Let's write with me - The Secret Desire

Chapter Two

The Smoke Detector

Smoke from the damp cigarette held in between her tremoring fingers swirls like a painter's brush strokes across the canvas. It floated and ascended in the thin air, navigating itself in whatever synchronicity it pleased—a kind of freedom she yearned to embrace.

It was a splendid joy for her to puff out some smoke from her parched lips, as if she were creating a creature of smoke out of it.

She did it again, losing her focus on such trivial things or moments. Anything could excite her, even the speck of dust floating in the air. She was known to act carelessly without trying to retain her focus on anything, ever!

Outside, she could hear a loud, angry mutter that belonged to her lessor, who was nitpicking tad bits of everything wrong from her tenants, and her choleric voice annoyed the shit out of her.

But, as with all these new sprouting made-up catchphrases of Gen Z, more like recycling old papa's lexeme, 'it is what it is'.

She started to get used to the old lady's shrill roars, almost like they had become atmospheric, hollering at a distance in the background. Seven days a week, non-stop, and that was a hard-earned commitment.

She would be dead concerned if, let's say, for one whole day, she was not screaming from the top of her lungs; she was probably dead. Now, she wonders: if that happens, what would be the cause of her death?

"I wish for someone to finally snap and kill her," a vivid crimson bluish-red yet blurry imaginary bloody scene flashed in her imagination, "1-2-3, blow! Blow! Blow!" unknowingly, her hands mimicked a hard blow from a hammer.

She saw everything so clear and pristine from the back of her head, especially the curdling blood bursting out like an open pipe and bits of brain splattered everywhere. It was like a beautifully done horror scene.

She let herself smile at her prodigious act of violence. No, the art of violence. Then, longingly, she looked at her hands, which were drenched in black blood, "till her skull cracks open and he munches her crinkled senile brain."

Blood was everywhere. Gracefully, she pulled herself up, ready to imitate the intricate ceremonial dance of death. Her body erotically swayed, twirled and bent, praising death as its prime. In a pool of blood, she arrogantly danced in it, bathing herself in the deep red hue.

She was enjoying herself before, but like a snap of a finger, her irises constricted, wrenching her back into reality.

She let out a small laugh at her loud thought and coyly covered her cheeky little mouth; shocked by what had been uttered before, she quickly let another laugh slip out, thinking of how she could think of such a thing.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The continuous beeping from the smoke detector hollered across her space, causing her to swiftly get up and toss her half-cigarette into the toilet bowl. Flushing it out, she deliberately pulled the towel from the hanger and fanned the smoke.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!"

   ❧

KNOCK!

"Kemboja!"

Defeated, she looked straight to the door across her bathroom, knowing for sure that she was the next target of hers.

"Did you smoke, young lady?" she questioned right after the door was widely opened as her eyes sneakingly peeked around, looking for an anchor for her next conversation—no, for her next argumentative figure.