Note: Unfabricated story of how Wen Juin and I were bullied by devils half our age. Seriously. Non-exaggeration.
There I was, on a fine Friday evening, jogging with Wen Juin in the park as is my routine. As usual, I paid no attention to the basketball players who were playing just beside the track and viceversa.
However, today, while I was jogging past the basketball court, a tall Indian man asked if I would join them. I looked past him and saw two little kiddies in primary school uniform. One was half of my height and the other was about the height of my hips. I refused profusely. And the guy positively begged. Look at the children, he says, just substitute until the other players arrive. Alright then, one game wouldn't hurt, would it? Besides, I couldn't bear turning down the little children.
And so, the guy - whom all of us call Uncle, taught us the basics. I was to block the little one and Wen Juin the other. He called them, "our man". Well, those two were perfect little devils. Note that from now on, all of the children are referred to "little devils".
That tiny devil who was just about my hip positively bullied me. And really, you couldn't blame me, can you? I have never played basketball before. And I've certainly never played basketball with a bunch of ill-bred, rude, teenager-bullying devils before. And so, our first few games ended in horrifying tragedies, with "our men" passing the ball to each other and the two of us chasing them in futile circles. Uncle was on our team but due to knee injury, he couldn't run or block or do anything except passing the ball.
Later came three more little devils who were equally evil. Look at the conversation between them (conducted in Chinese, of course):
Devil A: Are the girls good?
Devil B: (in a really sarcastic way) Oh yeah, reaaally good. I've never watched people play this way before.
See what I mean??? They were the ones who invited us to play in the first place. I have half a mind to leave but of course, out of courtesy, we stayed.
Fortunately, after Uncle taught us how to tackle and aim at the basket (or is it called a goal?) we of course, got considerably better. The little devils were slinging insults at us the whole time and we kept quiet for the sake of their delicate - but pointy - devil ears.
One of the devils, a fat chubby (but extremely malicious) one said to me, "You couldn't outrun me, can you? You can't outrun me, loser." Me??? Couldn't outrun you??? Hello, little man? I jog around the friggin' perimeter of the court you are playing in! I was just afraid I would knock your little ass to the ground and you would bawl like the perfect idiot that you are.
But in the end, after being bullied, pushed and thoroughly insulted, our team scored 5 to 6 balls. Oh yeah, and don't forget downright humiliation. (There were many boys from my school bus who were also there. There goes my dignity.) I think it was almost a tie! So there, suckers. Anyway, we left the court in an utterly battered but victorious condition. And I have to admit that Uncle was right, this was way more tiring than plain jogging. We were practically gasping for air as we dragged our bodies home. Oh alright! I will also admit, in great reluctance, that we had fun.
Thus, my beloved readers, this is my advice to all of you. Do not, in any way, underestimate the power of little basketball-playing, uniform-wearing devils. They specifically prey on unsuspecting teenage girls (they were probably afraid of boys) who are kind(like me) and "steam" (like Wen Juin).
Ta.
Her long white dress flowed down to the legs of the cushioned bench. With her back ramrod straight, she poised her fingers above the black and white keys. She took a deep breath and with her head raised heavenward, she started playing the grand piano.
Out of the silence there leapt these perfectly formed and discrete notes, this multitude of cascading sounds that seemed to speak with crispness and directness, as if in beautiful defiance of the inundation of sound which I had so loved.
Oh, to think that ten fingers alone could draw these sounds from a wooden instrument in which the hammers, in a dodged rigid motion, would strike upon a bronze harp of tightly stretched strings.
Up and down the notes rang in gorgeous throbbing arpeggios, thundering downward to rumble in a staccato drumming, only to rise and race again. On and on went the sprightly melody, elegant, celebratory and demanding to be followed in every intricate twist and turn.
In the furious torrent of notes, I heard the resounding echo of the wood of the piano; I heard the vibrations of its giant taut bronze harp. I heard the sizzling throb of its multitudinous strings. Oh yes, on and on it went, ever pure and ever perfect. How can human hands make this enchantment, how can they pound out of this ivory keys this deluge, this thrashing, thundering beauty?
She stopped, the last notes hanging in the air, the violent rush of melody still pounding in my ears. And a still, eerie silence ensued, engulfing us in a great void of emptiness.
It seemed that she had used her remaining strength on this piece of music, pumping her own life and soul into the melody itself. Her trembling, white hands raised to her chest as she spewed forth a fountain of blood. The blood stained her white dress and spreadinto a large, red pattern. Blood dripped off the white, ivory keys in front of her.
Feebly, she bent forth and gave the unstained keys a light, parting kiss and finally slumped into a slumber she would never wake from. And all that was left was the bloody print of her lips on the creamy, white surface of the keys.
Note: This is for me. May my wishes come true.
A bell chimed, the full golden circles of the sound seemed to penetrate the walls; shake the timber that carried the sound down to the earth like great organ pipes.
