Day 33: Those Days, Those Weeks

There are good weeks. Weeks where you will be motivated and inspired to sit at your ever-so-quick-to overheat laptop and study and write and the words will flow endlessly as though you're a dictionary or a thesaurus.

But you're not.

There are good weeks. Weeks where jogging in the morning and running against the lowering of the sun drives you out of bed in the morning and your toes are jumpy and you are so incredibly healthy because every fibre in your body is screaming with positivity as though you're a proton.

But you're not.

Because, there are bad weeks. Weeks where the words just won't flow and glaringly white word documents stare back at you for hours and you're not even motivated to write in your journal and words just won't write and every day that piles onto each other agitates the growing irritation inside you.

There are bad weeks. Weeks where the morning feels like night and you have to drag yourself out of bed because your body feels like lead and you constantly feel as though the Sandman is constantly pouring sand into your eyes and everything feels so sluggish and you force yourself to smile because you don't want people to be worried.

There are bad weeks. Weeks where you just want to lock your bedroom door, cover your head with your bedsheets and just cry into the mattress because you're so fucking sensitive to every emotion and any little thing people say can make you so fucking depressed that you wonder if you're slipping back into that abyss.

But you're not.

There are just bad weeks and good weeks. And after the bad weeks, good weeks follow. You just have to trudge through and remember all the good weeks.

Day 31: Morning

Please wake up beside me in the morning
So the nightmares of my fears can't hide with the sleep in my eyes
Trail your fingers along my sides and,
Hold onto my hand as we welcome the sun together
So I know that you are not a mirage leftover from my dreams.
I am afraid of clutching onto empty bed sheets
Because my quiet passion might not be enough to keep you.
Promises are after all soft whispers that barely catch hold and,
I want something tangible like your kisses down my throat
Or your mouth on mine to be what I wake up to,
Because this is the only instance where words are not enough for me.

Day 29: Hung Over

Vertigo thoughts are inside my head
It's your voice I hear slithering within my skull
You're just somebody that I used to know
But you were my first
Like alcohol that won't vomit out of my system
I am still hung over you
And the promises that you didn't keep
Deep inside me, I'm missing something that you took
You left me with a profound sense of loss
I thought I found inner peace
But I am always thinking of you
What am I supposed to do when I'm afraid to love?
Every empty night is a hang over of yesterday
Of deleted messages, erased photographs
I was supposed to be over you
You were merely a season, a reason
But not for life

Day 26: Nightmare

Late nights envelope me in their insomnia
Nightmares clutch their out stretch claws
We're going to make your dreams a living Hell
They say as they whisper black magic into my ears
Don't even try to lucid dream
I listen to the calm of your voice through the phone
I only know that you are real
Everything else is but a nightmare
But even you can't save me from my insecurity
I haven't felt you in so long
I'm becoming warped in illusions
No one answers to my questions
When will I stop being haunted by psychopaths?
How long will I remain afraid?
Am I dreaming?

Day 22: 2011

2011 was the year where everything that could go wrong, did. It was the year where I was drowning in everyone's expectations but more importantly I was pushing my own head underneath the water. And I couldn't breathe. Every time I think back to that year, I find myself hyperventilating.

I'm afraid of failing.

2011 was the year where I let myself fall into temptation out of desperation. It wasn't love. And it wasn't quite lust either. It was just two lonely people seeking comfort in each other's warmth. At that far corner of my mind, I knew you were using me but I let you because I was using you too. I needed to feel my heart bashing against my ribcage. I needed to feel loved. I needed to feel alive.

I was afraid that I was dying inside.

2011 was the year where I died inside my head almost every night. I thought I was going crazy. I was losing a battle with the crazies inside my mind. I spent my days psychoanalysing myself. I was one step away from a mental breakdown. And I didn't want anyone to know. I didn't want anyone to know that I was losing.

I was afraid of my own shame.

2011 was the year where I barely survived. I came out of that abyss with scars that would haunt me for life. It was the year where I met you and learned to doubt emotions. You told me what I wanted to hear. You tainted my precious words. Promises to you meant nothing: they were simply sweet nothings.

