Well, this is what I had been working on for the past few days. I apologize if it smacks of predictability. I will post it in parts, as I think that it’s a wee bit too long. I don’t know when I’ll be uploading the second part; the internet connection has been screwed up since last week. Do read it and tell me what you think. I haven’t written fiction in such a long time; I’m afraid I might have forgotten how to. The last time I wrote anything that resembled a short story was about 2 years ago, when I was a journalist for the SPB in MMU Melaka. You are my critics, your comments are the criticisms, valuable words of wisdom and advice. I need them to fuel my passion, to hone my skills.

I present to you, my first proper short story in 4 years. Just don’t die after reading it la. Mana lau tau, that bad kot.

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. All characters in this story is the product of the human mind. Any similarities to any persons, alive or otherwise, is purely unintentional. Then again, it may be intentional. Who’s to say? The human mind isn’t entirely original most of the time, creating characters and situations from as many sources as possible. All the author could hope for, is an open mind from the reader, a willingness to recognize sarcasm where sarcasm is used, and to take everything with a pinch of salt, because that is how life seems to be.

Well, at least that’s how the author sees it.

TOO STRONG
A Short Story
by Ganaesh Devaraj

Part I

The first thing he felt was the headache. The headache woke him up. It was a dull, throbbing pain that seemed to increase in intensity each minute he lied there with his eyes closed. The surface felt soft, yet solid. He wasn’t sure if it was just a headache or a migraine. As far as he could remember, he had never experienced migraine before, and he wasn’t sure if he would know what a migraine would feel like.

The second thing he felt was extreme tiredness. He tried to move his arms, but they wouldn’t budge. Those damn arms were being defiant. And it seemed that each part of his body did not want to move an iota more. It, he, just wanted to lie there, as long as it takes, until that annoying headache goes away. Which it did. eventually.

He thought he heard voices. Incomprehensible talk, almost as if someone was whispering something. He heard soft moans and groans. It seemed to be a female voice. Slightly high-pitched. The rustling of sheets. A soft, low hum of a machine. He was thinking of the irony of the situation. His body was in a state of temporary paralysis, yet his senses seemed to be in peak condition. He felt those tiny hairs all over his body stand up straight. It seemed to be cold, wherever he was. And if his whole body was feeling the cold air, it meant that he was naked. He knew he was jumping the gun to be thinking such things if he was too lazy to open his damn eyes, but he wasn’t giving a fuck.

And still his eyes won’t open. And so he continued lying there, naked, cold. His thoughts were jumbled up, just like he was. The inability to form a coherent train of thought frustrated him. He was trying to form an explanation of some sort, in his head, as to why he is in this predicament. Cold and naked. It wasn’t very dignified.

Dignified? He was surprised. Where the fuck did that come from? He was more concerned with trying to find a way to warm himself up. But to do that, he would have to know where he was. And to do that, he would have to wake up.

And to do that, he would have to open his eyes. Oh, for fuck’s sake! Just open, damn it! He didn’t know why he was cursing. As soon as he thought of the F-word, he felt embarrassed. But for some reason, it seemed to have an effect. Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes began to open.

At first, it was a blur. Just a total blur, colours mixing up, blobs instead of solid shapes. But the world came into focus. He saw the carpet. He was lying face-down on the carpeted floor. He saw the foot of the bed. He moved his head. It was hard, so he just restricted to moving it upwards and downwards, never leaving the carpeted floor. Broken glasses. Shirts and pants and shoes. Empty food wrappers. The leg of another person, also in the same predicament as he was. It seemed that he (or she, it was hard to confirm from this angle) was still unconscious.

Eventually, he got up. It took him forever, but he managed to hoist himself up onto a chair. The headache was unbearable. It was practically screaming to break through his skull. But if he found out where he was, he could at least find a way to get some Panadol. That thought kept him going, all the way until he got to the chair.

When he managed to get past the pain enough to focus on what he was seeing, all he could think of was:

Shit.

He was in the center of chaos, the madness after a hurricane has hit. For the first time in his life, he truly understood the meaning of chaos. He was looking at it. A sense of revulsion filled him. He looked at the room he was in. He looked at the people that inhabited the room together with him, and last of all, he looked at himself. He was immediately filled with a sense of revulsion; one that he instinctively knew was reserved only for the vilest of things, the vilest of situations. He just never thought he would be in it.

And then he looked at the girl sleeping on the bed. His head seemed to clear up a bit. He seemed to have vague memories of the night before. Snippets of chaos that seemed to happen a lifetime ago, but in reality happened mere hours ago. She just looked at her, sleeping peacefully, her chest slowly moving up and down. It was all he could do. He was too tired to do anything else.

She was the one that came crashing into his life, turned him upside-down, and smacked him senseless. She was the love of his life, the one that made him tick, the one that made him crazy, the one that made him feel alive.

She was killing him. Slowly.

And somehow, they both knew it.

End of Part I.