Again came that singing, that inarticulate whisperings of my heart. It was fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird; it was soaring high above in the bright night, illuminated by the moon and the stars and the city lights; it was crying with ecstasy, with intoxicating euphoria, with overwhelming elation.
I was in Paris, the city of lights, the light of my heart. I stood before the great Notre Dame de Paris, admiring her grandeur; the intricate carvings on the great columns even more delicate than the silk on a spider's web. And from within, came the beautiful chorus of hymns. It wove its way through the lovely stained glass and slipped into my ears.
Dies iræ! Dies illa!
Solvet sæclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla!
(Translation)
Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!
Oh, how lovely the melody! It was honey, it was love; it was all things beautiful. I sighed in satisfaction.
Tuba mirum spargens sonum
per sepulchra regionum,
coget omnes ante thronum.
(Translation)
Wondrous sound the trumpet flingeth;
through earth's sepulchers it ringeth;
all before the throne it bringeth.
Yes, this is my perfect birthday present. This is what I've wished for, what I've been waiting for, what I've yearned for. And now all this, is what I'm still wishing for, waiting for, yearning for...
P.S. Thanks to all of my friends who wished me and hugs and kisses for the presents. Love you guys!
The one with the beautifully carved Corinthian helmet dismounted his white stallion with the grace and elegance possessed only by aristocrats and rushed toward the enemy.
The prince drew his sword and brought it down on the man like lightning. Unfortunately, years of training had prepared him for this, and the man raised his shield, knocking the sharp tip of the sword away from him and tried to jab the prince with his own. The counterattack was futile.
They were now locked in a battle, an ancient dance in which one would emerge victorious and the other would be sent to Hades. The man, whose body was so much larger and robust than the prince lurched forward and locked the prince in his arms. Just when the man swung his sword and tried for a second thrust straight into his heart, the prince snatched a dagger concealed in his left greave and drove it directly into the man's head.
There was a sickening crunch of his skull and his arms loosened as the prince relieved himself from the suffocating grip. He continued the battle, killing many of the enemies by his own hands. When he had finally managed to decapitate the general of the enemies and hold his head by the hair, his army roared in victory.
The enemies retreated but the second-in-command came forth, his face awestruck and disbelieving. Their general was said to be invincible and had won every single battle in his command. The man asked to see the face of this conquering hero, the one who had slain the indestructible and the prince consented.
He sheathed his sword and slowly, his slim, nimble fingers pulled off the heavy Corinthian helmet. Long, dark brown curls cascaded down his back and everyone gasped. It was a young woman, with piercing green eyes and a mouth like rose petals. High cheekbones framed her lovely, porcelain face as she stared at the man before her, who was flabbergasted.
The man dropped to his knees and kissed her feet. 'Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I never saw true beauty till this night.'
My lips parted in horror as the magnificent dome of the St. Peter's Basilica crashed to the ground with a deafening bang that seemed to silence the screaming people around me.
The breath caught in my chest and came out in rags as I stared at the scene before me, my face a perfect mask of grief and trepidation. I saw it. My lovely St. Peter's, tumbling to the ground and breaking into a million tiny pieces of dust and rubble. I saw it, as if someone had pressed the slow-motion button, saw every brick come undone from the walls as the gargantuan building connected with Mother Earth.
Flames licked up the walls of the Pantheon. Black, heinous smoke rose up from the occulus, else known as the Demon's Hole. Indeed, the smoke coming out was like the curled fingers of a monstrous thing, its talons clawing upwards at the sky. Beautiful, Greek columns supporting the Pantheon collapsed, bringing down with it the massive, grand building.
Umpteen priceless paintings burned in fiery, dancing flames. Gone were the works of my talented painters, who painted with passion and ardent solely for the love of art. It was the end ofMichaelangelo and da Vinci and Botticelli. Gone were the existing proof of the heyday of the Italian Renaissance. I could feel the marble statues as they came crashing down; feel pain as if I was one of them, feel agony as though I was the one buried beneath rubbles, limbs and torso scattered in the dust.
Fire, consuming all of Vatican City, all of Rome and eventually all of my beloved Italy. Italy, my secret lover. Precious, beautiful Italy, illuminated by her own flaming body. Ancient buildings, my personal sanctuary, gone in the wink of an eye. Gone was my Italy, love of my life, light of my soul.
It was History, repeating herself over again. Only this time, it wasn't just a city; it wasn't just Pompeii, it was all of Italy. It was every last piece, every last fibre of my soul.
I woke with a start, tears flowing down my cheeks and forming silvery tracks in the moonlight shining through my window.
A dream, just a dream...
He took his bride from where she was lying and pulled her to his chest. He wrapped his left arm around her painfully thin body and clasped her right hand in his.
