I
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

- W. H. Auden

She watched as he lit up a cigarette, the long, dark fingers easily maneuvering the lighter. He took a puff, and almost immediately the room filled with acrid fumes. She hated smokers, but with him it was sexy, in an almost dangerous way. Her gaze dropped from the cigarette between his lips to his naked shoulders, bruised slightly from their little rendezvous. She wanted so badly to reach out and touch it, to kiss the bruises she'd made and those shoulders.

She looked up at him again. The hand holding the cigarette was shaking slightly. She tried catching his eyes, but he was purposely avoiding her stare. His azure blue eyes was concentrating on something somewhere in the room.

"Put your clothes on." He said it quietly, neither threateningly nor with any warmth he displayed earlier. He still didn't look at her.

She did what she was told. She continued watching him as she pulled on her panties. He was naked, the dim light from the candles scattered around the room illuminating his body. Watching him standing there, one hand holding the cigarette and another hand curled around his slim waist, she paused.

He was beautiful.

She slowly put on her clothes, hoping that he'd turn around and look at her. She needed those eyes to be on her again, needed them to be adoring and full of want and desire. She needed them to be dark and full of lust, so that he could take them in his strong arms and make love to her again.

But when he finally looked at her, they weren't filled with anything. Just weariness. And fear.

"You should've told me."

She dropped her eyes to the floor.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He gestured towards the bed, sheets stained with blood. He had unknowingly taken the innocence of a girl who was tainted in the first place. Her blood, her dirty blood, had now tained his too.

Now he would be sick. Just like her.

She looked up at him, without hate, without malice. Just love, and lust, and everything that he had displayed earlier.

"Because I didn't want to."

He looked away from her, hands shaking more violently now. The cigarette was almost gone, but he took another puff and tipped it. She watched silently as the ashes fell to ground.

She approached his naked back, wrapping her arms around his waist and kissed his shoulders. He remained motionless; not resisting, not advancing. She whispered in his ear.

"Now you're mine."

For her tainted innocence, he'll be paying by having his life tied to hers.

She walked away.

Labels: fiction - pure

It's raining again. Thick, fat droplets of water slamming every possible surface in the city.

He went to window and touched it lightly, his warm breath drawing small circles on the cold glass. His eyes fixed blankly on the scene in front of him, trying hard to see through the blurring rain. He drew nearer to the window, nose pressing against the glass. He wanted to see her, see her walk across the street like she does everyday. It was 9.30. Still early. He'd usually see her at 10.05, five minutes before her daily bus came.

He continued leaning against the window. Waiting.

Waiting. 9.45 now.

Waiting. Almost 10.

There she was.

She was hurrying across the street, resisting the wind that was blowing against her umbrella. A thick, pink sweater was wrapped around her waist. Odd, he thought, it must be cold outside yet she has it around her waist. The rain was soaking through her thin blue shirt and jeans, and he could tell that she was shivering. Her lips were almost blue, and on one shoulder a black backpack was slipping off it.

She looked as beautiful as ever.

He lifted the binoculars, focusing on her face. The flawless display of perfection looked a little messy, as if she woke up late and applied her makeup a little hastily. A small, black pool - mascara? He wasn't sure - had gathered around her eyes, making it look as if she had been crying black tears. The focus of the binoculars made it seem like she was right in front of him. He wanted to reach out and brush away those black tears.

He continued following her until she stopped, pausing momentarily in front of the bus stop. He lowered down the binoculars and saw the reason for it. The bus stop was packed, filled with commuters anxious to avoid the rain. Others, like her, were unfortunate. They were forced to stand outside in the pouring rain, some without the protection of an umbrella, a briefcase or anything else. Amidst the crowd he spotted a small child, perhaps nine or ten, standing miserably under the rain, his school uniform already soaked. No one seems to be offering the boy any help.

The lack of humanity broke his heart.

Concentrating on the child had made him lose track of the girl, and this made his heart skip. Where was she?

Using the binoculars, his eyes scanned the crowd, relaxing slightly when he saw her under the shade. She'd closed her umbrella and was using a tissue to try and dry herself off, to no avail. The man next to her said something and this made her laugh, and jealousy surged through him. He wished he could be the one close to her, making her laugh.

She said something back to him, and the man passed her his newspaper. She scanned the newspaper, paper dampening slightly by her wet hands. Suddenly her eyes widened. Her left hand covered her mouth, and her eyes started filling with concern and worry.

He'd read the papers earlier, and he knew what the frontpage news were about. A girl in her early 20's was found raped and murdered; body dumped near the river. It appeared to be nothing more than a random rape case, but what fascinated the public was that three other girls were found dead in similar fashion. There was nothing extraordinary about the case except that a small, red cherry was found in the girls' mouth.

She commented on the story to the man next to her, and he looked non-plussed. He watched as the man replied back, and his lips mouthing the words 'it happens'. The girl looked at the man with disdain for a moment, and averted her attention back to the newspaper.

He wished he could hit the man then. It's only typical that in a world filled with neverending war and terror that rape and murder of young women would seem minor, almost insignificant. It's easier to focus on materialistic things than be worried by social destruction. His girl, on the other hand, was what he hoped humanity would be: concerned, if not helpful.

The bus arrived then.

