Post by Signore Kai on Mar 24, 2009 17:36:03 GMT
BEFORE READING THIS, PLEASE READ "Mother" HERE IF YOU HAVEN'T. THIS IS PART 2, BUT IS A PREQUEL.
What is a house? Is it just a place? Is it where you call home? Why not call the hotel your house
then?
What really defines a home? Living with family members? What if I live alone? Am I living in my
house or in my home?
Questions like these appear in my mind frequently, questions like these that is seemingly illogical
and have no answer. It seemed like questions asked by a drunkard who had too much to drink.
The truth is, I do have an answer. I just don’t like it.
The answer, the truthful answer is, this is no home. This is no house, this is a battlefield. This is a
battlefield between reality, and my self-constructed pseudo-reality.
A battlefield with small soldiers figurines screaming to each other as they fire their plastic
imaginary, sorry I meant real, bullets at each other, aiming to blast each other’s plastic bodies
into oblivion.
What is reality, really? How do you know that the things you see, actually exist?
You can’t, can you?
I know I see many things. A little of this, a little of that. But I know they don’t exist.
At least not in the dictionary sense of the word. They don’t exist physically. But they exist in my
head, and I can see them perfectly clear. Sharp and solid, much like the “real” things that exist.
So do they exist, or not?
Like how I see this green soldier figurine climbing up my bed frame, his rifle on his back. He looks
friendly, like the kind old librarian you would find in the library or something.
Then he reached my mattress. He took a peek at me, before giving out a war cry and pointing his
menacing gun at me.
I didn’t know why I was afraid. It was just a small army figurine that was barely my index finger’s
length. And he was probably only in my imagination. But at that moment I was petrified by the gun
barrel pointing at my head. Rooted to my bed, unable to move.
I could only watch as the figurine slowly moved closer and closer to me, his gun still pointing
carefully at me. At that precise moment, when he briefly peeked down to check his footing, I found
myself able to move again. My right hand swiftly flew to the switch, and before the figurine could
do anything I switched off the lights.
It always works, switching off the lights. I couldn’t see if the figurines were still battling and
blowing each other up, but from the absolute silence I decided that they probably quitted and went
back to their... house? Home?
I’m not sure.
Whatever the case is, I take back my word. It wasn’t absolute silence. There is something.
Something ringing in my ears, the familiar symphony of the night.
The ticking of the clock in my room, the musical by the crickets outside my house, the moving of
pebbles by the fishes in the fish-tank outside my room.
It is getting deafening now, the symphony. From a slow and calm melody, it metamorphosed into a
maddening dark siren. Like a monster once concealed in perfect beauty, it shed its skin and out of
the perfect body came the demons.
I couldn’t stand it anymore, but what choice did I have? It was either the army figurines, or the
maddening melody. It was the lesser of two evils.
As the demons danced I struggled to keep my mouth shut and to calm myself down. I wanted to
scream, to ask all of the annoying crickets and irritating fishes to shut up. I have no need for
reminders that I am truly alone in this house.
Or home. Whatever.
As I continued my struggle against the demons, a sudden familiar sound broke through my
nervousness and anxiety. Suddenly, the demons disappeared, like shadows suddenly confronted
with light, vanishing into thin air.
It was my mother opening her room’s door. She is awake now. I bit my lips, forcing myself to keep
the silence. I did not want to alert her about my insomnia and my midnight battles.
So I quietly listened as familiar sounds continued to penetrate my door into my door. Her opening
the refrigerator, then closing it. Her cup’s gentle cough as she placed it on the table, probably filled
with fresh milk.
She always drinks fresh milk. I suppose that’s why she has such fair complexion. Like milk, I guess.
Then, as sudden as the departure of the maddening symphony, memories of my sister came
flooding into my mind.
My sister and I had always got along. Since young, she had been very good to me. Because our
mother was so busy, we only had each other to keep accompany. While our mother was busy at
work, we had to do everything ourselves. Get food, wash our own uniforms. So we got along well.
We could talk about anything.
Anything.
I knew when she got her first boyfriend, knew when she first lost her virginity. I was only ten then.
