words-in-cascades-blog

[words-in-cascades-blog]

[words-in-cascades-blog]

[words-in-cascades-blog]

[words-in-cascades-blog]

[words-in-cascades-blog]

20190422

Somehow after a week or two of dreamless nights, you returned last night.

I saw us on the roadside, sauntering down the street, talking about some nonsense that made me laugh so hard. And there was the thumping of my heart, dancing in the rib cage with steps so ecstatic that I genuinely felt the rain of rapture showering on me. I was doused in joy.

It was a mere moment of intrepidity that I slipped my hand through yours, only that it was not enough for me to stare at you for a response. It was as though the world had halted its arduousness; only the faint sounds of the breeze ruffling the leaves and the distant music of the birds could be heard. And I remembered I tilted my head up to the trees hovering above, the beam scattering between the lush fronds were in the form of blinding white, and it was so idyllic; so, so idyllic.

It was until you suddenly pulled away from me that a wave of rejection and dejection slammed against me from the side. I regretted my rash decision instantly, and my mind, in unison with my repentance, ridiculed the ridiculousness of my action. I should have known I was incomparable to her. But then your hand enwrapped mine again, and your thumb, tenderly rubbing over my purlicue, instilled warmth back into the anxious frigid system. There was the current of elation spreading across my body, powered from the heart to the limbs; I felt the sparkles of electricity of bliss flickering along the nerve. Both internally and externally, I was lit up none the less.

“Better huh?”

And I jolted awake.

So much for the mellow sweetness of the dream.

But still, up to today, after the heavy dismal days, I wonder if it would true.

[words-in-cascades-blog]

20190409

I remembered that day; I stood behind her, the cerulean ocean spread before us, a pane of blue marble with hints of grey glimmering from the sallow sunless sky. The wind came by, brushing her slightly hazel locks, setting her hoary cardigan flying at her back. She leaned forward on the stone balustrade, her arms folded atop. I could not read her expression, and I did not know her too well, it was unbeknownst to me what was on her mind. Rather, I felt the tension, I felt the uncertainty, I felt the fear, all wafting around her like haunting specter lingering in the mortal world. 

She held out a jar, a glass jar with scraps of paper in varying hues, though those in crimson and pitch black were of the majority. 

This bottle, I knew, was from previous years, but, out of unknown reason, was obscured, suddenly, in the dark from the eyes of the mass for several years; perhaps in fear of the contents be revealed and mocked. In earlier years, the strips were put in the container in rapture; though soon a lid was screwed atop, and it was not open since. 

I saw all that done. I was behind her. 

It was just a second before the pieces scattered in the air, an arc of fragmented rainbow freed from their tedious imprisonment. They rippled in the air, across the bay and along further with the breeze, as though a dragon with scales speaking of vibrancy through their chromes. And, out of the blue, flew the ashen lid that soon landed the waters, being pushed to the edge of the horizon by the tumbling currents. It was not so much of a dynamic sight, but rather of intense emotions. 

“You won’t regret it?” I questioned.

“It would be safe, I believe.” She ran her hand through her long curls. 

“You still have half of the bottle anyway.”

“It’s not them that matter; it’s the freeing of the lid that renders it a risk,”

I nodded, though perplexed.

“But only by doing so can I have new to fill.”

//

The next time I saw her, I stood behind her. She looked different, but familiar, like she did that year; but there was much more exhaustion, much more despair. She was much more beaten.

Her hair was trimmed, just an inch below her ear. It was sleeker, straighter too, unlike the unruly strands she used to have. There was a kind of stiffness, sternness that seemed to relay her present attitude, how she now squared her shoulders towards the howling wind as if a sliver of futility would shatter her completely.

She was crouching on the sand, having climbed across the stone rampart. The lidless bottle was clutched in her hand. Snips of paper had stacked to the top, about to overfill the glass. The old vivid ones settled neatly at the bottom, but it was those above that were haunting. Scarlet, like blood, as they were and black, like hell, as they appeared to be; the concoction of them aroused the allusion of demons, of the abyss, of the land of the dead. And it was all I could do not to avert gazing them.

She walked to and fro, her eyes frantic, in search for something pivotal, I reckoned. The sky was already masked by a mist of gloom, shades of grey intermixed with each other as the clouds hung like corpses in midair. The wind growled harder, roared louder, hurling the debris and dust on the ground into trivial storms. It was like the wail of a woman bitter for her unrequited love.