It was a mad scramble; people desperately trying to get on the bus while avoiding the rain at the same time. He focused on the girl again, watching her hand back the newspaper, fix the backpack on her shoulder, and patiently wait for everyone else to go on the bus. Even the man sitting next to her had rushed to get into the vehicle.

Sometimes beauty can be both inside and out, he thought.

He continued watching her, until she stepped onto the bus and disappeared. He stayed in that position until the bus finally started to move, and vanished under the mist and in the distance.

He lowered his binoculars and placed it one the windowsill, taking a step back before turning around and seeing his breakfast. He picked it up on the way back from work last night. It looked so good on the table like that that he was suddenly anxious to get to it.

He walked to the small container on the kitchen counter, opening it up and taking a small cherry. He went to the table and opened her gag, forcing her to take it in his mouth. She didn't want it, but he slipped it in anyway. It felt good to him, that she was taking in one last meal before he took over her innocence. Like the others, she looked like the girl on the bus stop. So much that he was overwhelmed.

Tomorrow, there will be another body, and another headline.

Labels: fiction - adaptation

She looked at her watch, and picked up her pace. Time was running out. If she didn't hurry, she'd miss it.

The climb up was difficult. It was still dark, and the high hill was steep and rocky. She'd mistakenly chosen to wear slippers that morning, forgoing practicality in her haste. Every slip and slight fall she experienced gave her a little horror, but she steeled her resolve and continued her climb.

The air was cold and crisp, the sharp tinge of winter was still in the air. Flowers were blooming again; tiny buds of beauty peeking shyly out of the ground. In a few weeks this place would be absolutely stunning, she thought. But in a few weeks she wouldn't want to be there to enjoy it.

To her, there were no such thing as true beauty anymore.

She was almost there. She could see the lightening sky framing the tree-covered summit of the hill and growing slightly more excited, she walked faster.

Suddenly, she winced when she lost her balance, cutting her delicate hands in the process as she desperately tried to cushion her fall. Small pangs of pain shot through her.

Pain similar to those striking her heart, she thought airily.

Are all pain the same?

Standing up, she brushed herself off and was slightly dismayed to find out that she had smeared a little blood on her clean, white shirt. She looked at her hands. Her left hand had a cut; small, almost imperceptible, but it was there. Thick red blood was flowing furiously even with her using a tissue to apply pressure. After awhile she gave up, wrapping the tissue around her hand to discourage the bleeding.

Why persist, if you know you can't make a difference?

She was there. Here, and barely on time. The sun was rising, the brilliant streaks of yellow and orange painting the sky, setting up what she felt was a wistful, heavily romanticised scene. She usually came here when she felt her worst. She felt that with every sunrise, her mistakes and foolish naivety was slowly but surely being erased off. The beauty of the scene took her breath away, making her feel that even with every obstacles and shit she went through everyday, there were always bigger, more beautiful things. At least she thought there were.

Nothing is beautiful and true.

She pushed away plants and trodded ahead, carefully perching on her favourite spot: a small, flat rock that served as her stool. The first tentative rays of light began shining, but she still felt cold. She shivered slightly, wrapping her arms around herself and tried to ignore it. Was it from the breeze or from the bitterness in her chest, so strong that she could feel the unpleasant sensation in her mouth?

The sun was still rising, lazily making its way up to the clouds. The yellow and orange streaks spread, splashing the sky with the magnificent light. She could hear the first few notes of the singing birds, oblivious to the intruder that sat in their midst. She stared at the beautiful scene, struck with amazement and sadness. How could something be so beautiful, when everything else wasn't?

Was this beauty fake and temporary too? Like the rest of the beauty she'd known?

How is it that love and beauty were related, when love was destructive and beauty wasn't?

Why is it that love damages? Like the cut on her hand, the bleeding in her heart, the pain in her chest?

Can you ever feel beauty and be in love at the same time?

Can you ever love someone too much and not be hurt by it?

Why sadness? Why is it that everything ends with sadnesses?

Love just isn't.

She peered up at the sky, shielding her eyes from the now-blinding sunlight. She's always related sunrises and sunsets to life. There were the beautiful moments, the moments you take for granted, the moment where it was beautiful again, and the end of it all. She thought the cycle was the same: for love, for friendships, for emotions. For the pain that you go through, the fleeting joy you experience and the neverending crossroads. For the laughter, tears and heartbreak.

To her, it felt like pain was more meaningful. Happiness; no matter how happy you are, it never lasts. But pain lingers, striking the depth of your emotions that runs deep through the very core of you makes you hurt, hurt, hurt. Funny, she thought bitterly, how beautiful and lovely things were supposed to make you happy and yet can cause equal pain. When happiness and pain were equal, pain wins the day because it simply lasts longer.

Will it ever end?

The sun was fully up now, shining brightly against the cloudless sky.

She stood up.

Today was another day. New, but still so similar to yesterday.

It never ends.

Labels: fiction - life experience

Welcome to inspired scrawls, sister site of vacant-spaces.

This is where I will periodically post my writings (if any), new and old.

For daily rambling and general junk floating in my head, plz click this.

Occasional commentary will be given, ie my emotional state and opinion about the piece. If I feel like it, but usually I just write everything that's in my head and try to shape it into something that makes seeeense. If you're lucky it will. But if it doesn't, well. It just means I'm creative, right?