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Thoughts of Death

The whistle of the kettle jerked me awake. I scrambled to sit up, feeling beads of perspiration trickle down my forehead and my back. My heart was beating so fast, I could barely feel it against my chest. That terrifying sensation brought my hand to my chest. Then, thinking better of it, to the pulse on my wrist. Thump-thump-thump.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and purposefully counted every inhale(-two-three-four) and exhale(-two-three-four). As more time passed, the more I began to slowly see the room around me: peach-coloured curtains that barely blocked out the sunlight on hot days, lavender walls with floral designs and a long bookshelf just in front of my bed, filled to the brink with books I'd read and not.

It had been almost half an hour since I got woken up. Time hadn't seem to pass so fast. The kettle had long stopped whistling, killed by either Dad or Mom as they needed their cups of milo to start their day. It was a Saturday, but they were freelancers who still made themselves work, and hearing the showers turning on, I knew they had already cleared the dining room. They didn't need to know of this panic attack. Before, it had been a lot worst. Not anymore. It's a work hazard - for someone who works in the health industry, it makes sense. Or perhaps it's the unfortunate thing that befalls any overthinker.

I have a thing about hearts. I am afraid it will stop. In a way, afraid that I will die suddenly and alone from a heart attack. The cause of fear? Unknown. I have this thing even though I am only twenty-seven, but who is to know who death will find? A two-year-old lies on a couch while undergoing radiation therapy for the cancer growing in her brain.

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Lingering Thoughts No.16

"Did the doctor prescribe this to you?" I asked, indicating the orange-coloured lozenges my colleague had passed me.

"No lah, it's from my boyfriend."

And, to my huge surprise, something heavy dropped in my chest. The impact of it could be felt even in my abdomen, and I paused for a moment, completely bewildered by that sensation, all along aware of the wave of sadness and loneliness washing over me. If I let it, I could drown in it, but not now. I was at work and, though we were still waiting for the next patient to arrive, it was not the right time.

All I said was, "Oh." I was glad we were still required to wear surgical masks indoors. I wouldn't have wanted her to see the expression on my face, sure to have so much vulnerability that I was not prepared to show.

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Lingering Thoughts No.15

It was evening when I was on the bus. I had finally picked myself up to go for a yoga lesson at the studio, something I hadn't done in over a month, and was on my way home. I remember feeling victorious, and extremely proud of myself for pushing through mental obstacles and getting where I was.

All these was going through my head when the back door to the bus opened, and up came an elderly man with a baby stroller, filled with bags of groceries. I found it strange at first, but had my confusions erased when he was joined later on, from the front of the bus, a pair of children and, I gathered, his wife. The makcik immediately tried to find spots for the little girl to stand, poles to grab hold on before the bus continued on its way. Finally, she carried her granddaughter on an empty seat not too far off. The little girl stayed quietly interested in the toy she held in her hand, a sort of mini treasure box, all purplish and princess-like, with its curves similar to what you'd see in cartoons full of pirates and their loots.

This family must have gone shopping together, ready to go home and break their fast, I thought to myself. My heart warmed.

Beside me, I saw the boy gesture to his grandmother that he'd like to go up the double-decked bus. Makcik gestured to her husband, pointing at the little girl sitting on her own, before following her grandson up those stairs.

From where I stood, I saw the little girl so focused on the treasure box she held in her hand. Her not wearing a mask showed me everything that went through her face. At first nonchalant, then came a pout, followed by a pair of wet eyes.

Immediately, the auntie sitting beside her could sense that something was wrong. She reached out a hand to pat her head, hoping to put her at ease. The little girl took one look at her, then ignored her.

Gesturing to the pakcik standing not too far off, still with the stroller, auntie signed to him, with fingers running down her face. A man standing not too far off waved at her, but to no avail. She was about to have a breakdown.

Finally, the auntie sitting beside her gave up her seat. The pakcik thanked her profusely before pulling his granddaughter to him, telling her that her datuk was here.

The little girl started to cry in earnest.

