Alone

The living room was stuffy and dingy; typical of an old flat at the suburbs areas of Kajang town. The plaster on the walls were peeling, the bare patches of cement scattered across the wall of brown, rotting paint. An old ceiling fan was rotating, creaking and swaying as it turned and turned, circulating the morbid, tasteless air. A small light bulb emitted an incandescent yellow glow, illuminating the small room in a dull shade of orange. The grey floor was littered in clothes and dirt, the corners accumulating cigarette ashes and dusts. A moth eaten two-seating couch stood at the middle of the room, torn and ugly in age. An armchair, green and ancient, was placed beside the couch, facing the television. A boy was cowering on the armchair, hands wrapped around his knees, his head tucked between his body and legs. Small, black eyes peek out behind his knees, staring boringly at the television. The eyes were lifeless, a circle of dark chasms of emptiness, pitch black with barely the presence of warmth and emotions. Those were dead eyes, dead from the acceptance of a meaningless life, eyes of nothingness. Those were eyes of the oblivious chosen to be oblivious.

Charlie was the name of this boy, aged 14 but barely looking so. His body was thin and small, his knees and elbows knobbly. A pale, yellowish canvas of a skin enveloped his entire body, giving him a look of a corpse. His head was clumsily shaven bald, with patches of black hair on his cranium. His nails were roughly tended to, jagged and long, dirt stuck underneath. He could have been dead and no one notice him. Truth to be told, this boy was already deceased. This was a boy without a soul, without feelings, without a purpose. Within him was a mind caring nothing more than to be left alone, alone with his own blight, alone with in his own world. But there were still two things that were a hindrance to that.

Charlie kept his eyes on the television, studying the static that flickers through the screen passing the head of Barney the Dinosaur. He wished he could remove the television aerial, so that the static would fill the entire screen and he could only hear white noise, and then hoping that it would drown the voices floating in from the kitchen. He disliked the voices, which would occupy most of his thoughts and which he would most likely prefer to be unoccupied. He rolled his head to his side, leaning it on the armrest, trying to ignore the voices. But they kept coming.

“ …….three thousand fucking Dollars! Who do they think I am, an idiot?” bellowed the first voice. Charlie recognised it as his father’s.

“Just screw those assholes, them policemen,” said Charlie’s mother. “If those pigs want their share in all those shit that you deal with, just let them drown in it”

“Three bloody thousand! We could’ve been able to live a good three months with that. Heck, I could even send that son of a bitch to school!”

“Who are you calling a bitch?! Don’t even start thinking about sending that sardine to school. Nothing will fit inside that empty head of his. And speaking of which…..” added Charlie’s mother. “You haven’t given me monthly allowance.”

“What the bloody fuck? I just gave you a week ago!”

“Well, they’re used up. And it’s all because you freaking complain about not having good food at the dinner table. I have to buy expensive food for you.”

“I’ve been eating fucking cabbage porridge almost everyday! Don’t bloody tell me you used them up playing mahjong with those bloody fat see lais.”

“Well, it was just… just a couple of games. And I don’t know what fortune got into that Mrs. Chai, she won almost every game.”

“Fuck! How many times do I have to tell you to stop gambling away our money?”

“What about you? You gamble every night with those fucking friends of yours!”

“I was trying to earn for our family! Fuck it, where’s that piece of shit sardine? Charlie, come here!”

Charlie heard his name being called, and he knew he should get up and go meet his father. But somehow his mind didn’t want to. His entire body was chained to his comfort, his solace, and it wouldn’t allow him to leave.

“Hey! Charlie! Get the fuck here!”

His eyes began to droop, his thoughts wavering. He was going to be alone again. He was going to be alone…. He was going to be….

He felt rough hand seizing the back of his neck, squeezing and tightening without mercy, and then another had slapped hard across his cheek. It stung, and he moaned in agony. Another slap. And another. He was coughing now, losing his breath, his neck threatening to break, his cheeks stinging in pain. He yelled, choking in his own breath and saliva. And then he felt his body flung to the ground, across the floor. He writhed, twisting in torment, his body curling automatically in defence. Tears streamed down his face, but he doesn’t know why. Why are they here?
Why are they so warm?