I pushed myself onto the railing. A drop of water hit the back of my hand. I tilted my head up, another droplet hit my forehead. It was cool, with a tinge of warmth. It was the crying of the sky.

“What are you finding?”

The rain, in no time, became waves in the upheaval of the restless weather, washing the earth with no mercy. The shore was dampened, the golden sand was morphed into a land of rust; the rocks paving the way to the beach from the balustrade glistered under the rainwater, as though proud of the glitters on the moist surface, unknown to the frustrated tears falling from above.

 My question was drowned, devoured and wolfed down by the monstrous torrents.

“What are you finding?” I shouted over the cascades of rain.

She eventually caught my voice, eventually turned to face me. And I was stunned by the weathered features carved on her face. Her eyes that once had a flickering fire of wonder was put off by the inundation of pain, and below that were bags black speaking of exhaustion. Her face was washed over by waves of fatigue, no longer flushed with elation. I wanted to ask her what had happened; I had so many questions, but the blend of fury and misery on her profile forced them down to my throat.

“You know what I am finding.” She screamed. “You fucking know that.”

“No, I don’t.” Dumbfounded at her infuriation, I shook my head gently.

Or, do I?

She scoffed, “Yes, you do.”

“You can pretend that you don’t; you can lie to yourself that you don’t; you can obscure yourself from the truth as long as you desire it. But I can see through you and your deceitful acting.”

The word tumbled out of her gritted her teeth. Her face was twisted in hatred, a snarling dog, a yapping hyena, a ferocious beast condescending its nugatory prey. She grasped the bottle harder until her knuckles turned white. Abruptly, she pitched the container at the far end of the coast; the pieces of paper were poured out, gliding in the air, as though a splattering rain of rainbow. She threw her head in the air, a raw animalistic yell erupted from her; the beast inside her had finally escaped from its chained dungeon. But, eventually, she knelt to the ground; her knees landed the gnarled land with a thud. She bowed her head, her shoulders trembled, and, soon, anguished sobs were let out.

“You know how I feel. You might have detached yourself from me, but you are just fucking me. You know I need the lid. You know we need the lid.”

“Just find me the lid. Just. Find. Me. The. Lid.” She howled, raising her head up, and hot, angry tears undulated from her eyes, intermixing with the raindrops sliding on her face. “I. Am. Done. It’s over. It’s damn hell over. I don’t want any of these anymore.”

She swatted the intermixed vermilion and black paper scraps near her away, entombed them further into the dirt, distanced herself from them, as though she was scorched by them.

“They burned me, singed me, torn me apart; and I can’t do this anymore. Just find me the lid. Just bottle all these up. We’ll pretend nothing has happened this year. We’ll pretend nothing has happened that year. We are all blissful, we’ve been all euphoric.”

“Just please,” She choked.

“Please, I am begging you. Please.”

I turned my back towards her. Her abjected behavior was now hateful, atrocious, disgusting, she reminded me of those heinous rodents I so longed to crush. If she had not rooted up the wretched sentiments I had buried deep in the earth, there would have been a gap of sympathy, of pity, of solace for her. But she had to plow them all up. She had to. So she could not blame me for the rise of my disdain.

“I am sorry. I know nothing about it.”

And in the still bellowing tempest, I strode back to my calm, barricaded home.

[words-in-cascades-blog]

20190404

It was suffocating. The silence was suffocating, so suffocating that she needed to crane her neck, drink a big gulp of air and submerge back to the crowd.

“Next station, Diamond Hill.”

She cringed at the blaring announcement, a blade that sliced the still air out of the blue; but without any counterparts, her sole cringing felt too dramatic, like an exaggeration, like an outcast.

The morning train was the most terrific, if not the worst, part of the day.

The surroundings were static; static as in that the insignificant humming of the ventilation system was the only sound heard.

She fidgeted, shrugged her unease shoulders against the dull ambiance, bumping into those tensed nearby, earning her obnoxious side glares, sirens for any of her further restless behaviors. The corner of her mouth turned down at those malicious glances, an eminent movement when juxtaposed with the stoic expressions besides her. It was such a profound sight, how all of their faces, except hers, were blank sheets of papers reflecting against the blinding light of the illuminating devices on their palms; they were the same despite their dissimilar features, as contradicting as it might sound.