She was sixteen.
She even knew when I first masturbated. The second time I did, she walked in on me, and finished
it up for me. I was only eleven then. That was the first blow-job I ever received. After the deed
was done, all she said was, “Next time, close the door.”
On my twelve birthday, she gave me four hundred dollars as my birthday present. I was shocked.
It was the first time I saw the orange hundred dollar bills. I remembered my eyes were wide
opened, and my vision never left the bills as I asked her how she got the money but she only said,
“I earned it.”
Three days later, she left the house, only leaving a note that said:
Take care of yourself, brother. I’m going, and I doubt I’m returning. I’ll contact you, when the day comes.
Then I was truly alone.
And now? I still am. Almost seven years since my sister’s abandonment, almost twenty years since
that cursed bastard abandoned my mother, my sister and me, I am still alone, alone in this
non-house and non-home.
Well, unless you consider all my imaginary friends. The eternally warring soldiers. The terrifying
musicians of the dark.
My sister still hadn’t called. Even till now I could still remember her face. I could remember the
mole above the right corner of her lips. It was exactly the same as mother’s.
I could also remember her moans and groans, echoing from her room where she and her
then-boyfriend were having sex. Her boyfriend was a good guy. He would always buy me sweets
and chocolates, play Play-station 2 with me, coach me on school work if I needed help.
And he was also a horny bastard. So was my sister, to be honest. Every time before they walked
into the room, she would wink at me. I knew what she wanted me to do. To alert her if mother
ever comes home, but of course it never happened.
She was too busy.
So as I did my school work in the living room, I was tapping my pencil along, humming with the
rhythm of the moans and groans. My sister was very loud in bed. I never told her this of course,
but she had always been my fantasy subject when I was masturbating.
Repeating her groans and moans in my head and trying to imagine myself being the lucky bastard.
But that was then. I had since moved on.
I shook my head, and pulled myself back into the present. No point dwelling in the past, they say.
By now, mother was almost ready for work. I saw her walk past my door, on the way to the main
door.
I didn’t know what made me do it, but at that very precise moment I decided to get off my bed,
stick my head out of my room and called to my mother, “Be careful!”
She was surprised to see me awake evidently, but she quickly rearranged her face and smiled back
at me.
“Thanks, darling.”
I only nodded, and returned to my bed. Suddenly, the menacing symphony of the night did not
sound so scary anymore.
But I have this nagging feeling that something’s about to happen. The soldiers are gone, the
symphony has stopped, but something is wrong. A little something in the order of this world that
had gone out of place, creating a ripple effect across the entire structure, changing the rules
completely.
I closed my eyes, and in the murky darkness I only saw a pair of palms.
It was one of utmost familiarity. Fair and pale, it almost seemed to be glowing in the darkness, like
a lit candle swallowing darkness around it.
I massaged my temples. The nagging feeling got stronger and stronger, like a stench trying to
overpower. But what’s wrong. What is going to happen?
At that very moment, I had no clue.
-------------
Ten years had gone past. Sister still hadn’t called.
And Mother is gone. I’m truly alone now.
Truly alone in this non-house and non-home. Only alone with memories of Mother’s fair, smooth
tender palms, and of Sister’s groans and moans.
The soldiers had left me on that day. That day Mother met with an accident, and left me.
Since that very day, I find myself unable to remember Mother’s face at all. No matter how hard I
try, attempts to remember her face drew up a blank. All I could remember of her were her voice,
and her fair palms.
I don’t know why.
I got up from my bed and went to the fridge. As I opened the door, the chilly breeze escaped the
fridge and hugged me like a warm mother’s.
I see palms in there, palms of many sizes and colours.
Are they real?
Well, not in the dictionary sense of the word, but I can see them clearly and remember how each
and every one of them came to being under my possession in the fridge. They are as solid as “real”
things that exist goes.
But I knew they were only in my imagination.
I closed the refrigerator and sunk my body into one of my wooden chairs. On the table was
yesterday’s newspapers.
I opened it up and read the headlines.
