FOREWORD: I submitted this piece to a submission call, but it got rejected, so here it is. My blog needed updates anyway.
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Sol was poring over the building plans when the front door flung open. He traced his fingers along floor 48.
“Babe, close the door,” Sol said. “The smog’s getting in.” When no reply came, he looked up to find a tear-stricken Jenn.
“What’s wrong?”
“They did it,” she said between sobs. “They s-stuck me like a pig.”
“What?”
Laura looked at her watch as her heels clacked on the pavement. She nearly twisted her ankle twice trying to pace wider than she was used to, striding with a jogger’s gait more than a businesswoman’s. She looked at her watch again, almost willing it to turn back.
Shit shit shit.
Note: I’m exploring dark fiction, so please don’t set me up for an intervention or psychiatric help.
***
Two… four… six…
I remember how it all started. It was the day I decided my hands weren’t clean enough. It went on for a while until my parents started doubting my long hours in the bathroom. It was bad, them finding me scalding my hands in the sink. Sometimes, they had to open the door for me because I’d be too afraid to touch the doorknob. I’ve lived with OCD for twenty more years after that, and I can’t say how many times I felt like giving up.
Came across this writing prompt on Reddit and decided to try it out for the funsies. The prompt was: A cop arrives at a bridge to talk a man out of committing suicide. After they have a short conversation, the cop jumps off the bridge.
***
Officer Palmer drove along the bridge thinking about the events that morning. His wife had drank too much–again–but this time she was ferrying their daughter to school. Both turned to pulp after colliding with a semi. But that wasn’t what Palmer was thinking about.
Foreword: While I typically blog about true accounts of my life, this piece is more fiction than reality. Some situations are drawn from personal experience, but are very loosely based on actual events. Don’t mind me, I’m just easing my way into short story and fiction writing.
***
“Sometimes love just isn’t enough.”
I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. The late nights wondering what time she’d come home, that same BMW X5 always dropping her off a few doors down, the increasing frequency of plans with her ‘secondary school friends’, and her sudden keeping me at arm’s length. I felt like I ordered a breakup package and that the delivery was due.
Your Friendly Malaysian Writer 