I'm afraid of promises.

Day 20: I won't let you win

This is to you, the douche who felt me up,

This is the only acknowledgement I will give you. Because you don't deserve this attention. I have saved a photo of you and I know that you know I took that photograph. And I will keep it and I will remember your face because the next time I see you, I won't be afraid. The next time I see you, you had better run.

I am strong. I worked so hard to become strong so that no one can make me feel otherwise. So that assholes like you cannot make me feel vulnerable. And I hate myself so much for not standing up to  you because no one, absolutely no one is allowed to make me feel fear. I don't want to hate myself for your actions. You don't deserve such feelings. I hate you for making me feel this way. For penetrating my comfort zone. I hate you for making me cry.

This is my promise to you, next time I see you, it is you who will cry.
And I always keep my promises.

Day 18: Sneak Peek

Note: This is a sneak peek on a chapter from my manuscript I've been working on. I've redone this chapter three times. I think I'm finally getting where I want with it.

I stab my shaking heel into his crotch and twist until I hear him scream. This is my revenge. It's not even one tenth of my pain but this is all I would ever do. I gather the remains of my clothes and my dignity, nursing my raptured innocence back into the hotel. Once inside the confines of my room I strip out of my dress and turn on the shower. Hot. Extremely hot. I step into the shower, letting the water run down my body. I clutch onto the sponge and rub my skin. Every inch. Every centimetre. Every millimetre of bruised and tainted skin. Until I'm raw and hurting. I let myself be consumed by this new pain. Now I cry. 

After the shower, I scatter the contents of my luggage. It's not there. It's not there. The small bottle of pills aren't there. I walk to the kitchen and pour myself warm water to calm my nerves. I sip the liquid as I walk back and forth across my room. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth until my eyes swim with vertigo. I feel sick. I am sick. My whole body convulses, curved like a snake as I bend over with my hand clutching my mouth. I'm going to vomit. I let myself go into the toilet bowl, unsure whether this disgust is from the alcohol or from him. I rinse my mouth with tap water and then a mug of brewed coffee. I gaze out the large window with views of the cityscape. I let go of the breath I was holding as the sun finally rises; its orange warmth reflecting off skyscraper windows. 

The pharmacy will open soon. 

Day 11: Hell

From just within my hearing, the news anchor on channel 10 is panicking. You know the world is about to end when a news reporter stops speaking in that nonchalant way they always do, “Yesterday, a mother drowned her baby.” They would announce as if merely stating an obvious fact that the sky is blue and that grass is green.

‘Since early this morning, there has been a global attack on civilians by what seems to be zombies. Apparently, once you’re bitten you will also become infected. It has been declared a pandemic.’

The staff crowd around the television, whispering buzzes of concern and excitement. Trust university researchers to find an epidemic exciting. I watch from the corner of my eye as Phil continues working on his thesis. He has a severe case of workaholicism. Not a real word. But it should be.

Phil is a true sceptic. His philosophy, “Nothing is proven real until I see it with my own eyes.’ I hope we don’t get the chance to see the zombies. Our university is a private research institute that values privacy from the public. Our campus is surrounded by a thick brick wall and steal enforced gate that can only be opened through key cards. So we’re safe for now. 

‘I bet it was the Chinese.’

I return my attention to the Vice-Chancellor. He came to the science department this morning demanding our attention. He has been speaking none stop since he walked through that door.

‘Sorry?’

‘I bet the Chinese are at fault. They’re always up to something, inventing crazy contraptions.’

I think he’s referring to the Japanese.

‘Sir, that’s Japan.’

‘Or it could be those people up in Israel, Afghanistan. I bet it was the Taliban. Terrorism, I say.’

Images and shaky video recordings of people being eaten alive flicker on the television screen. I think this is something more sinister than terrorism.

‘Vice-Chancellor, I think the terrorists are also suffering from this pandemic.’

