The bruises are yellowing up, covered up by the darks of new ones. There's blood so I think I might have bled. Somewhere. But the pain is nothing but a mere fuzz on the edges of my consciousness.

I think I might've broken something. You touch me like I'm about to break. I'm fine, really. I can make out the words you're throwing at him. Please don't 'coz it's my fault too. This is what happens when a tornado meets the volcano. We both have tempers. And sometimes... Sometimes it just escalates.

I can see a part of you die when he holds me and I let him. Not flinching, not running away. Not hiding. I look back at you with blood shot eyes and I smile. It's a real smile and you can see it. You wonder why you love me when all I want is pain.

This is love. The pain just makes it real.

Labels: Short stories

A/N: I think everyone knows who I'm writing this about.

김영운, 당신을 사랑합니다... 자신을 벗어... 제가 2 년 동안 당신을 볼 수. 오빠, HWAITING! 내 가슴에 당신의 목소리를 개최합니다, 그리고 난 당신이 옆에 그것을 돌려 줘요. 내가 너무 힘들 때 우리가 작별 내일 말 울지 않으려고합니다. 약속... 그것은 단지 짧은 여행, 맞죠?



Steady hands pack the clothes; fold, roll, pack. No space for deliberation, it was as if he knew what he wanted and where he wanted it. He was going somewhere you cannot follow.

"Don't look at me like that. It's two years. I'll be back before you know it." He says, thumbing a line across your cheek. Two years. He'll be gone for two years. And yes, there'll be time for visits and what not, but it's not as if you could hold his hand in public, right? "It's not forever." He whispers, going back to what he was doing.

This is your last night together in a room, with a bed and he is fucking packing overalls. What is wrong with this picture?

You curl your toes, hearing the joints pop. Everything is wrong about this picture. It should be you doing the packing. Not him. So you grab his sleeve and pull him to you, cradling his form between your spread legs. Nuzzling into his chest, you sigh. You can feel his hand stroking your hair and his breath warm and minty in your ear. It's not going to be forever but it sure feels like it.

It's less than 12 hours now. You whisper in his ear what you want and watch a slow, slow smile curl on those lips just for you. It's just like back then. Only now, it's more bitter than sweet. When you stand in front of all those people, you can kiss him. When you cry tomorrow, you can't whisper like you do now. There are so many things to be said and so little time to say them all. Isn't it always?

You wish that the bruises and scars and bites will never fade from your body. Because it is what marks you as his. You wish that time would stop because damn you for being selfish, but all you want is a little more time with him. A little more, just a little more.

It's not the first time you don't want to see the sunrise.

{My 남편 is leaving tomorrow. And we won't see him for two years}

Labels: Short stories

{A continuation of a story I did last year. Check August 2009: Grief never lets you go. }


It's been almost a year. It's summer again. But the air will always feel cold. The heat no longer burns and the whole innocence of summer is no longer there. It's almost a year.

Could he really see me? Protect me from where he was? I don't know. I don't think I want to. But I can imagine it. Just like I can hear him every single morning since then. The way he would squint at my choice of lingerie for the day, the way he would laugh at my ridiculous attempts to smother down my bush of a hair, the way he would whisper, sing me to sleep. The counselors called it 'trauma', 'dealing with grief'. Fuck it, if I were to listen to them. He was there. Everyday.

I've taken down most of the things. The pictures, momentos, things that reminded me of him. I took down everything except for our wedding photo that I left on the kitchen countertop and the faded shot of our baby. The two things I could never bring myself to forget. The backyard is looking less like a jungle and more like a garden should. I had had to stay in the hotel for 3 days while they landscaped the place.

But this house is still made of empty bricks and hollow stones. It's too big. I've taken to looking at properties down by the quay. Nice apartments meant for one. His parents still visit now and then. His sister calls and we talk. But isn't it strange? I'm talking to people I'm no longer connected to in any way.

And there were those little things in between then and now. Christmas, birthdays, Valentines, anniversaries. They merely showed me what I'm missing. I got a dog. I called it Roo. It's a demanding thing, but it keeps me company and listens and watches me as I cry, tucking himself next to me as if he knew my grief.

I got a haircut 7 months after. It was pixie short and everyone says it looks good on me. But all I can see when I look in the mirror is how you'd sneak up on my and breathe in the scent of my hair and how you'd always love to stroke my hair and how'd you'd tell me that I looked beautiful in the mornings with my hair all over the place eventhough I know full well that I don't.

