimand him for bullying Melody.

What had gone wrong?

She was supposed to confess that she liked him. Not getting disgusted with him throwing up all over her.

He was supposed to be cool. Not acting like some stammering idiot in front of her.

Nothing was going according to plan, and Robin was growing very demoralized. He’d thought the script would be the key to everything but he was starting to see what a foolish fantasy it had all been.

So ... if I write my own script and follow it, my life will turn out the way I want it to be?

I'm sorry ... I'm sorry I wasn’t listening.

He sat alone in the canteen now, not wanting to go back to class and face the humiliation there.

"Hey kid."

Robin almost jumped at the sound of the voice. He turned to see who it was and saw a young twelve year old boy smirking at him.

With his school shirt tucked out and multiple piercings on his ear, he looked to be the very epitome of cool. He was someone whom Robin had aspired to be but had never quite visualized it properly. Until now.

"H-hi ..." he stammered. "Do I know you?"

The boy grinned.

"I'm Jet,” he answered, "I saw what you did to that girl back there ... and I gotta say I'm impressed. That took guts."

"Er ... the puking all over her or the telling her that her eyes are beautiful?" Robin ventured.

He wasn’t sure whether this boy was joking around with him or being serious.

Jet's lazy drawl made everything sound far too casual.

"Both ... since you put it like that,” he said, laughing. "But you're cool."

That last statement was dropped somewhat carelessly but it made Robin tingle with pride. Someone actually thought he was cool. Perhaps the script was working after all.

ROBIN
[in a bored voyce]
"School's bore-ing. I'm going outside to take a walk."

RANDOM PERSON
[admyeringly]
"You're so kewl, Robin."

"Thanks," he said coolly.

Sliding off the bench, he walked off. But he did not head back to the classrooms.

"Where're you going?"

"Outside. To take a walk. School's boring," Robin replied over his shoulder.

He was hoping that Jet would come along or utter more words of praise, but the twelve year old boy simply sat where he was, laughing and shaking his head in amazement.

So Robin walked out of the school gates alone.

The sky was now a clear shade of porcelain blue after the morning showers and the sun was out. The day had turned warm and sunny and there was a breeze working its way up.

This cheered Robin up considerably.

His shirt was all tucked out and the smell of vomit still clung to him but he didn’t care. Somehow, that did not seem important any longer.

He was a cool kid now, and cool kids did not concern themselves over such trivial matters.

Wearing a self-satisfied smirk, he walked past a trio of girls sitting at the sidewalk. They were smoking cigarettes and talking among themselves.

"Aw, lookie at dat boy walkin' past us ... he'sh sho-oo key-ute!" one of them said half-mockingly.

Robin turned, and froze when he caught sight of the girl who had spoken. He wondered how he had actually walked past her without noticing her at all when everything about her screamed for attention.

Her hair was streaked with dark blue and violet stripes and various piercings decorated her eyebrows, lips, nose and ears. She was decked out in a bizarre mixture of multi-colored clothing; a neon pink and yellow tank top with a green cardigan, orange hot pants and black and red platforms.

She was like a walking rainbow.

"Oh, so now ya be checkin' me out huh?" the girl threw her head back and laughed as though she'd just said the funniest joke in the world.

She then proceeded to take a swig from a half-empty liquor bottle that appeared to be shared amongst three of them.

"N-no ... I wasn’t ..." Robin stammered, as his eyes continued to take in the rainbow bangles encircling the girl’s wrists.

But he was lying. He could not take his eyes off her.

She smiled knowingly, looking almost attractive when she did so. But Robin could see the subtle signs of deterioration. Her eyes were drooping to half-mast; her breath reeked heavily of cheap alcohol.

"Comes shhere," she slurred, beckoning him with one finger. "I donch bite."

Tentatively, he moved closer.

"Aw girl, don't tell me you're hitting on young boys now too?" her other friends said in disbelief.