The phone rings and I instantly sprint for it. The orange blinking light indicates that the call is coming from the security office. My pulse quickens. This can’t be good. They never call us. I know that it’s regarding the pandemic.

‘Hello, this is Dr Kimmy Khang from the science department.’

I listen intently as the voice from the other end gush words out so furiously that they jumble. All of a sudden, I hear screaming and the line dies with that hollowing beep-beep-beep. I drop the phone, hearing it crash into oblivion onto the tiles like my heart that died with the screams of the security guards.

‘They’re here. The pandemic has breached our gates.’

A hush falls upon the office as people slowly digest the news. Silently, I pray to a God I never once believed in. But it’s too late; Hell has come to greet the living. We are that Hell. Humanity created Hell. 

Day 10: Dodgeball

You are standing on asphalt with your shoe laces double knotted and your fingers tingling. Anticipating the meteor shower of rubber balls. Anticipating the impact. You think that you can't come out of this without at least a bruised gut, thigh or forehead. You watched the previous match. These people aren't human.

The whistle blows and you join the stampede of feet running towards the centre. You mentally chant that you must get a ball. Must get a ball. Must get a - motherfucker! Somehow that faggot of a player  snatched the ball away before you could wrap your hands around it. You retreat behind the safety of your teammates. It's okay. You don't have much of a throwing arm anyway. But you are light on your feet. You can dodge, catch and survive.

You blink as a ball almost makes contact with your stomach. You duck as another almost hits your side. You would catch except these aren't dodgeballs, these are fucking cannonballs. You would get knocked out with a single hit. These people are not fucking around. They want to win and your pain is their goal. You smirk as you manage to grab onto a ball. That's a player out. With the ball in hand you try to single out their weakest link but miss.

You twist back behind the shoulders of your teammates and continue to dodge as one by one, your team starts to dwindle. But at this point, all you can do is hope to survive. Left. Right. Duck. Dodge. As you try to steady your breathing, you realise that all of a sudden you're the only one left on the court.

Every nerve in your body tingle with anticipation as you watch an almost full team of men grip onto their dodgeballs and ready their arms. You almost shiver as they smirk at you, taunting as they walk close to the centre line.

'Little girl, you better run.'

Shit.

Not Afraid

Screams bounce off the tilted paintings on the walls.
Fingers jab hurtful words at hurting chests.
Faults and blames counter each other's assault.
But somehow it's always her fault.
She said, "I'm not afraid of your anger."

Broken trusts slices at broken hearts.
Voices stomp on fragmented tears.
Slurred cussing followed home again.
It's her fault that he had a bad day.
She said, "I'm not afraid of your blame."

Mornings wake to yesterday's forgotten.
It didn't happen.
Words washed away like chipped cutlery.
Yet the red in her eyes, the sobs in her throat: still there.
She said, "I'm not afraid of your mood swings."

Clothes thrown askew on the front lawn.
Suitcase half packed, half demolished.
Tired of his violence, tired of the cycle.
He doesn't deserve her home, doors locked.
She said, "I'm not afraid of you."

Invasion

Cigarette smoke slithers inside my earlobe.
 He says, 'I know you're afraid.'
Blood pools between my lips and down my thighs.
I refuse to give him a reply.
Escape is a matter of mind.
He won't exist outside my acknowledgement.
But it's too late.
He is toxic like nuclear waste.
Like a syringe stabbed into my arm,

he invades my veins.
He is everywhere.
And I am driven out of my body.
An out of body experience.
I'm floating, intangible.
My screams can't be heard.
My pain can't be felt.
Invisible.
Silent victim.

Corpse Bride

Strangled throat with red hand marks.
Tear stained cheeks and blotched mascara.
Hollowed eye sockets, searching for an escape.
I’m a skeleton bride walking down the aisle.
Decaying skin peels for wriggling maggots.
White boned hands grasping on a thin thread.
There is something suffocating,
about a chained ring finger.
Inescapable. Unbreathable.
Noose hangs from my neck.
I can’t breathe through your hold on me.
Feels like I’m the walking dead.
Or I have been buried alive.
Bloodied nails clawing at unopened casket.
I’m screaming but I can’t be heard.
Chewed up tongue lost between brittle teeth.
Speak now or forever hold your peace.

