I never thought I will see daylight again...

I never thought I will see daylight again; it was too much to dream of when you have a cold and heartless jailer such as mine. Its funny how life works at times. I may never set my eyes again on the things of nature, nor ever again feel the tickle of gentle wind upon my cheeks, but very soon I was going to see something better than daylight...

A rough snort emitted from my sleeping husband beside me. I sat up in the coarse wooden bed to better observe him. His body smelled of harsh soap, and his feet retained the dirt collected in the mines he work at. His features were appealing enough to a woman. His eyelids concealed his eyes, the windows to his soul.

The windows into the devil himself.

I was young, and naive. Mama had warned me of men. She said they were as good as animals for all they ever do. All men ever do in life is eat, sleep, defecate, have sex and die, as she once told me with harsh contempt in her voice. I believed her. Its not hard to when your own father abandoned mama and I for a vixen half his age.

Mama did whatever she could to earn a few coins, even if it meant inviting men to her bed. Mama always came out with a haggard look after they left, and then she'd send me off with the few coins the men had paid her to buy some bread at the marketplace.

This was our life for many years, until the day I turned twelve, when he walked through the door of our wooden hut on my birthday.

Mama met him at the door, and demanded to know how much he was going to pay. He named a price which seemed to satisfy her, and she jerked her head towards the room near the back of the hut. They were halfway across the hut, when he pointed at me and asked my price.

Mama's face stiffened visibly. 'You can't have her,' she replied flatly. 'Come.'

'I'm the one paying the gold, woman. Remember?' he sneered as he shook his pouch, coins tinkling within it. 'I will ask you again, how much is she worth?'

I remember mama spinning around with her eyes flashing as she grated back at him, 'Its either me or nothing. Choose!'

He took nothing.

I dearly wish that I had not left the house later that same day to the marketplace, or at least bade mama a proper farewell, for I never saw her again after that day.

I was walking along a lonely stretch of road to the marketplace, when I heard the sound of an approaching horse and buggy. I took no notice of it, and waited for it to pass. Moments later, I felt rough hands on my waist and my feet were lifted off the ground and into the buggy. No amount of screaming and struggling availed any good, and I was taken to a town far away from the place I knew as home.

He brought me to a church, where he paid a priest to marry us against my will. I was bound and gagged in front of the altar, and a coarse metal ring was forced painfully onto my finger as the priest solemnly pronounced us man and wife. My gag was soaked with tears as I cursed him, that damned priest, and most of all, the God that condemned me to this fate. A wild image of mama praying in front of the window with tears pouring down her cheeks flashed through my mind then, but I discarded it ruthlessly. Where was God in all this?!

For years, he'd keep me in his cellar, and that is where I lived. I now know the cellar like the back of my hand. The only time of the day I leave the cellar is at night when he uses me to satisfy his appetite. That is my purpose. That is my only purpose, as he always reminded me with a mocking smile every night.

As I lie in bed now, terror has been part of my feelings for such a long time, that I can't tell if what I'm feeling now is fear, or exhilaration.

Cheap tapestry adorned the whitewashed walls, and dirt from the mines filled the cracks in the wooden floorboards. A chest of drawers stood in the corner. I quietly got out of bed and made my way to it slowly, lest the creaking caused him to wake up.

It was a mercy that he did not realize that I had salvaged through his mining tools in the interval of his toilet earlier in the evening. I stuck my hand beneath the chest of drawers, where I had hidden it in a hurry. I took it out, and gazed at the cylindrical object in wonder.

He had only told me of it once, after the time he used it to take revenge on a fellow miner who had wronged him. Glee filled his face as he described the explosive power of this object, and how it caused the unfortunate fellow's demise.

'Dynamite' is the name he gave to this object, if my memory serves me correctly.

I opened the top drawer, where a candle and a box of matches lay. I took out the matchbox, and looked back to the sleeping figure on the bed, and felt nothing but loathing and hatred for the man who lay snoring there.