So one year. I survived one year. It's not easy. It still isn't easy. I don't think it ever will be.

Labels: Short stories

WARNING: NC-17, PG-13, 18SX and everything in between that says NOT FOR MINORS. Something we stopped being for quite some time already :D

These are three shorts that I wrote. The first and last was written in the middle of the night under the guiding light of my torchlight. The second was written over a cooling mug of Green Tea. So what do you guys think?


1. Rooftop hideouts

You find him sitting on the rooftop ledge and the wind is messing with his hair the way you know irks him to no end. But your heart hammers and skips a beat because you have never see anyone, anything this side of fucking beautiful.

You take the spot next to him; carefully sitting on the ledge that is a 4 stories' fall and follow his gaze out onto the sprawl of buildings that edge out to the sea. There are bruises and cuts on his hands and face and the one above his eye looks particularly nasty.

He says, effectively stopping you from reaching out to him. He doesn't even look at you. And you can't decide which is worse; the fact he won't accept your help or the fact that these injuries aren't there because of you.

You contemplate the answer as you watch the skies change from a light blue to a burst of red and gold. It's getting late. It's time to go. You cast a glance at him before getting up, brushing yourself down.


He's a broken doll himself. But he is a puppet with cut strings. There's no one there but the broken dolls. So he mends the dolls. Because he is one himself.

Labels: Short stories, Writing

Beautiful. It was the only word that could justify the angel in my arms. When did I get so lucky?

She twirls away from my grasp like the wind- there, tangible but never yours. Smiling, her grey eyes seem to sparkle as they beckoned me to follow. And follow, I did. Her laughter is like the sweet chime of crystal glasses. It cuts through the cold drizzle that we were in. I did not care much for the cold droplets on my skin, my hair and my clothes. In fact, I would very much prefer the warmth of the house and the linens of my bed to this. But she is here, so I must be too.

She eludes me, turning away and flitting from my fingertips. Her white dress is getting drenched more and more by the passing minute. I'm determined to get her inside with me. She laughs as I stumble on a pebble. I swear. She must've been a wood maiden in one of her lifetimes. Even in the dim stormy light, I could see that her cheeks were alive with colour and her eyes wide with excitement. How could I ever deny her the simple pleasure of the rain now?

Soon, I run out of breath. I stop. Lean forward with my hands on my lap, gasping for breath. She runs ahead and then stops. I could see her emotions going from happy mischievousness to curiousness to worry. She approaches me slowly, that is when I pounce.

"Gotcha!" I cried out laughing, tumbling onto the wet grass with her squealing in my arms. We lay there, with the rain in our face and the wet coldness of the grass seeping into our back. At least mine. Soon she ceased her struggles and merely rolled over in my arms and lay with her head on my chest tucked under my chin, listening to the rapid beats of my heart. I run my hand through her damp curls. It was a subconscious thing that I do when she is in my arms. I lean forward to breathe in her. Her sweet scent that was tinged with the rain and earth. I could never get enough of her. "Beautiful." I whispered as she tilts her head up and smiles at me.

"Beautiful." I whisper again. I turn her over, so that I was the one on the top instead of her. I whisper again and again and again and again. Kissing every single part of her cold pale skin as a punctuation. My angel trembled in my ministrations. It made me want her more. I move my hand southwards, looking up to her face for confirmation. She merely pulls me down and runs her long fingers through my hair.

"Please."

I grinned.....

"Wake up little brother!"

My overtly enthusiastic excuse of an older brother wakes me up with a swift hit of the pillow on my head. "Ow. That hurt." I muttered rolling to my side. The bright morning sunshine assaulted my eyes, nearly blinding them.

"WHOA~"

I frowned to see what the comment was about this time to see little John tenting up my trousers. My eyes widened in horror and looked up just to see the evil glint in my brother's eye as he skipped out of the door.

"MOTHER! FATHER! GUESS WHO HAD A WET DREAM LAST NIGHT!"

Oh god. Kill me now.

Labels: Short stories

WARNING: CONTAINS THE MORBID THOUGHTS OF A VERY STRESSED OUT, INSOMNIA-RIDDEN AUTHORESS WHO JUST NEEDS TO VENT AND THUS RESULTING IN VERY COLOURFUL(swear) WORDS . NOT FOR MINORS AND DEFINITELY NOT FOR THOSE UNACQUAINTED WITH ME.
Kee-pish? Right. Let the ball roll. You have been warned.