Pillar and wall

Dedication: to all the important people in my life. Thank you for always being there even when I went into hiding.

- - - - -

When I was at my lowest, I pushed you away.
I don’t ever want you to see me like that.
Fragile like the paper wings of faeries I see in mirages.
Broken like the crumbs of smashed up porcelain.
Hydrating my soul on shots of tequila.

Sometimes, I picked up my phone but didn’t know who to call.
I didn’t know how to voice the words that died in the pit of my clenched throat.
They tumbled like clothes in the vortex of a washing machine.
The numbers I pressed were never dialled.
Too afraid to let go of my pride.

Because, I wasn’t supposed to be the weak one.
I was the pillar that held everyone else.
I picked up the broken pieces and glued each delicate fracture together.
All your happiness were my smiles because I couldn’t produce my own.
Somewhere along the way, my threads started becoming undone.

When I lost myself in the abyss, almost too far to reach with a single hand.
Your words rescued me before it was too late.
All your warmth and all your concerns, made me remember
That I was never truly alone.
That the knife that was so close to piercing,
should never have broken through my walls.

You are my walls.
You protect me from all that’s wrong with the world.
Constantly reminding me that I am loved.
As I have always loved you. 

Thank you.

Hostage

We were being held hostage by a psychotic terrorist.
It didn't even have to be us. We held no political value. We were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was my parents' 20th anniversary. They had booked the entire Sydney tower buffet restaurant to accommodate all our family and friends. We sat shivering in our seats as he walked up and down rows of tables, bellowing his hatred for the legal system, the government.

It was only one man. It was only one man causing utter fear in a group of three hundred people. I flicked my eyes over at my shaking grandparents on the opposite table. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that such elderly people had to be put under such emotional distress. Slowly, I raise my right hand, praying to God, any God up in heaven that it wouldn't get blasted right off my wrist, 'Excuse me, Sir....' His head spun at the sound of my voice, his flickering eyes watched my lips, he pointed his machine gun at me, 'What? Speak loud and clear; don't shout or you'll hurt my ears and I'll be forced to shoot your tongue off.'

I held your hand, underneath the dining table for support and raised my voice, hoping it wouldn't waiver, 'Please sir, is it possible to let the elderly go?' I was surprised when he let his hand drop and grinned broadly. He raised his free hand and patted my head. I bit down my tongue to stop myself from trembling at his touch. I watched as he stepped away from me then pointed at my proudly, as though a teacher proud of his student, 'Now this, everyone is an example of a good upstanding citizen. They pay their taxes on time, they help elderly people walk across the road' Suddenly, he was no longer smiling, he thrust his gun down my throat. I blinked back tears and shook my head ferociously as you stood up in protest. He pointed the gun at your heart, 'Sit the fuck down, lover boy!'

He cleared his throat and continued to point the gun at me, 'This' he continued, 'Is an example of an idiot who does everything because it is "right". They blindly follow the laws of the corrupted government without questioning their actions. Does that sound right to you?' We all shook our heads. He raised his voice even louder, 'What is also not right is the fact that you spent thousands of dollars to eat in a "classy" restaurant just because it is high up in the air while out there are millions of people suffering from poverty and injustice!' He pulled out a beeping remote from his jacket and smiled sadly, 'Sorry folks, I'm burning this whole tower to the ground with everyone in it. The government needs to understand it is wasting money on such pointless expenses.'

I cried into your shoulder as you held me tightly. I could feel the hatred, anger and fear in the heat of your arms. Everyone around us also finally broke down. What little hope we had of surviving this ordeal was finally thrown out the window of this revolving restaurant. We were being held hostage by a psychotic terrorist.  And he had no plans of letting anyone live. We were always meant to die.

Hell

She says, I gave life to you so I can take it away.
That if I told you to sacrifice your life for me,
you should readily throw it away.
You should die for me and it wouldn't be wrong.