I thought longingly of mama, yearning to speak to her one last time, but I knew that was impossible since a long time ago. I bit down on a sigh of regret as I opened the box and took out a single match.

No, I may never see daylight again, but I'm going to see something much better than daylight. I am going to see heaven's light.

A spark of light illuminated the room for a few seconds as the fuse lit. I only wish I could have heard him scream.

*This essay was written by the procrastinator for his English test. Several editions were made to make up for the mistakes he made in his haste when writing it in the exam hall, and he begs pardon if it is deemed to be an unsatisfying read. Constructive criticism is welcomed.

She

She stood at the gates, with a smile on her face as I got out of the car and called. The signs of age were distinct, but not any different from what I remember. Until I entered the house, and felt my heart tear at the sight of a walking stick near the door. It felt like another milestone in her life to me. She never needed a walking stick before this. She always seemed so strong and agile for someone her age.

Sitting me down beside her and cheerfully nattering away about grandaunts and granduncles, I felt another stab when I realised she had difficulty hearing my voice. Another first. I can't remember if tears threatened my eyes, nor could I remember much of the one-sided conversation we had. Only the silent mourning inside of me as I observed her aged features, and the unspoken thought that keeps me awake many nights.

"大妈" (dui ma) is what I call her in the Foochow dialect, as do many of the young ones in my extended family do. She is, after all, my beloved great-grandmother.

Moral 101

A few days ago, I happened to read through a rather interesting blogpost of a friend which deserves mention here.

The topic? Of Gentlemen and Breasts.

No, really.

I'll spare her the shame fame of having her name mentioned here, 'cause I don't know if she'll take offense at this. If you're reading this SL, rest assured I'm not making fun of you =)

No, really.

It was an epic tale of the noble acts of chivalry, thought to be long extinct by this fair maiden. This particular tale spoke of two heroic knights on board the much abhorred Keretapi Tanah Melayu, who sacrificed their thrones to two women.

In the words of this fair maiden herself, "Honestly, that took me by surprise. Cos in all my life, I have never personally witnessed such a noble deed. I mean, we all know what should be done, in principle. But how many of us actually do it?"

So much for the gentlemen part of it. As for the breast part of the title, I'll leave it to the reader's imagination.

Yup, we all know what should be done. We've learned that since the moment we entered primary school. Its just ironic that nearly everything I learned in moral classes for over a decade in my life is the exact opposite of what I learned from lessons by the people of Bolehland.

One thing which amuses me is the thought of how much courage it takes to do what everyone knows everyone should do. Countless times in my life I found myself in situations where I am in the position to offer my seat to someone who needs it more than I do, and countless times I was overtaken by this irrational fear of being seen doing something that should be done. Its not something I'm proud of, but that's what I did.

Its funny how God works sometimes.

I read this post yesterday. I thought about it this morning, before I boarded the dratted train up north. Two hours later, an old woman with wrinkled skin and luggage had boarded the train at the UKM station and stood directly in front of where I was comfortably sitting.

Malaysia, uniquely ridiculous

Going Latin

Putting off something I can do now to the last minute - literally - is a habit I can't seem to shake off. One example is as I'm typing this in the wee hours of the morning (4.12am to be exact), my accounts homework sits on my desk, while I'm hoping for my pen to pick itself up and start scrawling. Oh, and I hadn't mention that this was supposed to be handed in two days ago.

I couldn't think of anything else better to define me, for I'm probably the most incurably lazy person that one would ever have the misfortune to meet in this century. Beware to readers who would do me the honour of following my blog. You have been warned =)

Hence the name of my blog. Dear readers, presenting Procrastinatus maximus

Once again

This brings back memories . . .

I remember the days of old when I used to love writing. I remember the joy of being able to create a world out of words. I remember the thrill of provoking thought as well as inciting amusement in my readers.

All that had faded away slowly, and a grayness dwells in the part of my mind where words used to dance around in. All that's left now are the memories and remnants of a writer.