His bride did not move a single inch. Though he seemed ignorant enough about that particular fact. He pulled her with him, steering her immobile body with ease for she was very thin... Like a skeleton. Their feet brushed across the smooth, marble floor of his mansion, moving in perfectly choreographed circles. A cool breeze blew in from the open windows and her white wedding gown billowed with it.
"Speak to me, my love..." he whispered, eyes lining with tears when his bride neither uttered nor made any audible sound. He buried his face in her hair and kissed the top of her head.
He tilted her backwards and her hair fell behind her, a shining curtain of black satin. The fire cracked merrily in the fireplace, its light casting long, eerie shadows of their dancing figures. Shadows that danced on the walls, mirroring their every moves to perfection. He waltzed with her to the window, both hands clutching her body to him now as his feet danced faster to the melancholic melody.
As he tilted her backwards again, the silver moonlight that poured in incessantly from the glass panes fell full on her face and he gasped in horror. It was a skull, encased in shrunken skin! A fleshless skeleton in his arms all the time. Empty eye sockets stared back at him until he dropped the corpse in complete aversion, his hands moving to clasp his mouth as he let out a shrill scream at the macabre thing lying on the floor that was his bride.
P.S. Here's the other version:
He held her, one arm around her waist and the other holding her bony hands. Her lifeless head tilted backwards and a dark, black fluid of decaying internal organs flowed out of her mouth, staining the white of her dress. He ignored the putrid liquid and the bluish skin of her already decomposing body and continued the Dance of Death.
Mischa! I woke with a jolt. My whole body was shakinguncontrollably and cold sweat broke out on my forehead.
My head was aching terribly. I could almost hear the throbbing of my temples, veins drumming in the same rhythm, the same force. I held a hand to my head when the scream of a little girl sliced through the drummings and all hell broke loose. It took me a moment to realise that the scream had come from my mind and the little girl who screamed was my beloved Mischa. Flashes of images started penetrating my head with alarming force.
Seven men advancing toward us as my heart beats began to accelerate. Eyes, watching my sister hungrily, their lips slightly slack as drool started to gather around the corner of their mouths. My arms tightened around Mischa, holding her close to me and tears began to stream down my cheeks when I realised how helpless I am. I looked at my thin, strength-less arms around her in disgust and I knew that I could not protect her from harm.
Grutas pried my arms away from Mischa and ignored my screams. The hurls and kicks I gave him when he bent down to unchain her were futile. Mischa took his hands as he led her to the kitchen and away from me.
I covered my ears when my sister screamed and the men laughed in delight. "Hannibal!" she cried. "Hannibal!" And when I did not answer her for I was sobbing so hard I was out of breath, she called to our parents instead. "Mamma! Papa!" Her childish voice rang across the house as she called for help. Another scream squeezed through the gaps of my fingers and entered my ears. Laughter and joy when they took the first bite of my sister's flesh.
By then, my head was spinning and I was throwing up before collapsing to the floor and losing consciousness.
Eat or die...
Note: Adapted and edited from the movie, Hannibal Rising.
I was barely eight when it happened. It was a bitterly cold winter night and Mischa and I had just lost our parents in the war. Mischa was too little to realise they were dead and she was pining for our mother.
I realised then, Mischa and I have no one but each other and I vowed to protect her for I loved her very much. Food was scarce in the winter and I had to therefore starve myself to ensure Mischa had enough to eat. I comforted her and was spoon-feeding her when the heavy, wooden door burst open. Instinctively, I pushed Mischa behind me, my arms spread out wide and protective in front of her, as though trying to hide her from sight.
The six heavily armed men leered as they saw us. My face contorted with as much rage an eight-year-old could bear and my sister's eyes wide and innocent for she was too young to comprehend what was going on. One of them took the food I was feeding to Mischa and shove it into his mouth with a mocking expression on his face.
Grutas, their leader stepped forward and pulled me to him roughly. "Now boy, I would like you to show me where you've hidden your food. My men and I are hungry and when we're hungry, we're not very... nice." I tried to reach for a wooden bat a few inches away but he was slamming me to the ground before I could reach it. His men pointed their guns at my sister as Grutas smiled and said, "the food, please."
Mischa and I were chained so that we could not escape. I lead them to the kitchen and tried to ignore the satisfaction as they searched in vain for food. Suddenly, another one of their man burst into the kitchen, his breath ragged, his hair and clothes lined with snow.
Grutas closed the cabinet he was examining and straightened. "Did you find any food?" He barked impatiently. The man nodded frantically, reaching into his pockets and drawing out a quail. Grutas kicked the man in the stomach. "This is all you've found?" He yelled as the man doubled over in pain.
Grutas snatched the bird from him and stuffed it into his mouth, with the feathers still intact. I covered Mischa's eyes in horror as I watched him tear the meat like an animal and devoured it. A wave of nausea swept over me when he threw the remaining bones to the floor and looked directly at me, his face and hands covered in blood and bits and pieces of meat.
"We eat or die..." he whispered, staring hungrily at my sister and licking his lips.