She deemed herself different. She could feel the symphony in her blood boiling in dynamics, variations, that could not wait to override the prominence of Beethoven, or more like simply to exhibit the joy of being a person; unlike those living corpses looming around her, submerged in morning blues when commuting to destinations that they apparently were scornful of but were still held responsible to show up. It was strongly against her will to be concocted into the bland blend of the stale.

She might have been lucid, but not anymore. She might have tried to bar her pristine aspirations, hope, and dreams from the merciless reality, but that was exploited as she merged into the lethargic mass every morning.

It worth a moment of grief for she was unbeknownst to the happening. As she endeavored to remind herself of the pride to have retained a benign heart, the need to guard it had slipped her mind; her inept in remembering such had fused the infusing of pragmatism into the slivers towards her undiscovered heart. It was akin to diseases rived with malicious plans, glorifying their contagiousness, taking over the victims’ health system in quietude; and when the subjects were known to it, all had been settled.

“Next station, Wong Tai Sin.”

Signaled to depart, she weaved through the crowds of carcasses towards the door; apologies stumbling out of her mouths as she tumbled away from them. The panes slid apart eventually, she hopped off the train with ecstasy blooming within her. Rapture had enclosed her into an embrace as she was exposed to the open air again.

I followed her, falling into her footsteps without her being aware of such. I knew her, but not too well, but still I knew she would realize there would soon be no disparity between them. Her pale cerulean dress had already been stained with a film of grey, and she would, one day, be hooked on an ashen outfit, be nudged along with the specters without a hint of despair; because by then, she would have become one of them.

(@aninharotili)

[words-in-cascades-blog]

20190325                    

Karma is a female dog.

But not much as a female dog as I am.

At least, it barks and lashes out at those who deserve the assault.

But I, unjustly, take pain out on the innocent.

It was a matter of mere affection, a whirlwind of moved feelings that I, clearly, know is unsustainable. Nonetheless, when he pressed on, I confessed about my remote, next to none, fondness.

To rid myself of the guilt, I could simply argue I have never rendered any solid promises. But, truth be told, I knew what I was doing. I was morphing his love into a temporary bandage to cover the wounds when, eminently, dressings do not heal; at one point, it still has to be wrestled away. I was aware of that; I was, also, well aware of any maintenance of contact would only hurl him further into hell fire for the more we talk, the more he would be drowning in the Styx until Charon picks him up, transports him directly to the abyss.

We might have agreed to keep a neutral relationship; but “neutral”, ostensibly, is only a superficial labeling, a vain title that would not stop his aspirations from surging to the top of the Himalayas, that would not sow his intense passion further on my heart, that would not help the growth of my slight budding but wilting endearment for him. I was highly conscious of such; but out of a moment of desperation and selfishness, I held him back from the freedom he deserves.

Some say it would be fair to, at least, give him a chance, when some insist on how it, manifestly, would not work out. It, on the surface, might appear to be a struggle; but deep down, a solution has already sprouted. No matter how, it would not end up pretty; his heart would be disfigured into a heap of a bloody mess for, in the end, it would still be an answer he never wants to receive.

So my dear, please, run as far from me as you can, for the sake of yourself, for the sake of your heart. Forget about me, though as much as it would pain me to lose a friend, let me be the sacrifice. I have marred you enough. And to be brave, there are better people with not a dark heart like mine to embrace your crumpled body, to pepper you with affection, to hold you with care in their palms; they would dry your tears, soothe the aches and mend your scarred heart with needles tender and threads soft. 

But, I know, you would refuse to go, so let me be the one who leaves; one day you would understand, this is how you have room to heal.    

[words-in-cascades-blog]

20190327

Maybe I will just stay single.

Or maybe I just will not fall at all.

Or maybe I would leave the pieces shattered for this last time so that nothing could mar it any further.

And some days after, I might retire in some small town unknown to many people, like Rye, like Burford, like Oxford, just places that no one travels to and settle down. Perhaps open a café of mere size; by mere, I mean neither too large nor too little. It is, certainly, not of my interest to be enclosed in a spatial hollow room; by all means, that is overly lonesome. But at the same time, I would not enjoy being confined in a tiny space; that would simply render myself a victim of those passionate.

 Arm-length distance is something that I would favor. 

I might even change my name, Chantol, or Concord or any that means and sounds tranquil. A new life, though still within my control, could then spiral out.