Oh. And don't think to steal my ideas. 'Coz I'll hunt you down and rip you apart from the bottom up. Slowly. I'll make sure that the next time you pee, it'll be from your mouth. And I'll remind you of how many bones there actually are in your body. =)

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Ahh.. Bliss.

I tilt my head back, savouring the combination of heat and sweetness assaulting my oral cavity. It was sooooo good. It was from the last tea bag and I sure as hell was going to enjoy it.

I'd shovelled (yes, shovelled) sugar into the dark amber liquid, watching the glistening condiments dissolve and sink to the depths of the stained mug between my burning palms. I'm upset. This is how I calm myself. The only way, actually. Thank God for tea! If there could've been an ideal way for me to disappear off this place, this would be the first way I'd opt for-drinking sweet tea to my death. The papers can call it, 'death from a cup'.

"Fuck off Hark." I didn't have to turn to know that he was standing at the door watching me the whole time. I gave him a sideways glance. A college triathelete,he was the peak and epitome of the kind of fit that was firm but not overly muscular. That and the fact he had sapphire chips in his eye, an easy, open and utterly disarming smile made all the girls on campus want to sling their underwear at him. Even the dykes. We were complete opposites of each other. He was the college prince while I was the girl in the background, the extra whose screen time was numbered. "Well?" I turned to glare at him properly. "What the hell are ya still standing there-" He merely grinned and held his hands up.

"Just wanted to,you know, check."

"If I was still alive? If I hadn't pulled the trigger and offed myself?" I laughed mirthlessly. "Trust me. I would if I could, but it seems to be I'm not the only trigger happy nutter in this place. Jumping off the ledge just doesn't sound as appealing once you know you can survive it from this height." I pause to let myself take another sip. "God knows I've tried the pills route." I grimaced. That had been most unpleasant to get out of my system. "I'd like a quick, remotely unpainful death so wrist slashing is a no go." I pause again. "Though drowning is still an option seeing that I can't swim...."

"So you're going to drink yourself to death?" Hark asked as he plopped down on my bed.

I scowled. "I'll have you know that this is just tea and nothing dodgy." He grinned. Chuckling, he threw his head back. Running a hand through his dark strands he merely watched as I ignored him and continued my savouring.

"How many times have you tried to off yourself?"

I chose to place the mug on my desk and went over to sit next to him on the bed. "Wouldn't you like to know?" I hugged my pillow tightly. Hark was the only one besides Galina that I can talk to without the urge to hurl myself out the the window. He was probably one of the few that I can talk to about myself without lying or exaggeration. One of the few who've been there when I called in ungodly hours as I lay swinging between the beckoning darkness of my mind and the cold icy floor.

I can tell Hark about the previous attempts without having to deal with the shirking in horror, gaping like a gold-fish, tears in their eyes, telling me that they're sorry bullshit crap.

Yeah right, fuckers! You don't even know the 'me' that exists in here.

We let the silence blanket us, choosing instead to bask in the late September sun. "It's been three times. The serious ones at least." My laughter was muffled by the pillow. "Pathethic right? I tried three times to end my life and all of them never worked. I'm still here. I'm still breathing. What sort of person fails to end their life in the three times that they try?" I laugh again, burying my head in my pillow this time. "I'm so fucking messed up."

Hark didn't say anything. He only tilted my face towards and lean in to smother my lips with a chaste kiss. I reciprocrated by cupping his cheeks and deepening the contact. He was a good kisser. But he sure as hell needed more practice with a girl. We were drawn apart by the insane urge to breath. Sitting with our noses touching, he looks at me and I, him. We last mere seconds before the giggles consume us.

I reached over for the mug, only to have him beat me to it and drink it all in one gulp. "Oi! You oaf!" I swatted him. "You just botched my suicide attempt!"

The oaf in question merely raised an eyebrow, but said naught. He opted to steal another kiss and pick away at the first of the buttons. I let his dexterous fingers work their way down my blouse. He whispered at my ear just as he moves me to lie on the bed, "Hell, Mae.. If you're going down, try and take me with you, will ya?"

"Why?" I whispered back, matching his tone as I nipped at the soft flesh of his nape.