It read, “Palmless body found in a dump. Palm killer strikes again.”
Then in my head, a plan slowly formed. A masterplan.
Nicole.
What is a house? Is it just a place? Is it where you call home? Why not call the hotel your house
then?
What really defines a home? Living with family members? What if I live alone? Am I living in my
house or in my home?
Questions like these appear in my mind frequently, questions like these that is seemingly illogical
and have no answer. It seemed like questions asked by a drunkard who had too much to drink.
The truth is, I do have an answer. I just don’t like it.
The answer, the truthful answer is, this is no home. This is no house, this is a battlefield. This is a
battlefield between reality, and my self-constructed pseudo-reality.
A battlefield with small soldiers figurines screaming to each other as they fire their plastic
imaginary, sorry I meant real, bullets at each other, aiming to blast each other’s plastic bodies
into oblivion.
What is reality, really? How do you know that the things you see, actually exist?
You can’t, can you?
I know I see many things. A little of this, a little of that. But I know they don’t exist.
At least not in the dictionary sense of the word. They don’t exist physically. But they exist in my
head, and I can see them perfectly clear. Sharp and solid, much like the “real” things that exist.
So do they exist, or not?
Like how I see this green soldier figurine climbing up my bed frame, his rifle on his back. He looks
friendly, like the kind old librarian you would find in the library or something.
Then he reached my mattress. He took a peek at me, before giving out a war cry and pointing his
menacing gun at me.
I didn’t know why I was afraid. It was just a small army figurine that was barely my index finger’s
length. And he was probably only in my imagination. But at that moment I was petrified by the gun
barrel pointing at my head. Rooted to my bed, unable to move.
I could only watch as the figurine slowly moved closer and closer to me, his gun still pointing
carefully at me. At that precise moment, when he briefly peeked down to check his footing, I found
myself able to move again. My right hand swiftly flew to the switch, and before the figurine could
do anything I switched off the lights.
It always works, switching off the lights. I couldn’t see if the figurines were still battling and
blowing each other up, but from the absolute silence I decided that they probably quitted and went
back to their... house? Home?
I’m not sure.
Whatever the case is, I take back my word. It wasn’t absolute silence. There is something.
Something ringing in my ears, the familiar symphony of the night.
The ticking of the clock in my room, the musical by the crickets outside my house, the moving of
pebbles by the fishes in the fish-tank outside my room.
It is getting deafening now, the symphony. From a slow and calm melody, it metamorphosed into a
maddening dark siren. Like a monster once concealed in perfect beauty, it shed its skin and out of
the perfect body came the demons.
I couldn’t stand it anymore, but what choice did I have? It was either the army figurines, or the
maddening melody. It was the lesser of two evils.
As the demons danced I struggled to keep my mouth shut and to calm myself down. I wanted to
scream, to ask all of the annoying crickets and irritating fishes to shut up. I have no need for
reminders that I am truly alone in this house.
Or home. Whatever.
As I continued my struggle against the demons, a sudden familiar sound broke through my
nervousness and anxiety. Suddenly, the demons disappeared, like shadows suddenly confronted
with light, vanishing into thin air.
It was my mother opening her room’s door. She is awake now. I bit my lips, forcing myself to keep
the silence. I did not want to alert her about my insomnia and my midnight battles.
So I quietly listened as familiar sounds continued to penetrate my door into my door. Her opening
the refrigerator, then closing it. Her cup’s gentle cough as she placed it on the table, probably filled
with fresh milk.
She always drinks fresh milk. I suppose that’s why she has such fair complexion. Like milk, I guess.
Then, as sudden as the departure of the maddening symphony, memories of my sister came
flooding into my mind.
My sister and I had always got along. Since young, she had been very good to me. Because our
mother was so busy, we only had each other to keep accompany. While our mother was busy at
work, we had to do everything ourselves. Get food, wash our own uniforms. So we got along well.
We could talk about anything.
Anything.
I knew when she got her first boyfriend, knew when she first lost her virginity. I was only ten then.
She was sixteen.