I would live in a bungalow, beige in color. There would be a trivial front yard, encircled by fences in canary; it would neither be a spotlight nor an eyesore, simply something within expectation. It would be ordinary. The grass, shamrock, would be cut neatly; flowers like dandelions and daffodils would blossom in corners of the square; I might even scatter pots of homegrown tomatoes, basils and aloe vera in the garden. The yard, anytime when I am not in the café, would be my next resort to labor my body, to toil my mentality; but such labor is one kind of bliss, I would say. Sometimes, on some cheat days, I might sit at the steps of the door, my feet stretched before me on the soft grass, watching in silence, in serenity as the idyllic lives of the neighborhood unfold in front of me; or maybe I would spread a romantic fiction across my lap, that somehow gives me a taste of the sweetness of love without me risking to be engaged in a bitter one.

While inside the house would be a remote sense of disarray, the kind that arouses a homey and cozy feeling. There would be books bookmarked with fluorescent plastic strips lying in piles and stacks across the floor. The most recent read would guard at the foot of the bean bags flumped in the middle of the room, where a fleecy rug would spread at their bottoms. At the back would sprawl a thick mattress with a thick duvet, probably even my laptop, earphones, pajamas and teddies. On the left of it would be a small bathroom, transparent, though installed with curtains in case of any unanticipated visits. A kitchenette would be at the front of the bathroom and right next to the bean bags, where the stove, the oven, the coffee machines and all sorts of utensils would be slung into a heap of a mess with recipes, both failed and in progress, scattered on the counter. The eventual part of the house would be the extended work table on the right of the futon chairs. On the pale wood would books and poems and composing stories be lay opened flat, waiting to be indulged and savored once again. There might even be coffee stained mugs and plates with cookies crumbs and toast crumbs abandoned for days if their owner has been mesmerized and allured by the literary horizon.

Anyhow, it would, basically, be a house for one, in which furniture fitted just right; almost no space would be left for as long as it is stuffed, there would be no room for unnecessary items, unnecessary reminders of unnecessary sentiments.  

So maybe I will just stay single.

Maybe I just will not fall at all.

Or maybe I would leave the pieces shattered for this last time so that nothing could mar it any further.

And for the rest of my life, I would heal, though more like despair, in solitude.

[words-in-cascades-blog]

20190323

I never knew it could get any worse.

I thought having the heart torn apart was already enough.

But that was mild, frankly speaking. At least, that could be stifled by any voluntary attempt. It is, rather, something involuntary that kills; something that sounds innocent, something that appears harmless, something that is lulling, like dreams.

The unending strings of nightmares, nightmares filled with your shadows, are what follows the third breakdown. Trifling as they are, the scenarios in the dreams, for the sole fact that you appear in them, they are haunting enough. I was sauntering through the progress, I was suppressing the heartaches; but they all vanish into the misty dreamy illusion, leaving me feeble back to square one.

They told me to forget about it, they told me to leave; it is my study that should be the priority. I tried, I did fucking try, but what am I supposed to do when you turn up as a form of a specter that I cannot shove away? I tried to distance myself, physically, mentally, but I could not, I can never do that, because I am stupid enough to tell you I will never leave. Once a promise, it is forever a promise; but, to tell the truth, how is this vow different from binding myself down on the railway and be run over by the same train over and over again?

It is not the ones with rejection, with the sight of you and her, that feel the most dejecting; rather, it is the ones saccharine, saccharine like ripen honeydew sweet to the core that leaves me waking up breathless. Had it been the former, it is at least within expectation, within the torment I have been submerged in; but it has to be dulcet like the idyllic wavelets of the summer ocean that remind me of my inability to retain the retreating ripples when I come to consciousness.

 As contradicting as it sounds, I trust you, just not the fact that you would not hurt me again. It probably would do you an injustice if I blame you; after all, it has been me who let my hopes soar with the stars when clearly they are not potent enough to sustain in the infinite universe. Nonetheless, I have stopped picking up the pieces and gluing them back into a discernable shape for it would just be a vain attempt when, ostensibly, you would crush me again in no time. But what renders this even more pathetic is, however, my willingness in staying; or rather, my vanity in departing. 

I love you. I have always loved you. From that year, that year when we were still ingenious, rapturous, blissful before the malicious storm commanded its obliteration, it has never ceased. I might have been able to deceive my mind, but I can never cheat my heart.

[words-in-cascades-blog]

I don’t know if I have anything poetic left for you—

No more rhymes, no more metaphors, and no more allegories,

Because if they wrong the prose

With flaws and faults and fouls

The poet’s pain of her failed piece would cast doom on her pen

That it may refuse to write

Ever again.