"'Coz it's a fucked up world and we're both fucked up people that everyone just doesn't get and never will." He smiles and plants a soft kiss on the side of my face. I can feel the warmth of his breath and the quickening of his breath and pace of his heartbeat. I feel him push at my nether regions, he kisses me again and relax to let him in. " 'Sides," His breath hitched a little. "Wouldn't want you to go down alone."

I smirk against the fabric of his shirt as I push it off his shoulder. "How kind of you." I ran my fingers through his hair. God! I loved his hair. "But I'll die the way I want to." I push him off me. "Be it with company or not." Feeling a smile on my lips, I slowly traced his features and drew a line on his torso with my finger. Drinking in the sight of him over me in the golden sunlight, I drew him in for a kiss. "Anyways, my girlfriend wouldn't be too happy if she knew I chose to take her little brother instead of her." It was true. Galina would make sure that I won't rest in peace.

He laughs against my skin. "But it'll be pleasurable though." That, I had to agree with.

Labels: Morbid desires, Short stories

It's better now. You get up everyday, every morning, stumbling across the cold floor to the kitchen to fix breakfast. You consider moving out of this house since it's only you now. There's no one else. Your family and your friends call you, automatically every morning. For whatever reason it may be, you are glad. They are the only constant thing left in this world of silence.

The backyard needs tending to. But you can't bring yourself to do it. You just can't. The coffee you make is atrocious. It tastes like water remaining after you boiled socks. The closets are still a pile. Everything was the way it was before. You get calls to leave the house. Take a walk. A vacation maybe? No. You can't leave. You can't let go. Not yet.

You go to work. Everyone treads on eggshells around you. Like you are something fragile. Breakable. It's been a month and you are still wearing black.

Home is nothing but an empty block of metal, brick and concrete. It holds no meaning for you. They stop by, now and then. Dropping meals, flowers and groceries. In a way, you are thankful for them. but you just wish that they'd leave you alone. The pictures adorning the shelves, fireplace, fridge door and walls are all unwanted reminders. But you don't have the heart to take them down. Because if you do, you might forget. And you don't want to forget.

Last night, when you were scavenging through the freezer for some microwavable dinner, you saw it on the corner of your eye. A grainy picture of the baby that was in your womb. You swallowed down the bile. You lost it too. Just as you'd lost him. A wave of pain washes over you and claims your entire being. It's like liquid fire coursing through your veins, burning through everything. You feel like every breath is a arduous labour. You curl up on the kitchen floor and cry.

Later, when the bout is over, another begins when you watch old videos of him and you. You hold onto the pillow and begin again. As you succumb to the darkness of sleep when your tears have exhausted you, you could almost hear his voice.

"It'll be better."

Labels: Mourning, Short stories

"Do you think she'll make it?"

You turn around to see him perched on the railing like it was the most perfectly sane and normal thing to do. His glassy green eyes seem to shine even in the darkness.

"I don't know. I really don't." You hear yourself answering. "But personally, my money's on her." You both stay as you are for a few more moments before he speaks again.

"Mine too. I don't know, but she got spunk."

"You think?" Grinning, you lit the third cigarette of the night. It's peaceful up here on the roof of the Observatory. Here, you can see the entire city sprawled out like a million twinkling dots that make up a giant concrete spiderweb. It was beautiful. Often more than not, you'll meet up here where everything is detached, and it feels just right.

You hear a thump and the coming footsteps. He snags the cig from you and draws a deep slow drag. "How long do you think she'll last?" He turns his eyes on you. "She isn't the type made out for this shit."

You shake your head. "Never judge a book by its' cover. She's stronger than you give her credit for. 'Sides," You take it back from him, scowling when you see he has almost drawn all life from it. "We both know she's destined for greatness."

You catch each other's eyes and say "Made of Awesomeness!" at the same time, dissolving into fits of laughter. Sighing contentedly, you let the wind ruffle your toffee coloured hair and admire it when it whips his silvery blonde locks around.

"What?" He catches you looking.

Shaking your head, you smile and draw him close. "Nothing." You whispered against his lips as you kiss them. They are soft, just like you remembered them to be and they fit perfectly to the contours of yours. You let the kiss run its' course before slowly drawing apart, driven by the need for air. Something tells you it's time.