They had dyed hair and piercings too, but Robin ignored them. Compared to her, they were like the concrete ground.

Bland, grey and washed out.

"No-oh, of courshe nawt," the girl said scornfully, sounding momentarily sober in her drunken state. "I jesh wanna gift 'dis li'l devil here a taste of real life."

She pulled out a purse from her pocket and took out a pink pill.

"Heresh shome canday fer you, boy," she mumbled, smirking as she took Robin’s hand and pressed the pill into his palm.

"Candy?"

"Yesh, but thish candy is da best-est sort of canday in da world," the girl whispered confidentially. "See, it makes ya feel so high ya think ya can fly. It gives ya hope. It gives ya dat kinda speeshial feelin'. Ya know, like when ya shee da rainbow after da flood 'cos ya know dat God painted it speshially for ya ta shee."

"Oh."

Robin looked down at the pill. Then he looked up at the sky.

"Well ... then, have you ever seen a rainbow?"

It was an innocent enough question, but the girl fell silent as her eyes traveled up to the sky. They seemed to be searching for the answers that she was unable to give.

She looked lost all of a sudden.

"No," she said softly. "No, I haven’t."

For a girl who donned the colours of the rainbow, it struck Robin as strange that she had never seen one before.

"Oh,” he said. “Well, thanks for the candy."

She smiled again. But Robin could see the sadness traced across those pale lips of hers.

And suddenly, he felt like he’d had enough of being someone else.

Running back to school, he attended the last lesson. The teacher did not seem to notice that he’d been missing and no one questioned his non-existence for the past one hour.

He couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing.

When he went back home, his mother was already sitting at the sofa watching television. Though her eyes were fixed on the screen, she did not seem to be paying attention to what she was watching.

Robin did not bother greeting her and trudged off to his room. He threw his bag down on the floor, changed into a clean shirt and collapsed onto his bed, exhausted.

Today had been a rather eventful day. Robin was sure it was because of the script he’d written. Even if it had not worked to the letter, it had made him do things he’d never have done otherwise.

Then he remembered the sweet that the girl had given to him. Taking it out from his pocket, he surveyed it curiously.

Small, pink, and hard.

What was so good about this candy that it could actually give one hope?

There was only one way to find out.

Popping it into his mouth, Robin started to suck on it. It had a strange taste. He almost wanted to spit it out but ended up swallowing it instead.

Almost immediately, the world seemed to spin rather alarmingly and he closed his eyes tightly to try and stop the dizziness.

His heart felt like it was slowly being squeezed. Beads of sweat were breaking out across his skin. He could not breathe.

Gasping and convulsing, he fell to the floor senseless. His mouth was open but the words would not come.

Help me, Mom ...

She never heard him, lost in her own prison of thoughts a world away.

It was too late.

Looking down at his physical body lying on the floor, he smiled. The girl was right, he really could fly now.

No worries, no burdens, no fear.

My perfect life.

Far (Short Story)

"How far is far?" you asked me all of a sudden one day, while we were sitting on the sand facing the sea.

I stared hard at the sky, unsure as to how to respond.

Why had you asked me such a strange question? Were you intending to go away to some faraway place and leave me here, all alone?

In the end, I settled for a neutral answer.

"I don't know."

Yet my heart was telling me otherwise.

However, it turned out that you'd already had the answer to your own question all along.

"To me personally, I think what's considered far is all in what your mind perceives it to be."

"And your heart," I added quickly.

You grinned at me in amusement, though I could not guess the expression in your eyes.

"So what is considered far to you, really?"

I paused for a moment, wondering if I should give you my real reply. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that I wouldn't be making a wrong decision.

"When I don't get to see you," I said softly. "Any distance would seem far to me because I cannot wait to be near you again."

Silence had never sounded so loud before. Not daring to see the expression on your face, I bent my head low and clasped my hands tightly.

You did not say anything at all.

When I finally turned to look at you, you smiled at me. Yet, I could see the sadness and confusion in your eyes.