“Fucking hell! This bloody twerp is getting more and more rebellious these days. How the fuck do you teach your son?”

“Hey, you have your part in him, and I don’t see you doing any shit.”

Charlie felt his shirt stretching, and then he was dragged to his feet. Before he knew it another slap struck across his face, hard and painful as it ever was, and his cheek grew redder than it could ever be; the only little colour he had on his entire body. A hand reached out to his right ear and twisted it. Charlie groaned, his head pulled to his right, and more tears began streaming down his eyes and he doesn’t know why.

“You fucking piece of shit, you listen to me. Whenever I call you, you come to me immediately, you understand? You better fucking come or next time I will tear your bloody ears off and feed it to the dogs.”

Charlie didn’t mind having his ears being torn of, without them he didn’t have to listen to his parent’s voices again. But he remembered seeing the dogs ravaging a piece of meat, and he imagined his ears being mauled and bitten like and he felt sorry for them, so he nodded.

“Good. Now go and fix me a coffee and after that disappear into your room. I don’t want to see your fucking face, you got that?”

Charlie nodded again, and felt the hands at his ears loosened. He hurried into the kitchen, passing his mother filing her fingernails and went on to made coffee. He was not afraid, but rather excited, even though his face never showed it. He gets to go inside his room. He gets to be alone. He scooped the coffee powder into a mug, adding condense milk, carefully calculating the amount so that his father would not beat him again. He pours in some hot water, stirred the coffee, and then added some cold water before stirring it again, just as his father liked. He placed the coffee on the dining table and hurried to his room.


He entered and closed the door, and then he forgot every pain he had felt just now. He took a deep breath, savouring the air. The air here was cool and fresh, very much unlike those in the living room. The room was horridly small, a cell of morbidity and melancholy with only a small window, pane less and open without any glass or curtain. Chilly winds swept into the room, to Charlie an excellent welcome compared to the stuffy living room. A single mattress lay on the floor, a mixture of yellow and brown in colour, with red stains scattered around it. The sheets were torn, the sponges in the mattress poking out. There was no pillow, only a thin, stinking blanket was bundled on the mattress. At the corner of the room were an old cabinet, a drawer missing and the door hanging on one hinge. Inside was a small collection of dirty and oversized clothes, and in the drawers were Charlie’s most prized possessions. A sort of lifting relaxation filled his lungs. He was alone.

He crouched down at his cabinet, opening a drawer, and he took out the blade of a kitchen knife with the handle missing. He slumped to his bed, feeling lifted, feeling a small happiness flitting through his every veins. Darkness slowly devoured his room, shrouding his small form, but he didn’t care. The silence was intense. He was alone. Very, very much alone, and he loved every minute of it, and if someone could see his face now they would find it quite alive and sparkling in a weird and rare enjoyment. A smile was etched across his face.

Charlie lay on his belly, stretching his tightened muscles. Amidst the pale darkness he was like an entity of nothingness, a dash of black painted upon black. He pressed the blade to his palm. It was cold and chilly, like a shard of ice. Excitement rose to his chest, intriguing him. He drew the sharp edges of the blade on his fore finger, feeling his skin splitting. It sent a shiver of exhilaration down his spine, making him gasp and his grin wider. It hurt, of course, it stung like every pain. But this was a different sort of pain, unlike his father’s beating, which was hard and full of rage. This sort of pain is cold, like it never hurt, and yet it did. It was bliss, a sentimental lust. It was love. His breath stiffened in elation, his hands trembling in unsurpassable ecstasy.