"I gotta scram." You say, still not moving away. You hate leaving him. Always hated leaving him. "See you soon?" You say, unsure. You hate goodbyes. The feeling sucked worse than a bullet in the.....

"Yeah. Soon." He whispers sadly. You break apart and walk away. Just when he thought you were going for good, you turn and made a run back to steal another kiss from those delectable angel lips. "Whoa." He said panting a little when you release him.

"That was a 'See you soon.'" And you bend down for another one. "Now That was an 'I love you.'" You smirk and walk away. You could be an ass at times, but you know he loves it. You like to think he fell for you because of it in the first place.

Your cellphone is buzzing as you descend the stairs. "Yeah?"

"Where are you?"

"On my way?"

There was a pause and then, "You met Cupid again??? Death!" The exasperated voice of the Controller whined against the earpiece. "That's like..... Wrong. With a capital 'W' Wrong."

"Look. Why don't you just stick it up where the sunshines are? I'm sure you'll be perfectly blissful there." You hear a laugh from the other end and you know that you're off the hook. For now. "My interrupted intimate moment aside, what d'ya got for me?" Judging by the sudden silence on the other end, you know this is big.

"Thames House. It's big alright."

"On my way." You opened the door of your Porshe (Hey, this job ain't without its' perks) you rev the engine to life. Looking back up to the top of the building, you can't see him anymore. Smiling to yourself, you know that he's going the same place you are. "Oh, it'll be big, Baby." You say too no one in particular but yourself as you speed through the empty streets.

Labels: Short stories

You are quiet all day. Your friends know what's wrong, but they don't know what to do. Your eyes are rather puffy and red from all the crying. You've been wearing black for almost the entire week already, and you'd never thought that black could bring some solace to what you are feeling now. It seems to amaze you that you find yourself wearing so much of that colour, the colour that used to depress you slightly in the past. The emptiness in you seems to well up and drag you in.

You don't feel like you don't know anything anymore. The world should've stopped. It should've stopped the moment.... Tears are welling up now. You're willing everything within you now to let them show. You've dried up all your prayers. You don't know what to say to Him anymore. You know that it's in times like these, you should trust Him more. But you don't want to feel. Or rather, you can't be bothered anymore.

You feel her sit down next to you. Brushing her long hair aside, she clasps her hands on her lap. "Hey hun." She offers you a small smile. "How are you holding up?" You don't trust your voice, opting to shrug your shoulders instead. She's another mourner. Another person left behind to sort this shit out. Another widower. you have never seen her tears, but you can sense them somewhere behind her worldwise eyes. Together, you sit together under the shade of the trees. It's not like you didn't see it coming. In fact, you expected it even. It's just that....

You hadn't heard the news. You were too busy being you. Until that night, that warm summer night, you finally heard. He's gone! He's gone! They all screamed in unison. You don't believe it. You look at the other news, they all say the same thing. And you can't believe you had let it slipped you by.

All over, the widows mourn. She slips her hand over your smaller ones. It's a warm summers' day, but you feel nothing but a biting cold that gnaws at your bones. You feel weary, drained of everything. "It gets better, hun. It always does." You hear her say softly as the wind brushes against the trees. You let the tear fall. It's nothing but a small whisper, but you hope that the wind carries it to the heavens above where you know he is. "Does it? Does it really get better?"

Labels: Mourning, Short stories

There was a goddess in the library. She sat on a pile of velvet cushions reading her book. The goddess did not look up when I came in. If I hadn't known, I would've thought that she was a statue.

The library belonged to my Uncle Theodore. He was a very strange man, but the bombs were dropping all over Europe and now over London. Mother had to send me to him. I didn't wanted to go. She was all I had left. Father was in the war and we didn't know if he would ever come back. I hadn't seen him for months. "Hush now, darling. It'll all be fine." She said. Mother was a very pretty thing. Her large brown eyes made you want to trust her and tell her your darkest secrets and her auburn hair was curled into thick coils that she pinned to the latest styles. She used to laugh and when she did, it was the sound of joy itself-a gurgling, unbarred, tumbling laughter. Now she hardly did anymore. So when she smiled at me at the train station, I was prepared to do anything.

It’ll all be all fine.

I clung on to those words like they were my lifeline as we rolled into endless landscapes of green.