We did not speak of this incident for quite some time.

Then, one day, while we were studying underneath the void deck, you suddenly set your books aside and grabbed my hand.

You seemed oblivious to how fast my heart was beating, how red my cheeks were turning.

"Stay here and don't look behind," you said, pulling me to stand at one side of a pillar.

You went over to the opposite side.

So near yet so far.

"What are you trying to do?" I asked.

"I want to try something out," you replied.

I heard you take a deep breath on the other side of the pillar.

"Is this far to you?"

"I'm sorry?"

You repeated your question. I was baffled, but decided to play along.

"No, I can still hear your voice."

"How about now?"

You sounded further away now but I could still hear you.

"No."

"Now?"

"Nope."

Then abruptly, you fell silent. I waited. And waited.

Feeling curious and impatient, I turned to look from behind my side of the pillar.

I could not see you anywhere in sight.

Just when I was starting to get worried, a pair of hands suddenly rested heavily on my shoulders.

I screamed, thinking it was a robber or someone else. I twisted around, only to find myself face to face with you.

"Relax, it's only me," you said, laughing at my misplaced fear.

Then you produced a hand-folded paper butterfly.

"Here. This is for you," you continued shyly, passing it to me.

I stared at the butterfly in surprise. Painted in pale shades of red and purple, there were words written at the side of its wing in tiny, cursive font.

Love exists between you and me, no matter how far apart we might be.

"Just know that I will always be here even when you cannot see me," you said softly.

I could not stop smiling after that.

After this incident, things seemed to have changed. Even till today, I could never figure out whether it had been for the better or worse.

Though we were never actually together, you began to treat me differently.

Holding my hand by using the slightest excuse imaginable. Giving me little random gifts just to see the surprised look on my face. Calling me at night 'cause you said you missed me.

Yet, there was always this nagging feeling of insecurity and doubt within that I could not explain.

I should have known that good things were not made to last.

Over time, you started coming to me as a stranger. And you treated me as one.

Confused and unhappy, I asked you.

What happened to the person I once knew?

Yet somehow, I knew the answer. The reason for your actions.

You were afraid of love. Afraid of commitment. Afraid of betrayal.

You told me you had no reason that would be good enough for me. And in those eyes of yours, I could see the same sadness that I saw on the day I told you about my feelings.

I looked at you with tears in my eyes.

"I guess I was wrong. I was wrong when I told you that any distance would be deemed as far when I didn't get to see you.

Because right now, we seem to be so far apart from each other."

Even though you're standing right in front of me.

"I'm sorry," you said. "Things change."

There was no mistaking the tears in your eyes now.

Then you walked away. Further away from me than I could ever have imagined.

The Painter (Short Story)

His painted strokes onto the white paper were wobbly and unsteady. The blankness of the life sized canvas had haunted the artist in a way he could not have imagined as possible.

For every single time he turned to look at it, images seemed to dance across it like a still, silent pantomime. Images of his daughter. They were always the same.

At the beginning, the images would be of her, healthy and happy. But as they flickered across the canvas, her skin turned a deathly white. She grew frail and sickly, a mere shadow of what she had once been. And he could do nothing but stand there helplessly and watch her die. Over and over again.

It was worse than torture. For guilt and lost love was a terrible thing to bear.

He knew it was all because of him. Of the life he’d chosen to lead. The life of a poor, struggling painter.

So he’d finally decided to paint something over it, to still the hallucinations. To bury the unbearable guilt.

The hand holding the paintbrush was trembling, but the artist forced his mind away from the memories that haunted him still.

He stubbornly continued to paint, dipping the tip of his paintbrush into the different coloured paints on his palette before slowly moving it across the white canvas. Gradually, his strokes grew steadier and a landscape began to emerge out of the blankness of the paper.

The artist sighed as he set the last stroke onto the canvas. How he wished she was not merely an image he’d just committed to paper. He would give anything to see her alive again.

