HAVEN'T BEEN UPDATIN FER THE PAST FEW DAYS CUS IMA MAKING A VIDEO.
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I wanna draw but I can't... and somehow, I used MapleStory characters.
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I still didn't know why I did that.
But I still did it.
... God, I feel kinda childish...
But oh well. Maybe I'll show it off if I weren't such a coward.
Anyway... ANYONE HAVE LONG RED PANTS!!??? I NEEDA COSPLAY!!
Yes, I am gunna COSPLAY AS THE GUY IN CAVE STORY :D
9th April at Ngee Ann Convention Centre. lol.
And I'm kinda rambling right now and straying away so I shall pull it back.
Okay, I have this story that I've written 2 years ago. I edited a bit, and would like to show it here.
IT WAS A PAIN IN THE ASS TO EDIT THE DAMN THING.
I still forgave him in the end.
He was lying on the bed. Cheeks white as a sheet, grey hair shrivelling on his head. His scar was crooked. I stared back at him. Reached out my hand, and touched his. It was cold. Yes – his hand was always cold, but not this icy cold. I touched his hand, and his deep dark blue eyes stared out at me. For the first time, I didn’t feel they were menacing. At all.
He was the cause of my dratted fate. I hated him. Now, my eyes were only filled with mercy. The eyes still staring out at me, his pale, dry lips moved, ever so slightly. I heard his voice – raspy and hoarse. And soft. Most unlike him.
“You… could have gone to school.”
He was struggling to speak, I thought. I was still clad in my school uniform – white shirt, dark blue pants – except the shirt isn’t so white. It was pretty dirty. So are the pants. But the dirt wasn’t so visible. I just realized I was focusing on him so intently that I forgot I was still bearing the burden of my heavy (and old) sling bag. I took it off my shoulder and placed it beside the bed, while replying, “I had to see you.” Instead of ‘I wanted to see you’. I wanted to be honest, since he didn’t have long to live. And I know he wouldn’t mind.
His eyelids lowered. “Oh.” I looked at him. Suddenly he didn’t seem like the old nasty man anymore – he looked fearful. So this is what happens when your life was about to end, I thought. It was hard to say that he was actually that despicable man in my childhood days.
I was born in a wooden house. Healthily. But he walked out on my mom and I. Without him, my mom and I lived in poverty. With him, we lived in fear. And more poverty.
I never saw him once, till I was four. He walked back to the house that time, before Christmas – asking for money. I observed him with my big, wet eyes, hiding behind the wall – he was a big, bulky man with a deep and long scar on his cheek. Tattoos on his left arm. Dark blue eyes, brimming with life – and power. Dark skinned. Not like the person I met now. Mom suspects him – her face tells me that – but she took out the notes. Reluctantly handed them over to him. He snatched the money with his hands – and without a word, much less a thank you – walked off.
Ever since them, he kept asking for money. Every time. Either every few days, if not every week. One day, Mom refused to give him any money. Told him we didn’t have any. Then, his hands will reach out, and he will imprint one slap across her face. Not that kind of slap that woman do to woman (what they call a bitch slap?). That kind of slap that made my mom topple and fall. He then picked her up with her blouse and started hammering her on the face. She begged him to stop, then gave him our life savings, and he was gone.
Rushed to my Mom. Her face was a bloody red – teeth knocked out, porcelain skin stained red, eyes drooping. Bruises everywhere. Tears streamed out of my eyes. Tears full of anxiousness – and hatred. Tried to ask if she’s alright. Mom smiled and nodded. It didn’t reassure me – only squeezed my heart tighter.
I was turning six that time, and birthday coming soon. No presents for me; no one in school knew my birthday – and Mom had no money to buy one. Nothing; we can’t survive anymore if this continues. But Mom worked extra hard for us. She tried to help for all her heart, to survive with me. pay for my school fees. That man still comes. Demands for money. Sometimes Mom states the truth, and he bashes her up till she was bleeding from head to toe. I would always swear at him – learnt all those words from him – whenever he comes. Tried every night, to forget him. But he just keeps coming back.
I turned twelve. One night, instead of turning in, I asked Mom, why she’d married the slut(learnt that from him). She froze and looked at me. Weakly faked a smile. I then thought she didn’t want to discuss this issue for the time being. Decided to wait for the right time, dismissed the issue, and walked to my room.
But… no, there was never a right time. Mom died in a car crash. I blamed that man. If it weren’t for him, maybe she’d be alive and kicking, looking her eyes out on the road. Due to those bruises on her eyes, I could imagine her vision blurring and the car…
I mourned. No proper funeral or burial for her. We were too poor. Then, next thing I knew, I was dragged by the horrible monster. The grip was so tight I cried out. I lived in the same roof as him after that, in that dirty old house in town. For five years.
Five years, of hell. He never calls me by my real name, or that warm word, ‘Son.’ Only name-calls me, or hurl insults at me, in those years. He doesn’t work, yet asks for money from me. Ridiculous, but true. And one word of no, or any other negative reaction, he’d beat me up, so hard and so painful, I’d wish I was never born. So, as a result, I took a job, cleaning public toilets, sweeping all those areas. Everytime, I would look at the kids, holding hands with parents, their smiles that could warm any hard of a child… I felt a sharp pang of jealousy.
A few months later, I found out that he uses our money for gambling, and smoking. My anger knew no bounds. And without a moment’s hesitation, I hit him. On the guts. Hard. Then, I yelled at him. Then, he looked up at me, those dangerous blue eyes, and I know I’m doomed. He grabbed me by the hair and hurled me at the wall, then picked my head up and began slamming it against the wall countless times. I wished I would die all at once. Everything would be over. But no. I’m still alive, still alive and feeling the bruise on the head, still feeling like it was yesterday, while staring at the bedridden man, which was the despicable… man so many years ago.