Mrs Fielder was the one who greeted me at the station. How ironic! The whole situation was turning out like one of the old novels I used to read on the window seat back home. But I begrudges her nothing. She was nothing but kind and held my 10 year old hand in her veined wrought ones as we battled ourselves out of the crowd. Before I'd left, Mother gently explained that Uncle Theodore lived alone in the family manor with a gardner and the housekeeper and he wouldn't be used to children running around amok up the banisters. "Behave yourself. I'm warning you. I've got my eyes on you no matter how far off you may be from me." Pursing her lips she set to the task of buttoning up my coat. That quote of hers stayed with me.

Mrs Fielder gave out that sort of aura of a grandmother. She was glad of the new addition to the household, I could tell. Life must be a bore in that cold drafty place. They got into a motorcar that was being driven by a freckled young man. "Larry, meet Glen. He's the gardner." She sniffed her nose in a way that suggested a great disapproval. The lad chose to ignore it, instead he smiled and greeted me in a thickly Welsh accented voice. "Please to meet you." The ride in the motorcar was anything but pleasant.

But this wasn't about Glen. Oh no. Rather, this was about the goddess who was as beautiful and incomprehensible as the enigma.

"Who are you, little one?" Her bright green eyes notice him for the first time as he took a bold step forward. Her long red gold locks that fell to her toes was flicked impatiently aside as she studied him. Glen felt a blush burn his cheeks. Quickly, he used his hand to smooth down his wiry black locks and straightened his shirt that clung to his slight body. "I won't eat you, you know." She smiled. In that moment, he saw her beauty come out in full force. "I enjoy a good Bronte, Austen and a full dose of the Bard. But I do not harm young fledglings." Pausing a moment, she tilted her head in a fashion that young ladies grew out once they discovered boys and God knows what. Glen couldn't help the skip in his heart beat when she did that. Slowly, but gracefully, she closed her book and laid it on top of a pile of thicker volumes. With a swift motion, she slid off her cushions and gently landed on her feet. Her dress of curious ever changing shades of blue and green rustled as she moved towards him.

"What is your name?"

"Glen."

"Glen." She rolled the name around in her mouth. Smiling. " Hello Glen. Would you like a good book?" He nodded furiously. It was strange. The effect that she was having on him was the same feeling that he felt when mother smiled. He was prepared to jump the cliffs if it was her wish.

He followed her like a silent shadow as she perused the shelves with her eyes. Never touching any of the spines, green orbs lingering only for awhile on their titles and then moving on to another tome.

"Aha!" She reached and a leather bound volume fell quietly into her palm. "Here." She handed it to him. There was a new feeling. A sense of foreboding. 'No! Don't touch it! Please. You musn't!!'

"But I want to..."

'Please, Glen... Don't.' The voice pleaded with him.

"I want to..." And his pale fingers dusted the soft surface of the leather. Dreamily, he opened the book and watched in amazement as colours and images surged up into the sky before coming back and gripping him.

'I told you.'

"Silence." The goddess said. Sighing ever so slightly, she returned the book back to it's perch. She hated it when someone disturbed her reading.

Labels: Short stories

I saw him for there on my way home through the mist. He was shivering and he could barely talk through the chattering of his teeth. I saw his form and knew instantly what they'd done. I took off my velvet green school blazer and draped it carefully over his naked malnourished form, mindful of the angry welts and black bruises.

I sat him down in the kitchen. Mother wouldn't be back till dinner and Father... Well, Father would never be home again. He winces slightly as he sits down but I turn and ignore it, favoring the motions of putting the kettle to boil and retrieving the tea things, cake tins from the overhead cupboard. I set the food in front of him but did not linger to see if he ate. Running to the bathroom upstairs, I run the water into the tub and ran back down again. "Let me see." I said quietly. "Please let me see."

He tilts his head up and I brushed the dirty rusty brown caked bangs from his face. I sigh. He sports a black eye and a cut on the lips. The healing gash on his cheek had reopened and a thin trail of red made a trail of a bloody tear. Inside me I felt anger, frustration, disgust and utter helplessness well up. I kiss the top of his forehead quickly as to not frightened him. I know he doesn't mind, but it bothers me.

How can family be so cruel towards each other?