Settling the paintbrush behind his ear, he surveyed his painting as though he had never seen it before. And in a way, he hadn’t. He had been so absorbed in his painting that he had never really noticed what he had actually been painting as a whole.

This landscape was not like any normal landscape that one saw in reality. It was a fantasy world, created by the unstable state of his mind.

Dark purple trees and russet hued grass, mellow green skies streaked with crimson and gold and twin silver crescent moons. The only things that appeared normal were the flowers he had added inside.

Lilies.

And an image of his daughter, smiling as she buried her nose into those flowers.

The lily had always been her favourite flower. It had been her namesake after all.

His eyes glittered at that particular memory. Somehow, his fingertips seemed to reach out of their own accord and brush against the painted cheek of his daughter.

Yet they never made it across. Instead, they seemed to dip right into the painting itself. The artist gave a start, withdrawing his hand immediately. Was he still hallucinating?

He was finding it hard to tell the difference between reality and illusions.

The painting seemed to shimmer enticingly in the afternoon heat. It almost seemed to be beckoning him to step into it, like a portal leading to a far flung world. Still, he hesitated. There was a strong sense of foreboding which he could not explain away.

But maybe he could get to see his daughter.

The artist could contain his curiosity no longer.

With a pounding heart, he stepped into the painting. Almost immediately, he felt as though the physical aspect of him had been stripped away.

It was a curiously light feeling to experience, especially for one who had been weighed down by burdens for so long. There was a light hearted skip in the artist’s step as he strolled around the strange landscape.

It was entirely devoid of any other life form, yet the artist felt a strange sense of calm washing over him as he treaded silently on the russet grass.

"Father."

He froze. That voice. That sweet, innocent voice. He’d recognize it anywhere even if she never spoke again.

His daughter stood, facing him with a smile on her pale lips. Her coal black eyes glittered in the soft green light as her hands grasped a bunch of snow white lilies.

"Lily …" he managed to utter, choking out the words before guilt clawed at his throat, rendering him speechless.

"So you’ve come to see me," she said warmly.

"Bu - but you’re an image that I painted. How can you possibly exist?" he stammered, slowly backing away in disbelief.

"I exist in your mind, Father," she replied soothingly. "In your heart, soul and body. I’m as real as you are in this painting."

"This can’t be real … I must be dreaming," the artist muttered to himself repeatedly.

"It is real," she kept insisting. "The only difference is that you can create new things, new objects with your paintbrush in this world."

The painter looked up in disbelief.

"I can?"

"Try it for yourself."

Hesitantly, the artist drew out his paintbrush from behind his ear and moved it across thin air. To his surprise, black ink poured out from his paintbrush and floated in the air, waiting to be molded into something.

As he continued to paint, the ink seemed to attune itself to his mind and transformed into the colours that he wanted to apply to his painting. Within a few minutes, a magnificent reddish golden wildcat dropped to the ground and padded away nonchalantly.

The artist gaped at the unusual sight. Had he just created new life? The very idea sounded intoxicating. He could be the Creator of his very own world.

"And I’ll be by your side always," his daughter whispered into his ear. "I will never leave you ..."

Her voice trailed away, leaving him plagued with a powerful longing mixed with doubt. He wanted to stay, yet this was not his world. He did not belong here.

"In your world, you’re nothing," she continued, her voice turning slightly cold. "In your world, you’re just a penniless artist out on the streets. In here, you can create anything you want with just a single paintbrush. Wouldn’t it be much better to live in luxury than suffer in silence for your art?"

"I ..."

"And don’t forget, you are the reason for my death," there was no mistaking the accusatory tone in her voice now.

It drove a spike of chill deep into his heart. How could he have possibly forgotten? He had not even noticed the gradual change in his own daughter’s physical state, so absorbed was he in his art. By the time he’d found out, it had already been too late.

Suddenly, she started to sob uncontrollably.