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The Kitchen Throws A Tantrum

Every kitchen has a soul. You enter one, and there will be a vibe that tells you all about the individual, or the family, who owns it. Where are the bowls? Is it a gas stove or an induction stove she’s got there? Where are the spoons and chopsticks — are they in the drawers here next to the sink or below the red water dispenser? A stranger can never dare to step into someone else’s home and be so confident as to understand their kitchen on the get-go. Woe begets the know-it-all who opens a cupboard, only to be greeted with a furious clang and crash of metal and glass.

There’s something wrong with the kitchen my family shares. Everything was still fine two weeks ago, until my parents decided it was time to renovate. They killed a twenty-year-old soul. No more yellowed counter tops, no more cupboard doors hanging permanently open, and no more a sink made of stone. I don’t like it, and so far, it seems, this kitchen doesn’t like me either. My head collides with the overhanging cabinets that jut out too much, and my thigh still sports a terrible bruise from where I hit against an opened drawer.

Here’s the thing. Its creator, by the name of Mr Ng, told my parents that there were reasons why he’d designed it this way. My sister and I were hiding in our rooms when he and his wife came with a worker of theirs to put the finishing touches. He was loud, friendly, and from the way he spoke in his gravelly voice, he sounded he was in his early-sixties. He’d explained to them in Mandarin the reasons, and I could hear him from where I was. Gradually, my indignation at the death of a dear friend began to wane. Just slightly, but still. I’d thought at first all this uncle wanted to do was to make it look good his way without thinking of his clients. It turned out he did think of us, even though I felt his reasons were sub-par at best. There were too many blind spots to make this okay. Mark my words, one of these days, something more terrible than bruises was going to happen — but for now, I felt it was time to learn about the latest addition to our family.

After looking through several Youtube videos, I finally found a muffin recipe that looked decently easy to put together. I surprised myself by leaving the house on a Sunday morning and going to a nearby baking store to get some ingredients we lacked. Sour cream, milk, and flour. The act of purchasing these items for something I hadn’t done in months lifted my mood. For once, I felt optimistic that we were going to bond just fine.

Unfortunately, the kitchen decided to bite back that day. While I got the ingredients measured and ready, my head knocked against the edges of the hanging cupboards again. It also decided to hide the rubber bands I needed to properly seal the leftover flour, even making it inaccessible as my sister stood in front of the cupboard while she was marinading chicken pieces for dinner that day. If there was more space in the drawers like before with the other utensils, this wouldn’t—

No matter, I continued to place a pot of milk on the new induction stove, went through unfamiliar motions of pressing buttons with several dings, then sifted some cocoa powder into it. I followed it with sour cream, egg, and brown sugar, giving them a thorough mixing once the milk had warmed up. But as I whisked the mixture, it occurred to me that my batter looked thicker than it should. Adding a little more milk didn’t help, though it definitely made it look less dubious. I told myself it would turn out fine, they always did — most of the time, anyway. I was confident this would too.

When the flour went in, I began to have doubts. I tried to put it at the back of my mind when I added the last bit to the concoction — chocolates. They were my favourites, and imagining how they’d look once baked made my mouth water.

I sang Boho Days under my breath as I got the paper muffin cups (blue with little moustache prints), metal tray and oven ready. Five minutes at a higher temperature, twenty minutes at a lower temperature. The instructions said it was to give the muffins a crunchier top. By the time the oven rang, the kitchen was filled with a slight tinge of bitterness and sweetness, the aroma of chocolate-y goodness. I took one look at them, then smiled.

I snapped some pictures — gotta admit they looked really good on the new marble counter top — and waited eagerly for the muffins to cool enough. Once they did, I picked up a piece, then bit into it.

I expected fireworks; I got none.

It was the perfect temperature, warm enough that the flavours were allowed to burst through. Certainly, there was that promise of crunch…

I frowned and looked at it under the afternoon light, the little pores that made up the structure of this dessert. There was melted chocolate, but it wasn’t moist. And at the back of my tongue, I could taste flour. So much of it.

Slowly, I brought whatever was left to my mouth. The overpowering taste of cocoa invaded my senses. So bitter. So resentful. I bit my lips, then tutted impatiently.

If the kitchen thought I was going to give up so easily, it was going to be sorry.

