Sunday, January 07, 2007

Tapitoo: a nice story =)

to Johnny who needs inspiration 4 his commonwealth. u can look at mine not to say that its really good or anything. =)


He frowned deeply at the card in his scrutiny, willing the letters to start morphing into the desired alphabet. And the card just stared blankly back. Nothing happened. But life was always like that; it was always so strict, so absolute. It was taking so many muscles to establish that psychic connection. His facial muscles contracted into strenuous globules; the muscles connected to the metacarpals clutching the card; his brain straining to create that telepathic medium required to shift the dots of that specific alphabet to another location on the card; the cardiac muscles which pumped constantly throughout this operation. It was a tiring thing; telepathic manipulation, and he was losing focus. He knew could not concentrate anymore. Soon, his scrunched up face returned back to normal, and the letters on the card still remained the same. Nine ‘A’s and one ‘B’.

‘A’s were the standard in this household of academic over-achievers. His father was a high-flying executive holding a masters in business management; his mother, a graduate with first class honours. Him? A current ‘O’ level scorer of nine ‘A’s and one ‘B’. His mother had commended him for being one of the top scorers in his school, but he just shrugged and walked off. And presently he was in his room, sitting on his bed, facing his report card, staring at it now having tried willing the letters to change. It was useless, and he sighed. Placing the card down, he glanced around his room.

Door met wall, wall met cupboard, cupboard met floor, floor met toilet, toilet met wall, wall met table, wall met bed and wall met window. This square hole through the back terrace wall was through which the late afternoon sun spread its bright, illuminated tendrils. He sat still, watching the afternoon sunlight slowly fade into ever radiant, glistening splendour, listening to the hum of his family car, as it carried his parents off to dinner. This room had seen him pass fifteen years of his life. And He knew everything like the back of his hand; the feel of the walls; the noise of the shower; the smell of lacquer and wood of his table, and even the voices of the mirrors. Indeed, they could talk.

But there was just silence. Alone again, once again. But was there ever a time he was not?

“Cheer. You have never been.”

“And to whom are you referring to, Johnny? You?”

“Why of course.”

“Johnny, this conversation is boring the hell out of me. A door of your calibre and intelligence should obviously know the meaning of my last sentence.”

“Well, comparatively, I am one in this room endowed with higher-order thinking, and comparatively you could say that I am somewhat human so as to speak. So does that satisfy your arguable requirements of your need for a comparatively tangible, physical manifestation of a so-called “human being” for company?”

“Just get away you useless piece of wood!”

“At least I have more use than a failure.”

That was it. He rose up in the rage of the moment, grabbing Desmond together in one swift deft movement and with a scream from exertion and anger, he let loose this flying missile. It was a beautiful sound, the thud from the impact of the stool connecting with Johnny. But it was not enough for him, just one outburst. He flew again at Johnny, kicking and smashing with all his might. When was destruction so relieving, so enjoyable? Life was just so full of problems, so full of stress that each second of allowance was to be treasured. To be at peace, to enjoy, to be free to bask in the glory of conquering all hardships, to live life for all it was worth, or just to be able to release all agony and anger. Were these really worth so much? Perhaps, for life and all its inadequacies just made catharsis more desired.

Not satisfied yet, his rampage extended to the rest of the room. To Tyler and Sarah, smashed with pieces of Johnny; to Ralph who had all his cotton ripped out; to Mr. Sung whose springs were exposed. He felt light, happy, and almost delirious in his bloodlust. Destruction was just so relieving, so enjoyable. His hands were bloody, and the room was littered with wood, glass and cotton. And after a while the pleasure of this temporal excitement would wear off and it was back to reality, back to finding more relief. That was life, repeating its miserable cycle day after day after day, with millions of souls trapped in this vicious cycle.

He sat down; the effects of the adrenaline rush were wearing off. His hands were still bloody, and the room was still littered with wood, glass and cotton. He first looked at the carnage, then he looked at his hands, and then again and again and again. The room, in which he had spent fifteen years of his life, was gone; wrecked and disfigured beyond recognition. This capsule, this room of his. His thoughts were enclosed within it, and so were all forms of his human superficiality. Communication, fun, games, laughter, everything within this capsule. Now it was gone, just like swallowing a pill.

As he looked, the pieces of Johnny, Tyler, Sarah, Ralph and Mr. Sung stared back at him. They knew him from infancy; they grew up with him; they cried with him; they laughed with him; they worked with him; and through all the loneliness and solitude, they kept him sane. He never trusted anyone else outside this room. People never told the truth, neither did they keep their words. He never had any friends, only project partners who disappeared after the job was done, and they had their ‘A’s written over the entire project. And yes, he would still work with them, neither willing nor trustingly – just to get the ‘A’s on the card, of which he was an obsequious servant.

In his world, his capsule – this little room of his, the card was the master. The card determined the number of hours he slept, the number of hours he would spend eating, if he would do anything else other than studying. It was this card which he chose to place above everything in his life – his friends, family, soul, sanity, everything. It was a sinister exchange, in which he pawned more than his benefited, but it was his choice. Then he needed to find ways to keep himself from going insane. First came Tyler, then Ralph and Johnny, who was his best friend, then Sarah and Mr. Sung. Soliloquy? He begged to differ. But now the room was destroyed, utterly. His friends were gone, murdered in cold blood. His spirit was crushed by the letters on the card. His life had lost its purpose.


He found himself sniggering. Sniggering at his stupidity; at the bargain which he had made; at himself. What a fool he had been. His life was empty now, and this was a sad excuse to continue living – to lose everything in the end. He had killed his soul in this tradeoff; he had just killed his only friends. Everything he had was lost, and all that was left was this selfish, useless, lonely hide of his. Yes, lonely. Nothing would ever be the same again. Nothing could ever be the same again. Nothing would bring them back to life again. Even if he could make a new Johnny, it would just be another a robotic replica, a clone, a physical manifestation of something he could not bring back to life. There would be no animated character in his framed body. It would just be another furnished fixture.

Alone again, once again. But this time there was no Johnny to comfort him; no Mr. Sung to lie on and cry his heart out; nor any Tyler or Ralph or Sarah to hear his incessant ranting. They were no more, swept away into the depths of his raging, tempestuous yet righteous anger. He had killed them, but he was the provoked one; that was enough justification, right?



Just silence.

Silence. It was so deafening; like a roaring hurricane with no noise whatsoever, the sound of silence pervaded the absolute reaches of the capsule. Then he heard it.


It came as a whisper, but he had heard it still. It was too real to be the wind, too real to be the remnants of Johnny creaking, too real to be the rusty springs of Mr. Sung. It was just too real. Then he heard it again, ever so clearly, ever so distinctly; but there was nobody else in the room. There was no physical, tangible, materialized form from which the voice spoke.


“No, I am not.”

“Murderer. Murderer. Murderer, murderer…”


But the voices would not.

“Murderer, Murderer,murderermurderermurderemurderermudermurder…”



The lifeless eyes stared out of the window, looking at the last beams of fading sunlight that coloured his face a beautiful golden brown. They just stared, and stared, and stared. They stared yet not understanding anymore. Catharsis was always a relief to the tortured. His soul was with Johnny, Tyler, Sarah, Ralph and Mr. Sung; no more a sad and lonely person, no longer trapped in that little room of his. And the shell just stared on, into the setting sun.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Awesome story.

8:32 PM  
Blogger bewitchedentity said...

haha david! this is leican. i changed my blog to blogspot (: heh we are learning soliloguy too. shakespeare ((: whee~~~haha no more emo post i guess? hmms i shall cya around k.

10:33 PM  

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