He didn't have a name for himself save the vulgar words that his father throws at him. I called him Yan and he liked it. He couldn't have had been any older than 12, but he was already as tall as my 16 year old self. When we first made aquintance, he'd been cowering under the rose bushes my mother had mooned over but I had patiently watered, nurtured and cared for. His bright grey eyes stare at me from the darkness of the bush. "Who are you?" I asked, noting in my guts that this boy should be approached to like a wild animal. And I was right. He was hurt, I could see that his light blue plaid shirt was dotted with blood. I said nothing, but merely crouched down and stratched out a hand. He looked at it warily. After awhile, something in his eyes clicked. He sensed I meant no harm. Hesitantly, he placed a cold hand in my sweaty and clammy summer ridden one.

It had been a routined. Every single time, he would come to me after his father was tired with him. He never uttered a word, but I knew he was able to read. I had taught him myself. Every single time, dutifully, I would clean his wounds, dress them, give him something to eat, read to him or let him share the book with me. Come dusk and he'd be off again. Back to his father. And the next time, the cycle would repeat itself. The wounds much worse, the cuts deeper, the bruises darker. He'd wait for me under the rose bush, unfailingly. I'd never told anyone about him. I'd not even trust myself to write it down. Though I'd went to the Confessionals last Sunday and told Father DeClan about him. I could hear the old pastor breathe in the space behind the screen, but I knew he had put it down to my childish imaginations. Adults. When that got to that age, they think there is logic and reason for everything.

The bath water was quickly stained a light shade of pink-the kind you got when you mixed too much water with your strawberry juice. I soaped his hair and begun from there. Today it was worse. The weren't only belt markings and cuts and bruises. There had been a trail of deep red blood that flowed and dried between his legs and there was a cake of dried semen on his abdomen. New bruises in the shaped of hands adorned his side. It looked as if whoever had made them had held him from behind and it only added to the fact that his backside was also bruised like a flower that centred around his hole. The thought made me sick. I must've been trembling because he took my soapy hands in his warm ones and kissed them. "I'm so sorry..." I whispered, the words tumbling out before I could stop it. Tears were beginning to swim in my blue eyes. He placed his hands on the tub edges and used them as leverage. He made sloshes of water on the blue tiled bathroom floor when he came up and kissed me.

I didn't fight him. Nor did I stop what happened next on the wet floor.

We continued our ritual after that, pretending everything was normal when it was not. As usual, I sat next to him with my book. Yan stopped me, shaking his head. Instead he pulls me on top his lap and we read Jane Eyre together. I took in his newly shampooed hair, his still soap scented body that still had traces of the slaves that I had applied on him. I drank him in as the late afternoon sun illuminated the tiny kitchen space we were in. I ran my hand against the fabric of my father's shirt that I'd nicked from the attic. I memorized the way the damp brunette locks fell across his eyes as they screwed up in concentration. I traced every cut, scar, bruise on his face, lips and neck... Oh, his neck! Brushing my lips ever so softly against the warm milken skin, it begun again what we had started on the the bathroom floor.

I had a strange foreboding feeling in my chest. The kind that old people could tell that there was a storm coming, the kind that mothers could sense with that their children were not well. It was a dull and heavy thing that choked me from the inside. As he stepped out into the growing twilight, I wanted to scream and beg him to stay and let me take care of him. Forever. I wanted to pledge myself to him. I was aching to cling on to him and never let him go.

"Yan." I let the word roll out. He turned back at me. Smiling for the first time, it was like the sun had suddenly come out from its sleep. He kissed me and whispers, "Thank you." Stepping off the step, he walked off to the edge of the forest and let the darkness envelope him completely. I didn't know how long it was that I'd stood there. But when my mother came home, she found me in a featal position, curled up as if in pain by the back door.

I wish I could say that the foreboding sense was wrong. I wish I could say that I'd seen him again, bloodied but alive. But the truth of the matter was that I never saw him again. Not in this lifetime at least.

Labels: Short stories

She regards me with her cool green eyes. It almost hurts to look. I wish she wouldn't do that, it's uncomfortable. "You have not touched your tea." I pursed my lips but pick the teacup delicately and did just that. Deanna Leight was my grandmother. And I hated my summers with her.

Deanna is my father's mother. Growing up, I saw more of my mother's side of the family than I did of my dad's. That suited me just fine. The Reiner clan was a loud and boisterous bunch of people and it was always fun when I was with my cousins. Then the news came when I was eight that Grandpa Leight had had a heart attack. I remembered that ride with an extra sense of clarity. Mum and Dad sat silently in the front while I sat, huddled in the leather backseat. The radio was off and all I had for distraction was the passing streetlamps and blurs of speeding cars. Even as a child I was always preceptive of everything around me. I knew something was wrong.