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Lingering Thoughts No.14

The guides have spoken. The Universe has spoken. Shall I see it that way?

Sleepless nights have overtaken my life for years on end, and despite countless amounts of effort, deep slumbers are still not within my grasp. I can't remember when it started anymore. Meaningful words were exchanged, hearts were exposed, and a new path was laid out in front of me. It was as if a switch has flicked on in me.

A reversed card. A message from my guides. "You will be taken care of."

My heart, I will stop worrying about you. Death in sleep, I will stop thinking about you. Calm, I will need you to manifest the deepest slumbers in my life, for I have gone too long without it, and I am slowly breaking apart.

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The Fire Was Unstoppable

The phone in his hand just kept burning. And he couldn’t stop swearing. Instead of going to help, I only watched him wash it under a tap located outside the toilets. In my head, the thought that kept going was It’s just fire. Fire under water? It’ll be gone in a sec. As easy as that. I was right. The fire puffed out, leaving a trail of black smoke in its wake. The stench of it pervaded the whole area. Bewildered students who just stepped into the school through the automatic glass doors looked around, trying to find the source of this peculiar yet terrifying smell. Eventually, like everyone else who saw the situation like me, they turned and went on their way to class. It didn’t help that we were in an enclosed area, because that meant it was going to linger around for a while more. But that didn’t matter to me. The boy whose phone just burst into flames for whatever reason passed through those doors. I followed behind.

What greeted me was a saturated cerulean sky. The verdant landscape threw my breath away with its teal-like quality. It was as if I was in a dream. I had just transferred in to this university a week ago, and still I couldn’t get used to this view. It was so different from where I had come from: picture grey skies filled with smoke and no sign of vegetation all around, only tall, metallic tubes from factories. Those fences that kept trespassers out — only in Redsha. My family was lucky to be able to get away from there after my father was dispatched to this part of the country. The company had wanted him to learn more about renewable energy, a move that wasn’t supported by the mayor because money, but his boss had wanted a better future for his children and that was that. Good thing he was well-liked by everyone there. I had expected Gersha to be different, but not like this.

I hefted my bag up my shoulders before continuing down the grassy slope to where the stairs and gates were. Wind turbines loomed overhead, their blades cutting through the air with a loud swishing sound. The tall call tower, painted with a vibrant red and white, stood like an eye-sore amongst the beautiful scenery.

A loud exclamation brought my eyes back up front. It was him again. From the back, it looked as if he was doing a little dance, his shoulders rising up and down in tandem, his legs shuffling backwards. But then something dropped in front of him. A burst of orange and yellow. His youthful face scrunched up into a ball of fear and panic as he stomped at the burning piece of technology. I stood rooted to the spot, watching him. Something had taken ahold of me, and I was — mesmerised by the tiny flames.

When he realised that he couldn’t put the fire out, he began to run away, his white Nikes charred. I stared into the depths of the flames a little more, watching the phone breaking apart, before going on my way. A fire so small would extinguish on its own.

I was nearing the gates to the school when I heard a commotion not too far away. My gaze moved up the slope at a group of students screaming as fire continued to spread. Judging from a few of them who had their jackets in their hands, and their jeans slightly burnt at the edges, they had been trying to put it out but to no avail. I was quite sure someone would have already called the fire station. Help would arrive soon. I wasn’t too worried.

But then I heard screams of terror and confusion. Students that crowded quickly scattered. My eyes widened as I watched the quick formation of a tornado: there was only a hint at first as dark clouds began flowing to our side of the world, and then it got really big. Strong winds carried, grass got uprooted from soil, hair slapped at my face but I didn’t bother getting them tamed, but all these weren’t the only things that it wanted to possess. The fire, too.

The others and I continued to stay glued to the spot as we gazed up at the call tower getting engulfed in flames, until someone suddenly screamed, “Run!” It was the call for us to snap out of our stupor, and in a second, everything was different. The calm before the storm had ended, and chaos ensued.

My schoolmates and I ran so hard, not caring who we bumped into. I focused on following directions. Announcements echoed throughout town once we stepped through the gates, blaring from the loud speakers hanging from lamp posts. My mind took that time to finally catch up on the series of events. Everything had unfolded so fast that I was still in a state of disbelief, and it was like I floated as I got myself around.