"You did not love me, Father. You loved your art more than you loved your own daughter. Oh, it was your passion, your life. And I was merely someone you had to feed and clothe. But never to love."

The artist drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Because all of it was true. He had not been a good father to his daughter.

"But I did love you, Lily," he said desperately. “And I still do.”

“Then stay,” she said. Her eyes seemed to flash with an unwritten challenge. Prove that you still love me.

The artist finally gave in.

"I’ll stay."

A wild joy lit up his daughter’s eyes like a flame sprung from a spark. Yet there seemed to be something more to that joy that the artist found unnerving.

"Then you’ll have to seal a pact," she chanted in a sing-song voice.

Before the artist could question anything further, she placed a fingernail against the flesh of his skin and dug in. It was surprisingly sharp.

When she withdrew her finger, it was stained with blood. The artist gasped, as the fiery feeling of pain overwhelmed his senses.

"What are you doing?"

"Just making sure your soul stays here," she said, smiling widely. "Forever."

By now, the artist was already rolling on the grass, recoiling from the pain that was overtaking his consciousness.

The blood seeped into the grass, yet it seemed to have stained everything with its colour. The looming trees had never looked more menacing, with blood dripping from its branches and ghastly faces twisted into its dark red wood. Even the twin crescent moons seemed to be bleeding into a bright crimson, casting everything red in its light.

An ominous black painted the skies with its dark shade, playing its own part in the nightmare that was taking place.

Though his daughter did not look any different, there was something chilling in the way she calmly crushed the lilies under her foot. In the way she stared at him expressionlessly.

You are the reason for my death.

She had never truly forgiven him.

The truth was, he had never forgiven himself either.

I’m sorry, he thought before closing his eyes, giving in finally to the pain that was too much to bear.

A tear slowly trickled down his cheek.

-------------------
The artist’s body lay amidst the strewn tubes of paint and sheets of paper. His clothes were splattered with different shades of red paint; a wooden paintbrush gripped tightly in one hand.

To a normal passerby, he might have looked like he was sleeping.

Yet on his parted lips were words he could never utter again.

I’m sorry.

The Old Cleaner (Short Story)

The hot sun beat down on the back of an old, bent cleaner as he slowly swept the streets free of litter.

Left, right, left right, left, right...

His gnarled hands moved the broom in a mechanical manner while he stared at the hot concrete ground. Having swept the streets clean for the past twenty years, he was simply going through the daily motions of his monotonous routine.

It was already noon time, yet there were hardly any cars to be found cruising along the empty road. The air shimmered in the afternoon heat.

Sighing to himself, the cleaner rested his broom against a nearby lamp post. He sat down on the pavement, groaning slightly as he did so due to his painful knee joints, a condition that had been troubling him for quite some time.

Unzipping his pouch, he took out a wrapped packet of cheese sandwiches.

His lunch for the day.

Meticulously peeling off the plastic wrapping, he then proceeded to bite into the sandwich and chew on it.

It was quiet, almost too quiet. The place was void of any human voices. He could hear the pigeons crowing up in the trees and the leaves rustling each time a warm breeze wove its way through them.

Then, he heard footsteps on the concrete pavement. They seemed to grow louder and louder before stopping abruptly.

“Hey old man, you’re blocking my path,” a voice said aggressively.

The cleaner turned to look and saw a young teenager standing there glaring at him.

The boy was dressed in a simple sleeveless white shirt and jeans. There were no form of accessories to be seen on him but his decorated skin was enough to compensate for the lack of it. Elaborate tattoos of dragons, tigers and skulls covered his entire body from head to toe.

It was enough to scare any sane human being off. Yet the cleaner continued to look at him impassively.

“Young boy, how can I be blocking your path when I’m sitting at the side of the pavement?”

It was the wrong thing to say to a boy who was disillusioned and discontented with his life. A boy who was only looking for trouble.

“You old bastard. I warning you arh, if you don’t move I’m going to bash the hell out of you right now!”