[words-in-cascades-blog]

i’ve been hurt by a girl/ i’ve been hurt by a man/ so maybe one day i’ll just turn into an asexual

but seriously

if I even have a choice

[words-in-cascades-blog]

23102018

It was not so different,

But somehow different.

Still crimson red,

Just as vivid.

Perhaps the way it protrudes

Makes it alluring,

Captivating,

Coaxing.

 I dove,

My hand dove

Into the bushes.

Unaware

Of what lay behind the surface.

 They pricked me

Soon my skin came in contact.

Bearable, I said.

Bearable.

 Even when fluid dripped—

Feelings roused—

Frown ‘licited—

 Bearable, I said.

Bearable.

 They anchored,

Eventually,

In me

In my fingers

In my flesh.

 And as bearable as it was,

As deceitful as it was.

[words-in-cascades-blog]

Vandalism

  It started with a small scrape on the first one; barely noticeable without close inspection.

 Then a larger scratch on the second one, more obvious than the first exhibit.

 And an even conspicuous cut on the third one, clearly been ravaged with a knife.

 Vandalism was foreign to the town, it sounded peculiar and new on one’s lips, like the way snowing in summer sounded.

 The museum was nothing grand, nothing extravagant; a two-story red brick building, vines swiveling on the side, windows begging to be dusted, weeds anticipating to be plucked. It sat quietly on the roadside, radiating its own antic beauty.

 The front door creaked open, door chimes chirping mercifully despite the tensed atmosphere.

 'Morning, Chris,’

 'Morning, Deputy Cameron,’ The old man remained at the front desk, nodding politely at his guest.  

 'How are you?’

 'Could be better,’ His lips pressing into a thin line. ‘And you?’

 'Fine,’ He turned, staring at the window. 'Weather’s getting worse, you heard?’

 'Can feel it in my bones, hopefully, no rain tomorrow, Christmas should blossom under the sun,’

 The youngster chuckled, rocking back and forth on his heels, jiggling the keys dangling on his belt.

 'You know, Chris,’ Cameron halted his feet, pondering his words, 'if you need any help, all you need is to ask.’

 The old man sighed, impatience flashed across his features. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, fisting the cloth at his elbow pit, knuckles turning white. Even in his seventies, the man was buff.

 'I am telling you for the last time, we are capable to take care of ourselves, we do not need your help,’

 'We?’ Cameron knitted his brows.

 'Me. And. Leanne.’

 Cameron snorted, 'I’m sure the girl is of great use.’

 The girl was a great cook, could whisk up meals with ease, but in terms of protecting herself, he doubted it.

 'Do not insult my daughter,’

 He suppressed an eye roll, he would admit his disdain towards Leanne was out of jealousy, the way she chose the other men instead of him; his ego was shattered completely with her rejection.

 'Okay, Chris, ease it off, ease it off, just making sure you’re okay, it’s not every day that we have vandalism around here,’

 Chris muttered obscenities under his breath.

 'How about installing CCTVs in here? At least we can trace back something if anything happens,’

 'No,’

 'Just think over it, Chris,’

 'No,’

 'C'mon, Chris,’

 'I. Said. No.’ The elder man bellowed, pupils masked with fury. 'Leave now.’

 'Chr…’

 'LEAVE. NOW.’

 Cameron scrambled to his feet, taken aback at the old man’s outburst.

 The room regained its silence. The old man huffed, he did not need help, he despite their pity, he was capable of keeping an eye on his business.

 'Dad?’

 'Yeah?’ He called back to the back door, his daughter struggling to balance the groceries as she entered.

 'Night shift’s mine,’

 He groaned in dismay, he never liked knowing that his little girl was exposed to danger.

 'Fridays are always on me, you know that,’

 'Well, it’s different, considering the incident we are having,’

 'So far no harm’s done,’ Leanne added, “cept the antiques,’

 'Yeah but…’

 'C'mon Dad, I’m going to be fine, safe and sound, I got that bat with me, no one’s comin’ near me without a good hit,’ Leanne compromised. ’'sides, Manchester’s on tonight.’

 Chris sighed, defeated, 'Okay, you got me on that one, but be safe, I mean it.’

 'Will do,’ Leanne nodded. 'And Dad, help me get these groceries back home, we’ve been running out of them.’