He ran the blade across his hands, cutting himself more and sending a wave thrill and pleasure throughout his entire nerves. His eyes flickered shut, and he gasped as though in a lover’s orgasm. This was his enjoyment, his delight, his every meaning of fun. He turned on his back, pulled up his shirt and ran the blade once more, bringing it across his chest. He moaned, the sensation overwhelming, shiver after shiver coursing through him. He could feel warm blood trickling down his body, and another stream down to his neck. He drew another cut, and another, and another, and another until he could bear the thrill no more, and he allowed his body to relax and his chest heaving. He pressed the blade to his cheek, feeling the blizzard within its mass, and he longed to cut his cheek, but he knew better not too; a cut on his cheek is too noticeable. He touched the sharp edge to his throat and longed to cut it too, and he knew that he would feel the ultimate bliss, and he would be alone forever and ever and ever, but then for that forever he can no longer feel any bliss, and this scared him.

Charlie placed the blade to his lips, feeling the cold sipping into it, and he did something that he rarely did; he made a thought. He thought that he should be alone for all eternity, and then the eternity after that and the one after. And that thought led to another thought which led to many others, and the thoughts are like how nice it would be, or what he should do, or how many cuts he can make this time and what he can use to cut. And then he thought how he could gain being alone forever, which led to him thinking what could have been stopping him from gaining it. And he knew the answer to that. Two things were blocking him, denying his will to be alone, and that two things are Mother and Father. So it’s simple then, Charlie thought. Just get rid of mother and father forever, and then he’ll be alone for all eternity. He smiled at his own brilliance, and moreover he smiled that he would be gaining what he longed for the most. He returned to his drawer, took out his shards of glass and an old hammer, and began to work.


The cabbage porridge was steaming in the pot as Charlie stirred it slowly. The fragrance wafted over the kitchen and drifted throughout the house. He stared down at the light, swirling contents, watching how it formed a small whirlpool when he stirred it fast enough. He face was an utmost delight, though quite unnoticed by his parents who were both sitting at the dining table.

“What the fuck? Cabbage porridge again?” exclaimed Charlie’s father.

“What do you expect from the very little money you gave me, you freaking bastard,” snapped Charlie’s mother.

“At least add some fucking meat into it, you bitch. Don’t you fucking call me a bastard.”

“Quit your yapping and keep your tongue still. Well either you eat the porridge or you go and eat some cow shit at the field right over there.”

“Bloody fuck. I don’t fucking care, I want to see some chicken right here on this table tomorrow. Hey, you piece of shit sardine, you fucking done with my porridge?”


Charlie quickly ladled the porridge into three bowls; two large ones and a small one. He then hastily placed them on the table, setting them right in front of his parents. He retreated to his seat and stared at his parents, not touching his porridge.

His father was scooping the porridge and letting it fall back into the bowl, grimacing in disgust. “Shit I can’t eat any of this dung no more.”

“Just pinch your nose and get done with it, you stinking wuss,” said Charlie’s mother, swallowing a mouthful of porridge and then gobbling in another. She paused suddenly after this, feeling strange, as though something foreign had entered her mouth. She couldn’t taste it, but what was it? Bad cabbage?

Suddenly a stabbing sensation pierced into her stomach, cutting into her guts. She choked and coughed, and then realized that her throat was burning. She could feel it, in her own horror, her throat and gut being cut and sliced by something inside her body. Something…..

Her throat bled from within, her guts severely damaged and her stomach exploded with a pain so unbearable tears erupted from her eyes, mucus gushing out her nose. She wanted to shout, but all she could do was whimper and groan, groan to the pain that was torturing her from within. She crashed off her chair, choking, gasping, tearing at her throat and stomach trying to get whatever was killing her from the inside.

Her husband stared in shock at his wife, stunned by this abrupt occurrence. “What the fuck-,” was all he could managed. He dove down to his wife, raising her head, crumbling in unbelievable terror as he watched his wife choking and gasping, her eyes bloodshot and wide, tears gushing down her face, her mouth open, her fingers tearing away.

“What the fuck?! What the fuck!?” he yelled, his hands to his head in helplessness. Charlie backed away from his seat, smiling and enjoying the moment.

