Yes, yes I am on hiatus, but let me just heave this off my chest.

Children.

Kids.

Whatever.

So as long as they are cute and behaving, its tolerable. Else they are monsters.

You are married, you want to spawn, okay.

But for some parents, well, I don’t understand why they wanted kids. But it is fine by me, you keep your spawn and don’t bother us peace loving denizens of the earth.

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For some unavoidable reason, I live next to a babysitter. (I should’ve checked before moving in. BAH~!) She cared for two siblings, an elder sister about five and another younger brother around three years old, I think.

Every weekdays, without fail, the children’s parent (either the mum or dad) will come in the evening to pick up their kids.

Fine, fine, do whatever that suits your lifestyle.

So, whenever the parents arrived, the kids will rush talked like magpies, jumped around. Laugh like idiots. The parents and the babysitter chatted for awhile. Then they leave.

When they leave, they leave their younger son behind.

So if you were the son, what would you do when you got left out?

FRET and WHINE and CAJOLE. Everytime. Without fail.

If the mum is the one picking the kids up, she will cook up nonsense such as “be good, boy, mummy will bring you home this weekend okay?” which I bet it does a hell lot of good to the boy who is when he is left behind and his sister gets to go home everyday.

If that bugger just can’t stop crying, the mother will then ask the babysitter to bring him for a walk while she takes another route home.

However, if the dad’s doing the picking up, all hell broke loose, with screaming and scoldings and beatings (I don’t know I didn’t peek) leaving the bugger howling his heart out.

I mean, its just disturbing? And when you happen to witness to this kind of drama everyday, its so stupid that it is downright disgusting. Not like I give a damn. Until today.

As usual, the dad came, kids got happy, bla bla bla, going home, then the dad said” didi not going back with us today.”

And the bugger crying and screaming at the top of his lungs ” FUCK!!! FUCK!!! FUCK!!! FUCK!!! FUCK!!! FUCK!!! ”

Me: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ………………………………. -.=”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"”"

Observe that he shouted those bolded word with so much emo. Yes, I counted them. Exactly six times. And the dad drove away. Nobody reprimanded the three year old bugger.

Now, where the fuck did he learn that FUCK word?

Oh, whatever. Just stop those dramatic scenes in front of the house already. I don’t give a damn where he learnt it, cos he’s gonna learn it sooner or later anyway.

The end is near. I must be prepared for it. You should too.

This is a continuation of my old project, a thriller based on real life experience. Please read the previous chapters before proceeding.

Silent Night (Prologue)

Silent Night (Part I)

Silent Night (Part II)

Excerpt from the previous chapter:
” … something tragic happened in the chapel, but of what nature, nobody knows for sure.

All of a sudden, the silent night was rudely invaded. Metals clanged loudly against each other, the cruel rattling reverberated throughout the empty school.

“The chained gate!” she panicked. “

Part III

Images of uneasiness flashed past her one by one.

“Who could have shook the gate thusly?” She wondered in panic.

She tried to make haste, to rush to the gate and to check the furious rattle.

However, she hesitated. As the night temperature drop significantly all of a sudden, the noise of rattling chain that sounded distant seem to get nearer and nearer, so near that she could imagine the invisible intruder listening to her every intake of breath, every skip of hearbeat.

Seconds passed. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t. It was as if a supernatural force held onto her, rooting her into the place she currently stood at — in front of the band room.

The intruder bears malice akin to a fiery beast trying to free itself from the shackles that imprisoned it.
Beads or perspiration formed on her forehead. The struggle of the invisible intruder pounded painfully in her mind. Frightfulness strucked her like it never did before. She was paralyzed, trapped, rendered useless by the fear brought forth by the invisible intruder that broke the silence so viciously.

It was as if the intruder yearns for a witness, or a listener in this case, for, in a split moment which seems to feel like an eternity to her, she felt her a presence that beckons to no one but to her, pleading, silently pleading her to listen to the tale, the tale of the silent night never spoken to anyone.

The shackles broke. The intruder’s struggle quiesced. He was no longer imprisoned by the shackles that stole his freedom. He was free.

Alas!

Dragging along the broken shackles, he took his steps, slowly, painfully, with invisible legs grimed and bloodied by the long, torturous prisoner years, not unlike a child learning his first steps.

The severed chain that used to bound his feet trailed uselessly as the invisible intruder explored, searching, slowly searching, of something unknown to her, yet it was something she knew that he couldn’t find forever.

And he left, silent regret hanging in the midnight air, leaving behind echoes along the hollow corridors and the empty stairs.

This is a continuation of my old project, a thriller based on real life experience. Please read the previous chapters before proceeding.

Silent Night (Prologue)
Silent Night (Part I)

Excerpt from the previous chapter:

“… when she spoke, she spoke with a tone so grave that I was startled to the core. What came from her next was the least expected. Instead of barking the usual commands all she said was a sentence. Not exactly a sentence, but a question. Did anyone of you hear anything yesterday?”

Part II

Light source were scarce in this old school building. Everything was dark when the sun sank into the horizon, leaving hollow shadows, haunting the night as the living refused to step into the desolate area that obscured the Catholic church, the two missionary schools and a Christian graveyard.

The night was silent. The wind was dead, the insects mute. Pale dull moonlight illuminated holy cross on the tomb of the dead, casting malignant shadows that could be mistaken for something else on the land where those who no longer breathe resides for eternity.

It was at three or four maybe, she couldn’t quite recall. The teachers left, not without chaining the main gate and padlocking it, presumably to keep the campers safe within the schoolground and to prohibit them from leaving.

She patrolled alone that night, just like the night before. She flipped no switch, nor did she turn on her handheld torchlight, for she knew the corridor path by heart.

She was tired. However, sleeping was not an option for the camp leader. She insisted on being alert all the time, bearing full responsibilities of what the camp requires. And that, includes safety, which explains why she prefered to patrol the corridor than to sleep.

Step by step, she trudged forward, full aware that she was patrolling the first floor of the right wing, where the band room was situated just a few doors past the staircase. Back then, when the school were run by the Catholic missionaries, the band room was a small chapel. Now that the nuns left, and the only remnant to prove its credibility is but a small cross hanging in the middle of the room.

It was also rumoured that something tragic happened in the chapel, but of what nature, nobody knows for sure.

All of a sudden, the silent night was rudely invaded. Metals clanged loudly against each other, the cruel rattling reverberated throughout the empty school.

“The chained gate!” she panicked.

This is a prologue for an old project of mine, a thriller based on real life experience. Initially I wrote the first half of it and left it at that for more than a year before I pick it up again. My hope is that this project will span for a few chapters, giving it a justice as it deserves.

“… wars are destructive, and along the destruction, many restless soul wanders…”

Prologue

It was three o’ clock in the morning. Everything was silent, so silent that it was almost scary.

The desolate street was empty, save for a lone flickering lamppost opposite of the road. Underneath the flickering lamp, dark shadowy glances danced, a rhythmic dance controlled by an invisible puppet master.

The chilled night air was refreshing and I was wide awake, lost in my thoughts, entertaining a series of flashbacks so vivid that I shuddered to the thought of it.

This tale happened on one of the many nights before tonight, exactly eight years ago, when I was a high school freshman.

My alma mater, like the many schools of its genre, is a missionary school set up by a group of Catholic nuns in the early 1900’s and had since governed by the nuns until the British granted independency to its colony of Malaya.

The chronicles of history couldn’t be evaded, and the school, along with all the pre war buildings of the era were entitled to their own deplorable history, their own untold tales, engulfed within the walls that witness the cruelty of war and speak not to the living.

Continuity:

Part I