 He rose to his feet, relieve spread through his body, from the tip of his toes to the top of his head, he had been sitting for too long, too long.

 'Sure, I’m heading back now, keep that bat with you, I don’t want you getting hurt,’

 'Dad, you’re repeating your words,’

 'Okay, okay, I’ll get going now, see you tomorrow,’ He trotted to the back door, his cane hooking on his forearm. 'And be safe.’

 Leanne dropped to her seat, sighing in contentment as she sank into the soft material. Groceries shopping was always abhorrent.

 As dusk came by, left, and night took over, and slept, Leanne’s weariness grew. Fighting off sleep was vain, crucial; it was not long before she surrendered to her exhaustion.

 The door chimes chirped the second time the day, heavy boots thumped the concrete. Leanne jolted awake, alarmed.

 'It was just me,’

 'Cameron,’ Leanne addressed, chill dripping off the name. 'What brings you here? At this time at night?’

 'Want to make sure you’re alright,’

 'I’m good, you can leave now,’

 'What’s with the hostility?’ He raised an eyebrow. 'I’m just being nice,’

 ’'Cameron’ and 'nice’ never stay in the same sentence,’

 'Take me to the antiques,’

 'What?’ Leanne blurted, confused at the sudden swerve in their conversation.

 'The vandalized antiques,’ Cameron detailed.

 'Why?’

 'Just want to have a look,’

 Leanne sighed, annoyance flashed in her pupils, 'Come with me,’

 She spiraled up the stairs, wooden steps creaking under her feet. The place was old, requiring renovation.

 'We’re here,’ She gestured to the three exhibits, each with its own scar.

 Cameron took a step forward, closely inspecting the first ruined bygone, holding his blazing stare at the slight graze. It was a while before he proceeded to the next display, eyes scrutinizing the crack. His strides echoing off the room, intruding the stiff quiet. Eventually, he advanced to the latest victimized model, licking his lips as he perused.

 'When did these happen?’

 'I thought you would know from all those rumors,’

 'I asked you a question,’

 'Started three days before,’ Leanne added. 'consequently.’

 'Don’t you think it’s weird?’ Cameron mused.

 'As in?’

 'As in there’s no vandalism tonight,’

 'Because it’s the end of the series?’

 'Series?’ He prompted.

 'These three spectacles are from the same series,’  

 'Any story behind?’

 Leanne pursed her lips, contemplating.

 'Anne?’

 'Don’t call me that,’ She snapped.

 'It’s a dedication to Mom.’

 The statement hung there, lingered, seeped into the late night placidity. It reopened an old wound, yanked the closed flesh open, sprinkling salt on it, prolonging the torture. Pain, grief, sorrow coiled around her heart, tightening their grips, she was enwreathed with suffocation.

 He stared at her, watched as she drifted into the world of memories, as she strayed into despair. He adored that look of hers, the look of indulgence, the look of losing herself into her little world. If only he could capture the beauty of her, stilled the allure of her.

 'Earth to Leanne,’ He announced.

 'Yeah?’ Leanne said, startled.

 'It’s a pity,’

 'That?’

 'That the series is vandalized,’

 'And?’

 ’'And’?’

 'It just feels like you have something to add,’

 'And it feels pretty incomplete,’

 'Depending on what you mean,’

 'Well, three is just not a good number,’

 'And I believe you do have some great ideas in mind, don’t you Deputy?’ Sarcasm lining the words.

 'In fact, I do,’ He smiled. A smile she did not quite like.

 'Care to elaborate?’ Her eyes narrowed.

 'I was thinking about adding something to the collection, something your mother loved,’

 'And what is it?’

–

  'Anne?’ Chris called, pushing the door ajar as he balanced his takeouts on one hand.

 The smell of grease seeped into the crisp air, swirling a new tornado of warmth into the frosty room.

 'I’ve got hash browns for you,’ Chris hollered, placing their breakfast on the front desk.

 His gruff, husky voice resonated in the hollow room. He was met with silence, complete stillness. A gust of cool morning breeze past by, sending chills up his spine; he felt it, he felt something off. He let his pupils roamed the space, probing for traces of his daughter, but only exhibits and displays came into view.

 He stalked to the staircase, crushing snow remnants under his bulky boots. Nothing had yet given the location of his daughter away, he silently prayed that this was simply a prank of Leanne.