Seeing no other alternative to reason out with the boy, the cleaner shrugged and slowly got up. However, due to his knee joints, he had some difficulty in standing up.

That was when the teenager, thinking that the cleaner was trying to defy him by taking his own time to stand up, lost his temper.

Kicking the old man to the ground, the teenager started to pummel him all over, swearing and cursing violently as he did so.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You’re just some cleaner by the roadside! Everyday only need to clean up rubbish for other people like some pathetic idiot. You don’t deserve to be respected at all! I can spit on you for all I like and no one will care!”

Then, as though to emphasize his point more clearly, he spat into the old man’s face and burst into peals of laughter. He clearly relished mocking the old man. At least it made him feel like he was worth something. Like he wasn’t a piece of rubbish that the cleaner had to sweep away.

Though the cleaner was by no means a young man any longer, the anger surging through him gave him more than enough strength to push the teenager aside and grab his broom.

Getting beaten up and scolded was disrespect enough. But having his honor and dignity insulted was more than he could bear. Holding the broomstick like a weapon, he chased the boy away by raining blows down on him.

Then, panting heavily, he slumped back down on the concrete pavement and buried his face into his hands. Though he was furious with what the boy had said to him, the cleaner knew, deep in his heart, that the boy was right.

And he was ashamed. Ashamed of what he’d become.

How had he fallen so far behind?

In a blink of an eye, he had wasted twenty years of his life sweeping the streets clean. Yet no one, not a single passer by, had thought to thank him for doing a service to them. No one felt that what he was doing was important.

Was cleaning the streets really such a demeaning job?

Did people only respect you based on the amount of money you earn?

They only know how to look down on me and belittle my dignity.

Wearily, he placed the half-eaten sandwiches back into his pouch and got up.

The purring sounds of a car driving down the road now filled the heavy silence that hung in the atmosphere.

It was a beautiful silver Porsche.

The cleaner stared at the sleek curves of the driving machine in awe. Even though he was no expert in machines, it did not take a fool to realize that this was no ordinary car.

And it did not take a bigger fool to realize that the car had slowed to a snail’s pace before stopping altogether.

Puzzled, the old man leaned forward to squint at the person seated in the driver’s seat.

Almost at once, his eyes widened in disbelief.

“Stella?” he whispered her name timidly, sounding as though the very word would pull him back into the past again.

Today seemed to be a day filled with unexpected events.

She was decked out in a crisp black business suit and white pumps. Tiny diamond earrings glittered in the light as she lowered her Gucci shades, turning to stare at him with equal disbelief.

Though her face was thickly layered with make-up, it could not hide the wrinkles that still showed through; a delicate network of fine lines mapping her skin.

Yes, age had finally caught up with her. Yet her eyes were as bright as ever, brimming with defiance and contempt as she gazed at the cleaner. They seemed to miss nothing, taking in the blood trickling down his face, the fresh bruises on his skin, the anger that lingered in his eyes.

Then, as quickly as they’d appeared, the emotions that were once written on her face vanished, leaving behind a carefully composed mask.

“I’m sorry but do I know you?” she said in a deliberately polite and guarded tone that he knew only too well.

It was the same tone she had used when she’d informed him that he had been fired because he’d been embezzling the company’s funds. That it was all over between them.

The very voice that had condemned him to a life with no future.

Then she drove off amidst the flurry of screeching car tires and unspoken betrayal. She drove off before he could utter another word that was not her name.

Leaving behind only a set of fresh tire marks on the black gravel and all too vivid memories of how she had betrayed him.

And how stupid he had been to trust her.

To love her.

He grounded his teeth, gripping his broom so tightly till the whites of his knuckles showed. And still, his hands trembled.

Anger was the last emotion he felt like handling right now. Forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, he resumed his monotonous routine for the day.

Sweeping energetically as though he could clear away all the memories of the past he did not wish to remember.

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