“Please line up in an orderly manner to board the buses. Remain calm. The fire department is on their way.”

Remain calm? I watched as people flowed out of their houses, adding themselves to a queue that was already forming. I would have been impressed by how quickly the emergency response is were it not for how panicked I was slowly becoming. There were police ushering the crowd, trying to get them all to cooperate, but it wasn’t reassuring in any way. All I knew was I needed to get onto a bus fast.

As I continued to go down the queue, I eyed the growing fire nervously. Helicopters had flown towards it, but they couldn’t get too near. The tornado was still around, destroying everything in its path, fanning the fire. I gripped my phone, then felt suddenly guilty for not having thought of contacting my family until now. I tried to ignore the scorching heat as I scrolled through the messages I’d gotten from them, and replied them that I was safe and going to be fine. They were appalled that everything happened at my school. Reading it sent daggers through my heart.

If only… If only I had helped put away the fire. I had a bottle of water with me. The boy earlier probably panicked and never thought about using it, or maybe he hadn’t brought any water with him. Whatever it was, I could have helped stopped it, but I didn’t. Just that one wrong choice, and everything was going up in flames. Literally.

As I looked around, at the missing clear sky, at faces and voices filled with trepidation, I was thrown into a different world. And I didn’t know what to do.

—

Inspired by a nightmare I had.

Photo by Alfred Kenneally on Unsplash

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Who Is The Monster

It is always Chinese New Year when I see my uncle again. He’s one of those relatives: we aren’t close, but when we do meet, it’s always comfortable. Jolly, the man is all the time, and a particular favourite among his nieces and nephews. Every year, he’ll have a story for us, and we always look forward to it.

But there’s something a little off about him this time. He’s a sickly, grey hue. His cheeks are sunken, and the bags under his eyes — I’ve never seen anything darker. He barely smiles when he sees us, walking over with a sluggish gait and a terrible sigh as he takes a seat. My cousins and I cast silent glances at each other, seeing who’d be the bravest of us all to ask the question.

Turns out, there isn’t a need for it. Without any prompting, he begins his yearly routine. No theatrics, just a hand rubbing across his wrinkled forehead before proceeding, the sound of knife against the chopping board our backdrop to the whole situation as the adults help out in the kitchen.

There’s a monster in his company, he says scornfully. Things are not going well. Things are so different now compared to the past. There is a rumour that the monster eats everyone. Fresh blood who goes in determined to learn gets eaten up; the old… they hang on, but only just. The police have found deaths that they’ve ruled as suicide, but others are saying otherwise, that there is something else in there murdering them. Where is the evidence, my uncle asks.

He puts his hands to his head and growls about how ungrateful people can be. How disloyal. How outrageously stupid they can get. Now the company is falling, and so many jobs are lost.

I pity him.

But there must have been something I’ve missed, something I, as a teenager who has yet to venture out into the working world, do not know.

At the round dining table, I can see the adults sending furtive frowns in his direction. No one is talking to my uncle, so, so different from the past. It’s a reunion dinner I know will be imprinted in my mind forever. Only the sound of bubbles from the steamboat fills the air. I see them all, so fixated on adding plates of cabbages, crab sticks, prawns and other ingredients that make up this feast into the pot.

Seemingly unable to bear the reticence any longer, thirteen-year-old Jamie suddenly pipes up, telling everyone about the story Uncle has regaled. At the corner of my eye, I can see my father’s face getting redder; I can see the conflict in his eyes, to rebut or not? To laugh it off with us kids or to go against what my grandparents wish for a peaceful meal? They are clearly taking the story in stride, using this chance to try ease the tension a bit, laughing and snapping up fishcakes and enoki mushrooms into Jamie’s bowl. It’s like the rain cloud just before a storm that hovers and covers the world in darkness, nearly bursting at the seams.

In the car, I ask my father what went wrong back there. My mother immediately turns around, shushing me, telling me not to butt into dà rén dè shì — adult’s business. I bite my lips, feeling entirely indignant, but I keep quiet, and so does my father.