I don't know how to reply when you say that.
I am trapped in a room with a double edged sword.
I am damned if I don't and damned if I do.
Either way, I will be going to Hell.

I'm so exhausted; my bed is my only escape.
Wake me up when the world is sane again.
Or don't wake me up at all.

Losing battle

I said that you shouldn't get used to disappointment;
But I've lost count how many times things didn't go our way.
I try to find the positives in these storm clouds but,
It's so hard to fight for a future that is so hard to see.
And that's what breaks my heart the most.
Because I really wanted this to work,
But we're only going to deteriorate.
And we'll hurt more than we do now.
I'm sorry.

Guilty

We can't win.
Everything we say is being laughed at.
They're secretly crows or kookaburras in disguise.
And we fell right into their traps. Hook line and sinker.
We're mannequins out on display but this is not beautiful in anyway.
It is ugly, humiliating and frightening.
Their faces says it all.
We're being accused of a crime we never committed and there is no trial.
No jury to listen to our pleas.
No neutral judge to decide wisely.
Nothing.
We're guilty of a crime we would never commit.
And no one is listening.

Experiment

Note: dream inspired (Yeah, my dreams are out to get me once again)
- - - - - - -

    I wake up to my unmoving body. Everything is blurry like I’m waking up to a thick un-dissolving fog. I try to focus my eyes on my surroundings. I shake my head ferociously and objects start to appear in my vision. I’m strapped and tied down to a make-shift operating table. There are syringes, scissors and beakers half full of purplish concoctions on metallic rolling tables.

    The room is dark and reeks of blood, tears and other undefinable chemicals. I stretch my neck and notice that there is an unconscious person on the other side of the wall. I know her. Oh God, isn’t she the little girl I helped carry back home, this morning? Where’s her grandfather? Is it even still Monday? 

    I bite off the straps around my wrist and bolt up. I tumble off and knock into the rolling table. There is a throbbing pain in my left arm. A needle is inserted half-way up my arm. Fucking fantastic. They drugged me up with God knows what. Someone is hammering nails on the inside of my skull. My throat is as dry as shredded sand paper that’s been road killed a million times. My fingers shake. Evidently, I’ve had blood loss. So not only they injected mixtures of fabricated chemicals into my system but also stole my blood until I’m faint. 

This day can’t get any worse.

    I crawl along the wall, holding my head with one hand and trying to see with the other. After what felt like a universe away, I reach the girl. She is a fragile ten- year old. If I couldn’t see the needle up her arm, I would have thought she’s sleeping. No, she’s just heavily drugged up. This is all so surreal like a schizophrenic high on dopamine. 

    I can’t remember how we got here. I recall taking my morning jog and encountering the girl and her grandfather along the footpath. She fainted and he was trying to lift her up into his arms…. Oh God, what if he wasn’t her grandfather? What if he is the mastermind behind this elaborate nightmare and somehow I got dragged into it like a twisted vortex? It doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t matter how we ended up in this situation but we are definitely getting out.

    I gently carry her onto my back and we slowly make it to the door. It is strangely unlocked. It turns under my hand. And we step into the moonlight. This doesn’t make any sense. We’re standing on a balcony. Attached to a tower that is painfully too high above the water. We’re surrounded by nothing but endless ocean for miles away.

‘There is no escape, child.’

    My head spins at the sound of a voice. An elderly man was sitting on a wheelchair on the other end of the balcony. He wasn’t the grandfather from this morning. Who is he? My knees buckle at the accumulating stress. The girl and I collapse onto the cold tiles. I watch as the old man lifts a glass of thick crimson liquid to his mouth. He smirks and stands up. Visibly, stronger and more agile. Blood. Our blood.  He holds up my chin and stares into my petrified eyes, ‘There is no escape.’

There is no escape.

Words

She says, words come cheap these days.
He says, all I want is a chance.

She shakes her head; words are beautifully crafted like ice sculptures. Intricate, magical but their time is not limitless. They are fragile. They break and melt. They lose their form.