 As the pads of his fingers came in contact with the railing, he frowned at the glacial sensation. It did not appear as one of the wintry frostiness, instead, if possible, he was crept out by the iciness. He shook his head, trudging up the stairs; for once, he tried not to trust his instincts.

 He halted to a stop once proceeded to the second floor, petrified. He could not speak, he could not move, he could not breathe; oxygen rushed out of his lungs, it felt as if his throat was clutched tight. A new display was propped next to the devotions for his wife.

 On a wooden chair, a sleek polished antique chair, legs carved with flowers, chiseled with plants, refined with sophistication; seat padded with khakis cushion, embroidered with floral patterns, simplicity binding with delicacy, Leanne, dressed in a white, frilled dress with legs slightly crossed and bent, hands neatly folded on top, was sat on it, a patch of red was eminent on her abdomen. It was a patch of crimson that spoke a silent poignant truth, a patch of crimson that signified finales, a patch of Crimson that denoted brutality.

 He refused to look at his daughter’s features, he refused to look at her pale, ashen face, her stoic, sunken eyes, her white, ghastly lips. He refused to admit that the monster had seized her daughter’s life, he refused to bow to fate, admitting that he was, once again, left forlorn. He was not ready for the admittance, he never would be.

 He trained his eyes on the ground, his fists clutched firmly, knuckles gradually turning white. He swept his pupils around the room, and for a second he missed it, he missed the sign, but he darted his eyes back to it. It was placed at the feet of Leanne, like the tags in front of antiques, the tags that stated the name of the work.

 It said,

 Dedication.

[words-in-cascades-blog]

[words-in-cascades-blog]

02102018

She had been fine. For a mere 5 minutes, she had slipped, but soon she recovered. Tears were not to be manifested. She knew that.

She thought she had them in control, she thought they would be suppressed as long as she fooled around, she thought ecstasy would hold them down. But why, why as the door slid closed, the light dimmed and the humming of the laptop was the only noise able to be discerned did the crumbling began? Where was that ebullient ambiance that persisted hours ago?

On the floor, she hugged It near her chest, as though its softness would mend her heart. But like hell was that the case. For each crack that had appeared, It ripped it wider; for each drop of blood that had dripped, IT yearned for more to teem down.

She eventually heard them, the beasts, the howls and the cackles, all sounded like ripples of waves in wicked storms: they sneered at her vulnerability, her fragility that empowered their emergence; they mocked at her insecurity, her indignity that led to her failed speeches; they jeered at her futility, her impotence in holding her family together; they scowled at her vanity, her limited capacity in rendering ones that she loved to love her back. She allowed the taunting to shower on her, the soundless pummels to strike on her. She deserved them, the aches, the pain, the throbs, she deserved them.

A small beep echoed in the hollow room, a signal for the time. Supper would be called shortly, but it was beyond her capacity to move. It was strenuous, for even an inch. She wanted to lay there, motionless until she was carried away; off to a place where serenity was present, where her gashes would be smothered, where the dry blood would be cleansed, where her scars would be caressed, inside out, and where she would be besotted with.

“It’s time for dinner.”

A blaring sound of shattering followed, alongside a string of obscenities.

She sighed, a tedious breath of weariness, and spoke in a hushed tone, “Just leave it there.”

[words-in-cascades-blog]

Poster

Nobody cares. Nobody ever wonders her existence there; her slightly twisted head, her curiosity-filled eyes, her somewhat agape mouth. Nobody ever spares a glance at her, except for her pink branded backpack, swung casually on her shoulder. They never delve into her appearance on the poster, in between the transparent film and the bright light; they are only enthralled by the representation of the significant materialism.

She is always enlightened by the thought of ditching the filthy bag, laced with the showcase of utilitarianism, away; if only she is allowed to move in daylight, if only she dares to shift a tinge.

She wants them to stare into her turquoise pupils, she wants them to tell her they are aware of her entity, she wants them to tell her they discern her beauty before they can acknowledge the bag, but her hope is beyond surreal in this nonchalant apathetic world.  

It had taken her a while to apprehend why nobody has addressed her existence, but, gradually, she has deduced the answer herself. She eventually fathoms that her presence is only to exhibit the bag, to display the bag; without it, her ubiety is vain. She knows the day is about to arrive, the day when she will be torn off and replaced by a new portrait, when she will be carried away and be either shredded into pieces or stacked at the back of the storage cabinet; but she wishes, she yearns that before she will be taken down, a person, just one, will come before her and whisper that he sees her there.