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By Vernon Ooi All Rights Reserved ©

Mystery / Horror


Down the pavement, walked a man. Dragging his feet and it seems to get heavier each moment he paves another step. Aimlessly he dragged on, pondering, thinking, where he has got to head to. Hurtling blindly in this void and soon came he to an open beach. There, a bench so much tempting to the soul. Releasing such unique aura that no man can avoid. The plain old bench faced the big, deep and endless ocean. Watching as the waves ceaselessly slapped its fragile hands against the sand. There, no doubt, on the chair, the old man sat. He sat there quietly always, never complain, never a word. Soon came a thought; a thought that young man would never believe to have cross his mind. Wasting much effort of rejecting such invitation, he walked towards the magical bench. He dragged his feet along the way while his mind cautiously warns him of the danger of such act. It will be an act so irreversible so monstrous that it would destroy him into pieces. Struggling with conflict and the sense of danger, his lust overwhelmed his natural instinct. He picked up his pace, walking now steadily. Not long after he started to walk faster, heading toward the bench.

The old man, wonderfully he sat there still watching the naive waves that never stop waging its war against the sand. His eyes grew ever deep, as absorbing as a black hole. Always the old man watched farther from where he is. Always he watched deep into the depth of the very ocean that has been devouring so many lives that the humans stopped to count each and every one of them. Long has there buried the bones of our ancestors, people who we might be able to relate, the brethren of the very life we consume, daily. We showed no remorse and yes we showed no sympathy. We have but amazingly consuming, regardless of its consequences. As the man sat down there, he began to think.

Thoughts crossed his mind in flashes about his past, his current, and his future. One thing they always do--never cease to amaze. So amazing, so beautiful that it hurts. It hurts so much that one could not shed a tear for tear is a material for luxury. Looking far, looking deep into the ocean. He felt a belonging. A sense he has not felt before. He thought if it is now the current moment then maybe he too is able to unburden his soul. He started to speak. Not to the old man but to the sea. The old man was there, always there and just there.

Life is a bitch, you know that don't you? You've lived long enough to not know. They came around like a sweet dessert and slap you when you've tasted the tip of the fucking iceberg. Then when you fall, they slap you again. They'd pulled you up like nothing ever happened and when you're on your god damn feet, ha! Slapped! Just slap! And when you think you’ve defeated them, one dies while another sneaked up your back and slapped. The never ending cycle of life and death, we live, they live, we die and they still live. The time you thought you've found happiness is when the time you would have known that another slap is coming, homing right into your face, vigorously asking you to face your reality, your hard cold solid reality that life was never nice. It is a never ending torment to see who survived the longest. It is a battle arena to see which Masochist last the longest. It has always been the very stage of actors to test their ability to endure the most embarrassing moment.

There is this indescribable feeling in me, my friend. A feeling so vague, so void, so real. I would have found no words to describe it. It transcends the very intelligence of human races. It is so pure and without a doubt, perverse. It would sting your heart like a thousand needles and squeeze the very bloody juice out of you. The churning of your abdomen is one less thing to worry when such beautiful and fragile hands--such beauty you can never imagine--the imperfection of perfection made its way into such one hand--that breaks the very docility and kindness in your heart. You'd wished to have the power to stand above all laws and to admit the very inconsistent thought of bloods on your hand where your temperament of character would laugh in excitement. Not to mention the very succeeding feeling of having your success in your first try where your victims plead and begged for forgiveness. The faces of such shameless act should be savor for as long as it should, and if possible, the very act itself froze in time for such events so that we could see the very faces of these sympathetic fools in tears and on their knees begging for the very life they've had.

I would not plea for sanity for I know my thoughts very well. Only mad men would plea for their sanity and only an insane person would deny his very thought of insanity. They had not known the true faces of madness. The happy feeling of showing no remorse to which or whatever they had done. The ability to not being able to remember the deed succeeded and to forget the very excitement that their act has caused. A mad man knows no sadness and has no feelings of remorse. That I assure you and do you concur?

Then there, on one specific day, I could hold such thoughts no longer. I cannot bear to keep up with the facade of such rotted world. Such act should be played in a masquerade and then there I was, just to realize, the world is but a stage and me? A player played for a fool. William Shakespeare was not wrong. All the world's a stage and life as it is, a walking shadow. We strut and fret our hour upon the stage but then is heard no more. We signified nothing. Nothing at all. The world is but one cold hearted-cruel-bitch.

Then here I am. Speaks as if I am mad. To no one but the ocean and an old man who has probably lost his hearings. Reply me not if you can listen. I'd have no hope for such occasion. You are but an old man who sank your hips here every day, waiting for the tickling to stop and me? A fool played by life, a puppet of a goddess to entertain her guests. I may not be here by chance or perhaps fate has probably brought me here. I bid you goodbye.

The man placed his hands on the bench and pushed himself up. Slowly he paced on the beach and soon he came back. He laid his back against the bench slowly then he raised his palm to rub his face. He felt a sudden heaviness in his eyes and slowly, very slowly he shut his eyes and relaxed his body.

The next morning, the man's dead body was found sitting on the bench but the old man was long gone. Police had it that the man murdered his whole family before reaching the beach. Strangely enough, there was a blue butterfly circling around him even when he was bagged and sent to the morgue.

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