She even knew when I first masturbated. The second time I did, she walked in on me, and finished
it up for me. I was only eleven then. That was the first blow-job I ever received. After the deed
was done, all she said was, “Next time, close the door.”
On my twelve birthday, she gave me four hundred dollars as my birthday present. I was shocked.
It was the first time I saw the orange hundred dollar bills. I remembered my eyes were wide
opened, and my vision never left the bills as I asked her how she got the money but she only said,
“I earned it.”
Three days later, she left the house, only leaving a note that said:
Take care of yourself, brother. I’m going, and I doubt I’m returning. I’ll contact you, when the day comes.
Then I was truly alone.
And now? I still am. Almost seven years since my sister’s abandonment, almost twenty years since
that cursed bastard abandoned my mother, my sister and me, I am still alone, alone in this
non-house and non-home.
Well, unless you consider all my imaginary friends. The eternally warring soldiers. The terrifying
musicians of the dark.
My sister still hadn’t called. Even till now I could still remember her face. I could remember the
mole above the right corner of her lips. It was exactly the same as mother’s.
I could also remember her moans and groans, echoing from her room where she and her
then-boyfriend were having sex. Her boyfriend was a good guy. He would always buy me sweets
and chocolates, play Play-station 2 with me, coach me on school work if I needed help.
And he was also a horny bastard. So was my sister, to be honest. Every time before they walked
into the room, she would wink at me. I knew what she wanted me to do. To alert her if mother
ever comes home, but of course it never happened.
She was too busy.
So as I did my school work in the living room, I was tapping my pencil along, humming with the
rhythm of the moans and groans. My sister was very loud in bed. I never told her this of course,
but she had always been my fantasy subject when I was masturbating.
Repeating her groans and moans in my head and trying to imagine myself being the lucky bastard.
But that was then. I had since moved on.
I shook my head, and pulled myself back into the present. No point dwelling in the past, they say.
By now, mother was almost ready for work. I saw her walk past my door, on the way to the main
door.
I didn’t know what made me do it, but at that very precise moment I decided to get off my bed,
stick my head out of my room and called to my mother, “Be careful!”
She was surprised to see me awake evidently, but she quickly rearranged her face and smiled back
at me.
“Thanks, darling.”
I only nodded, and returned to my bed. Suddenly, the menacing symphony of the night did not
sound so scary anymore.
But I have this nagging feeling that something’s about to happen. The soldiers are gone, the
symphony has stopped, but something is wrong. A little something in the order of this world that
had gone out of place, creating a ripple effect across the entire structure, changing the rules
completely.
I closed my eyes, and in the murky darkness I only saw a pair of palms.
It was one of utmost familiarity. Fair and pale, it almost seemed to be glowing in the darkness, like
a lit candle swallowing darkness around it.
I massaged my temples. The nagging feeling got stronger and stronger, like a stench trying to
overpower. But what’s wrong. What is going to happen?
At that very moment, I had no clue.
-------------
Ten years had gone past. Sister still hadn’t called.
And Mother is gone. I’m truly alone now.
Truly alone in this non-house and non-home. Only alone with memories of Mother’s fair, smooth
tender palms, and of Sister’s groans and moans.
The soldiers had left me on that day. That day Mother met with an accident, and left me.
Since that very day, I find myself unable to remember Mother’s face at all. No matter how hard I
try, attempts to remember her face drew up a blank. All I could remember of her were her voice,
and her fair palms.
I don’t know why.
I got up from my bed and went to the fridge. As I opened the door, the chilly breeze escaped the
fridge and hugged me like a warm mother’s.
I see palms in there, palms of many sizes and colours.
Are they real?
Well, not in the dictionary sense of the word, but I can see them clearly and remember how each
and every one of them came to being under my possession in the fridge. They are as solid as “real”
things that exist goes.
But I knew they were only in my imagination.
I closed the refrigerator and sunk my body into one of my wooden chairs. On the table was
yesterday’s newspapers.
I opened it up and read the headlines.
It read, “Palmless body found in a dump. Palm killer strikes again.”
Then in my head, a plan slowly formed. A masterplan.
Nicole.