He then punched my guts. I tried to defend myself, but he continued. Soon I was nothing but a weak lump of meat lying in a pool of blood. Fresh blood trickled down my head. My vision blurred. Shirt stained. I prayed for all these to end.
I’ve no friends. Those people despised me, glaring at me and avoided me. Must’ve listened to the rumors or I look weak. Some tried to bully me instead. Only once.
They asked for money. I said no. threatened to beat me up. We got into a fight. I got them in a bloodied mess. Students reported to the teachers. And what happened after that? I was caned in front of the school. At the end of the day, I looked at my hands, and I turned pale. I’ve became violent ever since I lived with him. I feel more powerful and higher in one second, but immediately felt guilty after that.
Everyone avoided me. Teachers were disappointed with me. They would stare at me, as if I were a disturbance to the school. I tried to talk. They walked away. I cursed under my breath. Grades dropped. Didn’t care anymore. Continued handing money over to that man and learning new curses from him, while hurling them back at him.
I turned sixteen. Had my leaving examinations. Was glad to be out, away from that school. Continued working, in that old job of mine, that job I had for four years. During those four years the older women tried to speak to me, but I avoided them and cleaned, or swept in my own corner. But after the examinations, I was so high I smiled, and spoke to them for a little while. But then I frowned, then walked away. I thought of that man.
I turned seventeen. Went to a new school. No one knows of the bloody deed I done years ago, and immediately I felt fresh, I felt I could start anew, I felt that I’ve shed my old skin, my old scars away. But no, not completely. It will never be fully shed, unless I get rid of that bastard. It was then I decided that I would rid myself of that despicable man once and for all.
He got drunk that night. Lay on the couch, smoking. I raised the old, rusty knife, and crept closer. Was about to stab when he dropped his cigarette and clutched his chest, crying out. Then, he vomited, like there’s no tomorrow. Suddenly, he collapsed in his vomit. His face was pale. Completely unconscious. I panicked. Put my finger under his nose. No breathing. Suddenly, I forgot about murder, I forgot about my grudge against him. I dropped the knife, and went out to beg for help. A few minutes passed. A woman in her mid-thirties (that reeked of perfume) offered to call. She rushed to the house, then held her nose in disgust. She went out of the house and called.
“He had lung cancer. It was too late to be cured, I’m sorry,” the doctor told me(roughly; I can’t remember what he exactly said. It was a load of bull.) A part of me was horrified. But another, relieved. I won’t have to resort to murder or violence to rid of this man. I almost smiled.
Few days passed. He lay on the hospital bed. I was worried about hospital bills, and worked extra hard and took extra hours to pay off the freaking bills. I muttered curses under my breath as usual, and thought that I should’ve used the easiest way by killing him. but I shook off that thought. NO WAY I would allow myself to carry this murder mark for life… After all, it could change my life for the worse.
His raspy, hoarse and soft voice shook me from my thoughts. “Have you learnt some important lessons in your youth, Son?” that word startled me. He called me ‘Son’. I was a bit annoyed for him finally to acknowledge me, but I was also over the moon. Then, I pondered over his question.
“… Yes, Father.” I spoke. One part of me resented that, but the other part…
“Terry, I - ” he began to speak, but never finished the sentence. He clutched his chest, tried his best to breathe. But it was already time… time to go.
Within minutes, he was gone. There lay only an empty shell on the bed. I hung my head. I didn’t know why.
Sometimes I wonder why he’s my father. For goodness sake, I had thought, he was nowhere like one; he never treated his son like one, never loved his family, made his son hate him. He treated his family like a heap of rubbish that supports him with quick money. He resorts to violence. Hits, kicks, slaps, his family. You’d wish you never had a dad like him.
I dwelled and thought about it for a long time, after he died. I hated him, I hated his guts, I hated his use of violence, I hated his addiction of gambling.
… But you know, I learnt a lot from him. I learnt to never, ever smoke or gamble. They throw away our lives. Shorten lifespan, or so I heard. I learnt to be independent, and I learnt to protect myself. Not to cuddle up, get bullied, cry, all those crap.
I learnt to endure.
And sometimes give in to peoples’ unreasonable demands. Those demands are nothing compared to my dad’s, and I was pretty comfortable with them. All these years I have already suffered like this, but I lived on.
I learnt to forgive.
No matter how harsh that person treat you, pick out only the good points of the treatment. Then forgive, and forget. Never, ever brood over what has already happened… it will never come back.
Maybe that was his way of teaching me…
I still forgave him in the end. Because he was my dad.
lol, I had this story in my deviantart account, but it was the unedited version. Plus, I'm too lazy to show you so yeah.
AND I KNOW IT SUCKS T____T...
Oh yeah. speaking of stories, I did write quite a few that I didn't really show in this blog. Some of them were ghost stories that scared the crap out of me but didn't even make wimpy kids flinch. *mutters*
A hell lot of them were fantasy. With witches and wizards and dragons. Some of them consists of killers, while others are all 'travelling-into-different-worlds' those kind of stuff.
And now, the video I'm currently making, it talks about this silent guy that has amnesia.
He wakes up to find a Yeti trapped under a rock. Then, he helped that Yeti, and the yeti introduced himself as Nit, a yeti traveller. Nit then sabotaged the poor guy by asking the amnesiac to carry him to the Snow Islands, to get home.
In the process they meet a lot of characters, and this guy finds out more about how the world works, and his own past.
.... YEAH, IT'S INSPIRED BY CAVE STORY. HAPPY NOW??? D:
So yeah, basically that's that.
And I want to end this damnable post now.
Kthxbye
Labels: storiesb