She says, I'm afraid I will get hurt.
He says, I'll only ever be gentle. 

I can never be cruel. You are too precious, like a fragile puppy waiting for love but will bark at everyone because it's lonely.

She says, I believe you but I don't trust my heart.
He says, Who can you trust if not your own heart?

My heart is a broken kaleidoscope. Everything is beautifully twisted like a drunkard high on morphine. I can see the rose-tinted smiles and the triangular shapes of cloud-like dreams. What I can't see are the millions of possibilities that this ice cream truck will swerve off a cliff. But I trust you.

She says, I'll only ever trust you.

Let go

I step out of the shower with water dripping down the bare of my back. I hold a towel to my head, ruffling droplets like rain onto the bathroom floor and glance at my glowing phone sitting above the sink: 3 missed calls. I ignore it and instead stand in front of the full length mirror, studying myself carefully. 

I trace my fingers up and along my legs, pinching at everything that could be pinched. Finally, my eyes rest on my stomach. I don’t stare for long. I can’t stand it. I flick my eyes to the nearest wall and count to hundred. I need to calm myself before it's too late. Before I'm blown up like a balloon. Slowly I count. One is for one lollipop can’t hurt. Two is for two puppies playing chasies. Three is too much of a crowd. Oh God. It’s too much of a crowd. Four is for I can't take this anymore.  
I can't take this anymore.

Slapping a hand over my mouth, I spin towards the toilet and hurl bile into the toilet bowl. I watch it swirl around with water like a python curling around its prey. It's a death match with only one winner. I'm always the loser in this situation. Inside my ears, his voice still rings a ghostly whisper: Let me love you. No, that wasn't love. This isn't love. I don't want it. No matter how much I scream, his voice won't go away. His touch still lingers, even though it was months ago. No matter how much I scream, no one helped me. It still happened, I can't change history.


I slosh water onto my face and rinse my mouth. I slip into a long shirt and walked to the kitchen to brew some coffee. It will calm my mind. I slump into my chair and watch as clouds flutter across the waking sky. The sun, showers flowers of peach and orange. It's going to be a beautiful day. I quickly sling my camera over my shoulder and pointed towards the sky. Click. Click. Click. I smile contently at the photographs. More to add to my personal collection. I flick a glance towards the calender that hangs on the cream wall. September 16. Next Monday, I'll be flying back to New York for Ian McKell's exhibition. Slight shivers run down my spine. I never want to go back there.


Rachel clings onto my right arm and whines, 'Do you really have to leave for a week? I will be so lonely!' I roll my eyes at her and pat her shoulder, 'Invite Hector over. It's important, I need to show my support. He taught me so much. Bye, dear' I poke my tongue out at her as I pass through the gates. I take a long breath and let it out. Here goes nothing. Somewhere along this trip, I will either lose my sanity or fly back home crying. I hope it is neither.


Once landing, I book into my hotel and collapse onto my bed. I sit up and scanned the spectacular view of skyscrapers. I got a suite thanks to Ian. He's much too generous, even though I was his student. I check my watch, only three in the afternoon and his exhibition isn't until tomorrow. I rest my head onto the soft pillow and sleep. I need to ready myself for the night. Either I coop myself in my room every night or I face the fact that I'm here for a week and accept it. Sighing, I assure myself that those long nights of self-defence classes will pay off need be. 


The night is warm with cool breezes like a soothing caress. There aren't many people out, I noticed. I quicken my pace. I want to get out of the streets as fast as possible. I flick a glance at every dark alley. He's not hiding there.At every crazed-eye smoker. He's not them.At every incoherent drunk. It's safe.Why was I outside when I could enjoy the warmth of my blankets inside a tight security hotel? Maybe I am the insane one? You are the insane one. I ignore the voice and open the door, Living Room embraced me with its loving music. It was my favourite place in New York. I scan the crowds and saw him, my New York lover, whose name I always forget. He smiles at me and quickly scoops me into his arms, 'You've returned.' He says in his low voice. I grin back, 'Of course, I feel safe with you.'