Disturbia

I woke up to the sound of running water. Sitting up in bed, I realized that my mattress was soaking wet. Still, in a daze, I flinched as a large, cold drop of water splashed my head.I reached up to wipe it off and realized my bedroom door was ajar. Stumbling out of bed, my feet on the cold wet floor, I surveyed my room. It looked like the mess it usually is but for some reason, it seemed different. Groggily I look at the clock on the wall, rubbing my eyes to get a clearer look; the clock face read 4:25am. I looked out of the window, the moon was full, alluding to something sinister. The trees outside shook, their claw like branches shivering and entwining. I must check where the water is coming from. I silently creep downstairs. Stopping for a moment, I listen by the stairs. Someone is in the kitchen. Now thoroughly spooked, I tip-toe into the doorway of the kitchen and stick my head in. The sink is overflowing. Nothing could prepare me for what I saw standing there. I feel light headed as I grip the wall. It was too much to look at so I spiral to the floor, losing consciousness. The last thing I remember was a dark black shadow engulfing me and the scent of freshly baked vanilla muffins.

I awoke to a blinding white light, almost brighter than the sun. My body hurt as though I’d been flung down a hundred flights of steps like a ragdoll. Bruises and grazes covered every inch of me. I was sore and purple. The dark green carpet under me was damp and had a faintly arabic pattern on it. There were red specks on it too. I looked to my left and saw the dark black shadow again. It was slowly moving in towards me. Terror choked my throat, the light shut and I was plunged into utter darkness. I don’t know what scared me more, the thought of not being able to see the monster’s face in the dark or the thought of seeing it reach out to me in the light, the anger burning in it. So I waited, my body paralyzed on the floor. It had an overpowering smell. I hated it. A mixture of flour and rotten flesh. Something about it triggered many unhappy images of dinner in my own home. I fumbled around with clumsy fingers, touching a hard plastic object. It had a distinct shape. My fingers slithered around it, slipping it into some kind of socket. It was a light switch. Decisions, decisions. Should I press ‘on’ and illuminate the horror again or should I let my imagination take control. Time seemed to stand still. Why was nothing happening? The silence was deafeningly loud, eerie. It was crazy. I pushed the button, immediately wishing I hadn't. The shadow had taken the shape of something resembling a woman. I knew it would. It’s face, if you can call it that, loomed close to mine, close enough to see its small, beady brown eyes, so similar to mine. It disgusts me. The putrid stench entered my nostrils a second later. Its body was bound in a loose cloth, pieces of it falling away to reveal patches of revolting skin. A shade of yellow. A yellow like that of my mother’s favourite dress. Slowly, so slowly I backed away. Crawling. My eyes never leaving it. In my mind it was taunting me, I wanted to rip it in two. It began to circle me, its feet never touching the ground. It swooped in, one final time, its hands outstretched, reaching out to grab me off the ground. I struggled and twisted but then gave in. Its going to be alright, everything will be fine. I will be victorious. The last thing I remember was the smell of stale vanilla muffins.

I lapsed in and out of consciousness. It almost had a kind of pattern to it now. I keep hearing my dead mother calling to me “Daniel, Daniel! Come in, desert’s getting cold. You won't like your muffins cold, will you?’’. That was a memory from 10 years ago. Then there are the times when the distorted woman shadow would be there, silently watching, for what, I don't know. There were flashes of light and flashes of darkness, like a war, each element struggling to dominate. Hunger, thirst or any other necessities faded to the background, in the fore of my mind was just the smells that lingered. Sometimes flesh, sometimes muffins sometimes something I could not place my finger on. I dug my nails into my scalp trying to distract myself from them but it never worked. I don't know how long I was suspended in this state, not yet awake not yet asleep.

Cold. Icy cold. Water. A rude awakening. I am drenched. I am on a bed with stark white sheets. They contrast with my dark skin. The blood stains are still on my hands but the familiar round handle of the knife was missing. Panicking, I thrashed on this bed, looking for my companion. I’d hate to lose that knife, it had been my saviour. I heard a door open from somewhere far away. Hushed whispers and a jovial laugh. Who were these people? I just wanted to go home. I wondered, did I remember to clean up the blood from the kitchen? Hmm. I’ll have to get around to doing that. Suddenly my ponderings were interrupted. A door I had not noticed in the corner of this room opened. A lady in entered. She was holding some metallic tray. Squinting, I realised it was only a nurse. I like the red emblem on her pocket, it reminds me of blood. She is saying something to me, what is she saying? I cannot hear. I look at the way her mouth moves, enjoying the red lipstick she had applied that morning. I want to tell her she has smudged a bit but how? My own mouth seems to be a different part of me. She turns away and leaves. Her heels making resounding echoes upon the marble floor. I am sad.

It has been 2 months since I’ve been here. Why am I in a psychological ward? The male doctors seem to think I am mentally unstable. They are wrong. They’ve accused me of a murder. My mother’s I think. These doctors, they just shake their heads, make some notes and leave. I do not listen to them. The numbers, 22-48-24-6-31, they’re like that song on the radio, they keep replaying. They flow and swirl and swoop in my mind like the waves of an ocean. I try to make them listen to me, a favourite game of mine. I wish to see the nurse with the red lips, the one who came to me before. Im just glad I am away from that monster, the one in my dreams. She will not haunt me anymore with her putrid smells.

On the evening of the 22nd of March 1992 the body of Katherine Holdings, aged 48, was found in her house. A neighbor noticed the smell and alerted the police. A large butcher knife with a rounded handle was found lying near her in a pool of blood. She had 24 stab wounds to her legs, arms and chest. 6 burnt vanilla muffins were found in the oven. There are some pills on the floor of his bedroom, upon analysing, they were found to be Zolpidem. Her 31 year old son , Daniel Holdings, is suspected. His whereabouts are hidden from the general public. He has been admitted into ‘The Greendale Psychological Ward’ in downtown Kansas, upon his lawyers request.