Finally, with deliberate care, my father tells me to think about the story. My uncle is the owner of his company, the one that has caused so many deaths — who is the monster?

Who is the monster?

When I go to sleep that night, I am haunted by dreams of a tentacled figure with my uncle’s face.

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Lingering Thoughts No.13

It was one of those breezy nights — a great relief, as I had decided to take a walk home. Staying on the bus would have wasted so much time, and oh, the crowd. I'd hoped it would have been a double-decker, but no. Sadly, no. There were so many who was on the way home like me, and we couldn't do anything but deal with it. Not me. At least I had the choice of enjoying some time on my own after a few bus stops.

As usual, my mind strayed. Mindfulness — this was what I had been training my mind to do all these years and still failed to do. But these thoughts empowered me and made me feel good and proud about myself.

The energy I felt strumming through my entire being was addictive, and I wanted to announce to the whole world what a wonderful beginning the year has been so far. I felt stronger, more patient, braver. I could feel a shift, and I wondered where I'd end up when the whole experience has etched itself permanently in my heart.

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Soup

You watch your grandfather slurp his noodles, see his hands shake as he holds his chopsticks, holds his spoon. Soup gets everywhere. A mess. You go to the kitchen and get a cloth. You make a frustrated groan as he continues to spill, spill it everywhere. The floor. His clothes. Your hand. You will not know that this is your last meal with him. Every time you drink your soup, you will be reminded of this moment, of regrets, of pain, of shame. Of love. Like ashes, this present will slip through your fingers, and you’ll only know what you’ve lost when it’s too late.

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Lingering Thoughts No.12

As I walked around the supermarket, my mind was constantly on the go. What would be easy to put together and still tastes good? I was tired of carrots, potatoes and the general noodle soup. There should be something else. And then I decided it was time to return to a week of pan frying. There were still leftover impossible beef (really expensive) in the fridge at work, and, I have to say, boiled (really expensive) impossible beef didn't taste good at all.

I headed to the cashier with salmon and a packet of soba noodles. My mind continued to run its own marathon. Was there anything else? I had a voucher to take advantage of; I didn't want it to go to waste. When the cashier was available and it was my turn, I suddenly remembered eggs.

After placing the items on the conveyor belt, I asked, "Sorry, could I go grab a carton of eggs?"

"Hmm?"

"Could I grab a carton of eggs?"

The cashier lady thought for a while, then nodded. Probably mapping out where in the store the eggs were. Good thing they were close by. I picked what I wanted, and went back to the counter.

"Happy New Year," we said to each other at the same time as she passed me the receipt. I could just see her smiling behind her mask. I walked away with my bag of groceries feeling light and happy. Just three words, yet it had made my day. I'd like to think that was a sign 2022 would be a good year.

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12/12/2021

Dear diary,

It's another day in the mountains! The four of us have set up camp in the forest. It's a spot surrounded by coniferous trees, vegetation we obviously don't see on our sunny island. The sweet, fresh scent of those leaves I can never get enough of, and even as I sit here on the edge of the cliff writing this, out in the open air, I can smell it. Ahh, I can't imagine ever going back to Singapore.

The weather here is so, so different. It's cold, but not so much that we can see our breaths, though things might be a little different today. Temperatures are dropping fast, and I can already feel my hands growing numb as I write this. Good thing I brought along another blanket with me. I'm not going to move from here just yet. It's sunset now, and I'm sure the Night Bringer will make his appearance soon. I don't dare tell the others what I've read, lest they think me mad, so I've excused myself and planted myself here. After hiking for so long, trying to keep up with conversations here and there, not having the time to take in all the grandeur of nature on my own, this feels absolutely amazing.

The cloak of night comes first. Then the little stars that adorn it. Against the fading light, it isn't very palpable, but it is there. It doesn't have a beginning nor end; it just floats like a ghost that wanders. Then, in a blink of an eye, I see his growing form. The sunlight slants in a way that catches the side of his body, before the parts of him in shadow gradually appear.

It's breathtaking, the way he moves. Such confidence in his stride, but there is no arrogance. He holds his head high, his antlers grazing the clouds a little as he brings along his night magic with him. Slowly, I begin to see the crescent form among them, and the stars hanging from them. For a moment, I think his glittering eye meets mine. It catches my breath, and I hear my heart pound harder, as if struggling to escape from the clutches of my ribcage and go towards him. He doesn't acknowledge me, only continues on.