“What the fuck is wrong? The porridge?” Charlie’s father reached out to his bowl of porridge and tipped it over, the contents spilled across the table. He stared in utmost shock and horror. The porridge were sparkling, twinkling lightly under the kitchen light. He stared at it and yelled. Powder. Glass powder. He could see make out some of the rougher specks. Who could have done it? Who could’ve done such a thing? Who? The boy? Impossible! He’s as timid as a mouse; he could never have done such things.

“Fuck! Mother fuck! I’m fucking calling the ambulance.” With that he dashed off to the phone.

Charlie smiled at the things happening, and he yearned for things to end faster. He walked to the kitchen cabinet, opened it, and seized a couple of knives. Then he walked to the entrance of the kitchen, and crouched and hid behind the door.
He could hear his father’s desperate bellows echoing across the living room:

“What the fuck! The phone’s down! The fucking phone’s down! Oh fuck, oh fuck! I have to get her to the hospital!”

Charlie could hear his father’s hurried footsteps approaching, and he counted it, timing its every step. THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP

He saw his father’s leg by the door. He shot out of his hiding place, a knife brought high above his head.

“AAAAAAARRRRRGGGHHHHHH!!”

Charlie could see the blood spluttered across his face. It was warm, so warm, and he felt a strange tenderness. His father lay on the floor, yelling and writhing in pain, clutching his leg and trying to pull the knife embedded through the back of his knee. Charlie got up and grabbed another knife from his pockets. He strolled slowly to his father’s head.

Charlie had never seen his father looking like this before, even when he was drunk. There was a mixture of fear and unbelieving in his face. And his eyes, oh, what terrified eyes. So wide and never blinking. Charlie grinned in delight and placed the tip of the knife to his lips, enjoying the chill and delighting himself watching his father’s misery and pain. He closed his eyes for a while, trying to feel not alone for the last time, and hating it very much.

He walked to his mother, who was twitching and shaking on the floor. She stared at him like his father did, with the very same eyes. Charlie crouched down and kissed her forehead. Goodbye mother. He brought the knife across her throat.

The blood was even warmer as it splattered across his hands and face. He shut his eyes, feeling a sensation he never felt before. He felt satisfied, for some reason, and his nerved and muscles tingles in the sort excitement he felt when cutting himself. He drew a rattling breath, feeling it circulating within his lungs, and felt a sort of thrill he had never felt before. He savoured it amidst his father’s screams.

But better enjoyment has yet to come. He’d better end this quick.

He strode over to his father and stared down at him. Tears were flowing down his face now. Why? Charlie asked. Why do tears have to flow? He looked at his father’s face, at his father’s hands and at his torso and legs, and still he was confused. Why would someone cry tears when they can finally be put alone?
He held the knife tightly in his palms, and stabbed downwards at his father’s throat.

Silence filled the entire place, filling the edges of the living room, filling the cupboard under the sink, filling Charlie’s room. He remembered this silence, oh yes he remembered it well, and he loved it. He loved it more than anything else. He walked around the apartment, throwing open every window. The familiar, chilly air swept into the apartment, playing across his face. He loved it. He walked to the switch board at the living room and switched off all the lights, deluging himself in darkness. He loved it. He walked back into the kitchen, stepping over his parents, opened the kitchen and seized some more knives. He strolled back towards the living room, feeling happy, feeling blissful, and feeling alive as he had never felt before. He was alone. He was finally alone.

*******************************************************************************


This story was the first work i ever posted online; i dropped in on www.writing.com before they strangely altered my account into a paying one (i have no idea why or how it happened), so i deleted my membership and kept this somewhere in my laptop until i found it over at Christmas last year. I only managed to generate one comment for this; and it was "Thank you for writing this". My first compliment over a story.

I wrote it as part of a (forgotten) pact between me and Amanda to help improve our writing; we write each other stories once a week and swap them, then comment on the works. I managed 1 story and a half (this one, and something that later became an idea for Nanowrimo), and she only gave me one that was barely half a page long. It was a great read though. I'll post it here if she'll allow me.

I apologise for the insane amount of profanity... i couldn't help it.

*Kindly drop in a comment. You don't know how much it means to this author*