Simran Ali Malik

Be Careful What You Wish For

Everyone was always happy, everything was so fine, pure bliss! Riding fast and crazy on the horse of youth, the sun, a backdrop to your success. There’d be parties and outings that you were always invited to. No event was complete without your presence. The star of the show, like a goddess, in their lives, everyone wanted a piece of you. Of course, delighted, unabashed, your ego was on a high roll. Forever, a toast to your accomplishments. Sweet friends would cheer you up if ever life wasn't at its greatest. Diamonds, pearls, fancy wheels and designer threads, you had it all. Living the clichéd life of the beautiful, rich and famous, the kind of life you’d read about in a teen sorority book. Everything was lavish and life was one long, rocking, exotic adventure, one that would last forever, or so you thought.

It was great while it lasted but then some wondered, what did you do to get so high on the charts? How many backs you must’ve stabbed, how many people you must’ve walked over? Never was the past spoken about, never was anyone let in that close. So much was unknown about you, it added to that deliciously mysterious appeal. Everyone’s out looking for answers, you just provoked questions. Who knew what secrets were hidden deep in your chest. There were rumors, like there always are,  that you were the black sheep in your family. An outcast, almost a pariah. You made sure you lived to change that. Addicted to the limelight... no, you were ‘the limelight’. Making everyone feel as though they were on a high and you were ‘the drug’ that everyone was addicted to. You were sensational, a force to be dealt with. No one foresaw the black lining in your silver cloud that would be your downfall.  

You thought the fire would always burn bright but now everyone just seemed to be waiting for the last few embers to  ebb out. You lost control of the runaway success, the game. Its all gone. The madness overtook the speed at which you devoured success. All was now fading. The ‘friends’ who promised you the world and reminded you of how loved you were, where are they now? They’ll be the ones standing in the shadows, watching you burn. You thought you truly were some rare gem. The only rose in the grey. This fame isnt for you, some said. It’s you who’ve done this to yourself. Torn off the pedestal and wrecked by it. No blame could be laid, no one could be accused, it was time to look within. Like someone famous once said, ‘Success has many fathers but failure is an orphan’. You wanted this, power, glory but at what price? You sold your soul to the devil, for pennies. Was it worth it, after all? Think.  

The unbound birds fly far away now, who would want your flickering flames to scorch them? The dancing flares that once used to amuse, now abuse. They tried to warn you, they really did. Some sprinkled, some drizzled and finally showered you with a hail of icy remarks. However, vanity won you over. You refused to leave your weak ashy state to bloom back into something more, the next stage of your journey perhaps? Then of course there’s the grey. It hangs on you now, like a cloud, like a sickness, this engulfing smoke you continuously emit, a distant memory of the mighty roaring fire you used to be. The dying coal, without any pattern, burst alight, a sliver of the zest you had in your life once. Wouldn’t it be nice, to move away from this part of you? Distance it, damage it, try to destroy it. It is no use anymore.

No one is born corrupt. Your essence was amiable and winsome as is everyone else’s. Growing up, in this preconditioned world of ours, you’re psychologically trapped to morph into something you aren't. When you’ve been certified, to have fit the mould, your spirit, your energy inside is still thrashing around, like a wild animal in a cage, trying to break free. It protests, this is not you, this is not right! The sooner that is learnt, the closer your liberation. One is either trying to blend in with the background, become a wallflower or stand out and be the next big thing.  Can’t we just be our own individuals and be respected for it? Humanity is stuck in this rat race for money, fame, popularity. Governed by these silent dictates from all around, of the mould we must fit into. If anything, sheep is not what we are. We often forget to listen to the voice inside us, the subconscious that knows it all better than we could ever try to comprehend. Just be, stop trying. No barriers, no burning desire to be the person on the magazine cover. Just you, amazing you.

Some tried to be constant boulders in your life, the anchors to keep you grounded, the ones who’ll always stay, always offer you a seat and strength, the only real friends. Waiting for you to change was like wishing for rain in a hot desert. Albeit slowly and gradually, your greying ashes do have the potential to burst ablaze into the glorious flames they once were. You could wade through the murky seas of society so everyone can see and admire your beauty, your intelligence, it’s what you always wanted, wasn’t it? Attention? Acceptance? Applause? You can’t always get what you wish for. But in your ecstasy, the holes and gaps are widening and unravelling, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. Hope the sting of the cold bites into your naked skin, hope it stings like nettles. They hope it will bite a little harder, slice in a little deeper. Does it hurt enough? Exactly how much is enough?  Did you deserve it?  These questions haunt you. They want you to feel everything you made them go through to get to the high. The pain and the suffering, the threats and the jealousy. You can never be too careful about the kinds of enemies you make along the way, the road to fame is a rocky one, full of steep rock faces and deep, dark ravines. The crouching monsters await you, can you make it up, unscathed?
Your light ebbed away slowly with the wind as you stumbled to reach sanity. Will it be how you envisioned it or something else? Now everything has burnt down to ashes; the whole cycle begins again. Will you rise to the challenge, regain your splendor, your lost glory? Or is it something entirely new that you desire, a different goal, a different destination? May Lady Luck always be smiling upon you, may your values always stay strong. This time, be careful of what you really wish for.
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If you managed to stay with me so far, then I'll tell you what inspired this essay. Im writing for this competition , here's the link, check it out: http://thestar.com.my/dublin/ Please leave any comments, critical or positive. I'd really appreciate it :)