He'd died while we were on our way there. I saw Deanna for the first time that night through my sleep leadened eyes. Her sharp features were accentuated by the sharp pull of her auburn hair that was streaked with grey back to form a bun. When she saw Dad, she rose up and embraced him. He towered over her and while they shared the same aristocratic cheekbones and lips, that was about the only thing that linked them pyhsically. Dad had copperish-brown hair that was cropped short and dark brown eyes like melted chocolate. Everything about that meeting was fuzzy. But I remembered one thing. When her green eyes met mine, I shivered.

The summers after that I had spent with her instead of my mother's family, to my dismay. Deanna lived in one of those 1950's houses that you see in the television. Worse still, she lived miles away from civilization-the nearest gas station was about 3 miles right off the main road. For every year till I went to college, I felt abandoned when my parents drove away in their Impala. And every year I pitched a fuss about going. I would throw tantrums for weeks leading up to my 'isolation' and throw an even longer sulk when I got back.

"Your head is in the clouds." Her voice brings me out of my thoughts. I smile and say nothing. She's lying in bed, her hair now almost completely grey and braided. She closes her eyes and I let a breath that I didn't realise I was holding. "Don't stay in the clouds too long. They're a beautiful place to be but you could fall really hard." I nod my head and tuck a stray lock of my jet black hair behind my ear. I had decided to dye my hair black and cut it to one of those bobs just to spite on my Dad. Mum never said anything. Somewhere in my hearts of hearts, I think she enjoys the emotional problems I'm giving him. I got all my looks from her save for the green eyes. That, I was told, was a Leight emblem. So I wore brown contacts that gave me hazel looking eyes.

Deanna had been ill for a long time now. Dad had presuaded her to come stay with us but all the while she'd refused. She 'enjoyed her solitude' as she said. I sat by her bedside for the last time. Come September, I was off to college. An art college in Los Angeles. Dad wasn't too happy, but when ever was he when it was about me? I should think that Lulu and Mike wouldn't turn out like me. They were normal. They both had my mother's eyes. Ocean blue eyes. My younger siblings were the perfect angels of the family. I was apreading my wings and flying away. As far away as I can go. So now, I'm just doing my duties.

I read a magazine to while away the time. Some stupid toe rag that had a guts to call itself a publication. Nobody told me anything and I didn't ask. My butt was falling asleep but I can't leave this chair. The bright afternoon sun was filtering in through the plastic blinds of South Mercy Hospital. It was peaceful here, I had to admit. I wished I had my sketch book to sketch my surroundings. Deanna has been here for the past three weeks but I can see no machine hooked to her like a thousand lifelines. She doesn't say much, as she always does whenever we are together. I don't understand it really. Why do I feel so against her?

I left the cold white walls at half-past eight. Two weeks later, I was under the warm California sunshine. I never saw Deanna again. Not alive at least.

It was the 5th of November and I was in bed after a party. Glen and I were just about to get frisky when my cell phone started to buzz. "Hello?" I didn't bother keeping the irritated edge out of my voice. There was a pause. "Hello? Who is this?" Glen raised an eyebrow at me and started nibbling my earlobe.

"Mae? It's Dad." I swatted him away. "It's about your gran."

Pulling the covers around me, I sat for the next 20 minutes listening to my father on the otherside of the line. Deanna had died last night, in her sleep. They had notified the funeral home and could I come back on the next flight? Glen pouted at me and I grimaced. "Sure. Why not?" I said. The next thing I knew I was on the frontporch of my childhood home. Mom greeted me at the door and enveloped me in her arms. Lulu and Mike were in the kitchen munching on cookies and my Reiner grandparents were there with them.

The funeral was in the afternoon. And it was raining. God it was raining. One moment outside and we were soaked to the bone. At the graveyard I saw more Leights than I had ever seen in one lifetime. There was an Auntie Jude and a Grand-Uncle Ted and a million myriad others who I could never remember. They all were in an array of heights, weights and physical features. But most of them, at least the older ones had the same brilliant Leight green feline eyes. I felt as I did that night in the hospital. I felt that same shiver up my spine.

Labels: Short stories