I mean to turn to call the others over, but I don't want to spook him. I sit here, all the way through, until he covers the whole sky with darkness and shooting stars, and he is no more.

Elaine

— Art created by me under the name Elaine Aneira.

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Blind

She yearned to devour it. The thirst, it made her confused. All this time she had gone through life without a single drop of romance — and yet, she wanted it. She wanted to rip it apart, solve it, find out the reason why everyone had fallen under its spell. She wanted to discover the secrets behind its power. Was it ever really so bright? Did it not hurt? She felt the hurt when the sun shone in her eyes, but still, she was not blind.

Her screen lit up, and she felt that familiar tug in her chest — that mild quickening of her heart. Her lips disappeared inside her mouth as she calmed herself, fully aware what that might mean. But it had been her choice to go down this path, to prove to herself that this love that everyone grappled for was not worth it. On this application, she had started texting someone, and — if at all possible — she found herself lost in emotions foreign to her. It was a dream, an imagination, an expectation of what he was like behind that screen. And while she struggled against hope, she was lost.

Tomorrow, they would meet, and she knew he would be impossibly, shamelessly blinding.

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Lingering Thoughts No.11

Gloom has come to Singapore. To be grateful for this weather that is away from what is commonplace is an understatement. Walking past the tall white sheets of plastic dividers with a retracted umbrella in hand, a strange sense of familiarity washed over me. Rain was falling lightly, tapping against the makeshift shelter that had been built along the construction site. At the cool breeze, I decided, what I remembered was not here, but my time away, in Korea, many years ago.

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Lingering Thoughts No.10

What is it that we are meant to do; where is it that we are meant to go? The thoughts in my head are jumbled. They are lines that can never find their way through to the other side. What if... What if...? All these possibilities, never to unfold, because for them to unfold, I must first have that courage. But how can anyone pick up that courage? The roads fork out, and we are not given the choice to make a U-turn. It's like 'once broken, considered sold'. And I don't want that. Safe. Safe is good. But being safe is also tearing me apart, and I don't know what to do.

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Monster

Restlessness crept up on her slowly. The little steps it took to possess her was unexpected. It was not there, and then it was. She sat in the swivel chair, letting out big sighs, swinging her legs about as she did so. Her fingers played with one another, interlacing themselves in a battle that was uncalled for. There was something else that had entered her mind, but she couldn't point it out. What was it?

She let out a big sigh again, and brought her hands to her face. Brown eyes looked from left to right, then back again, like gears trying to put themselves in the right place.

"What's wrong?" her colleague asked.

"I don't know. I feel stressed, but I can't figure out the reason for it."

There was a moment of silence. She could feel her staring. Finally, she looked up, giving her full focus on the only person she could divulge her feelings to for now. It should help; she needed someone to help her sort her thoughts, and get this monster out of the way.

Her colleague frowned, looking concerned. She looked from her to the work she had on the computer. Then, she turned the chair to face her.

"Do something to figure it out. Otherwise, how can we help?"

She bit her lips, and thought back to the week that she had endured thus far. If anything, she was glad that it was a Friday, so she would have the weekends to lose her worries. She just had her health check-up the other day. She hadn't been feeling out of sort, but the time she needed to wait for her results were torturous. The new responsibilities that she'd been given at work wasn't going as well as she had hoped. It was completely out of her control, and other than giving feedback to those that mattered, there was nothing else that could be done. The negativity hanging in the air around the office constantly grew over the week, and it was only going to get worse. And... And the cat at home, her sweet old man, was getting slower by the day. He was barely eating, and the vet said his body would give way anytime soon, and she was never going to be ready to let go. How could anyone let go of a friend who'd been with them for fifteen years?

A sigh. With one deep breath, she started to let out the tirade of words.

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the moon it looms over trees —silence

Crescent moon🌙 | _alexanderwieck

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Why settle for a pretty lie when one can have the truth?

“Better a broken promise than none at all.”

— Mark Twain