Beneath My Skin

Awkward silence abounds,
with eyes gazed on the ground.
Moments of uneasiness unfolds
as their hearts grew cold.
When words become a hassle

The turn-takings for a resolution
doesn't seem to be a solution.
As emotions creep in,
as the pain seeps in.
When words become a hassle

Perhaps some period of solitude
would do good to their attitudes,
to calm the storm
and ease the tide back to norm.
When words become a hassle

Would things be the same
after they become sane;
and would there come a time
where they'll be fine
When words no longer become a hassle

It had been a long time. He could not remember when was the last time he felt like this anymore. It seemed eons ago. The days of living in daily resentment, pent up anger, unappreciated love and angsty disgust. Those dark days. They were somewhat a closed chapter in the book that he thought he would never see again. There were times he looked back. Comparing what was and what is now, all he had before was merely ashes and dust. The treasure and gold he lived in now were by far the greater pleasure he would choose to delight in.

He was enjoying the pleasures of his new found direction, marvelling at the transformations that took place in his life. The past was just a ghost that he scorned and loathed. At the same time, he also had some fear. Not an overwhelming amount, but a small dose of it. Fear of the ghost of the past revisting him. He knew that it was a pretty irrational fear, that's why it remained just a small tinge of fear. In any case, if the phantoms appeared again, he would just slay it with a cross and holy water, just like how Van Helsing did it with Dracula. A pretty amusing thought, he thought. Thoughts of being overrun by the phantoms never occurred to him. Such would be irrational and he had no room to entertain such ridicule. Neither did thoughts of facing the ghosts again ever came to him. Perhaps such was pride, or possibly ignorance, but likely to be foolishness. He certainly wasn't prepared to face them again.

Moments ago he was caught unprepared and was given a low blow. For a split second he thought he had been transported back in time. He could also mentally visualise his emotions being thrown into a turmoil, degenerating to the miserable set of feelings he had been so used to wearing in th past. Fortunately, he did not sink in and lose himself. Just as the garments of desolateness were put on, he desperately tore them away. As he tore them away, he gained an adrenalin rush and he frantically ripped them all away.

For those who had tasted Ben & Jerry's, Wall's ice cream is just shit. Marigold too. For those who tasted nice steamy hot pasta, instant noodles is trash. There is no reason to substitute the greater delight for a lesser one. He was lost for a moment, but only for a moment. He won't give up a banquet for a Ramly burger.

Taste, and see that it is good.

Sheer strength and power
Brawn, sinews and vigour
Hercules - a hero indeed, a hero indeed

Firm and impregnable
Unyielding and indestructible
Archilles - a hero indeed, a hero indeed

Of varying lengths.
shadows on the sundial shifts.
Seeping slowly,
sand trickled down the hourglass.
Tick tock, tick tock,
the hand on the grandfather clock moves.

Neither a bird nor a plane
He is swift with his red cape
Superman - a hero indeed, a hero indeed

Matchless wits to match his fancy gadgets,
He made Gotham a fortress
Batman - a hero indeed, a hero indeed

He faced the roaring lion and did not flee
He thought he too was a hero indeed.
How foolish of him that to think
He got crushed before he could blink

Heroes indeed, heroes indeed
A figment of creative imagination more like it.

hey u! stop staring at me from the corner
i can see u right here in my shelter
chuck ur deep stony gaze
and get out of my face
drop ur wretched pitchfork
and cease your mindless trash talk

i aint afraid of ur toothless scares
do what u want i dont care
i may stumble i may fall
back up i will climb and stand up tall
u want a game i will give u one
but beware cos it wun be fun

plot ur schemes and play ur cards
poker, blackjack or a game of hearts
i may lag behind or seem to trail
but Victory awaits me and u will fail
my trust is on the Rock
as i await brimstone and sulfur on ur wretched pitchfork

He found himself in the same situation once more. Not the deja-vu again. The same place, the same events, the same feeling. Just that the characters were different now. Different people with different faces, yet the same turmoil built up beneath the turbulence of emotions beneath his skin.

Like always, this turbulence was kept well hidden away from sight. Away from the sight of others and also away from his own gaze. It was something that he did not really want to face. Because it was something he did not dare face. Perhaps evasion might be a solution. Just like he had done it in the past. Just a three point turn. Face 180 degrees away. Take off and start darting off.

It was easier to run. Replacing all that with something numb. The mechanical concentration on the physical exertion of bodily limbs, and the layer of bodily fluid that sweatily clung onto his skin usually served well to act as a good deterrence. He recalled the times where he was once faced with such similar situations.

The first time dated back many years ago, when he was young and immature. The situation suddenly loomed up in front of his face and he was caught by surprise. He did not know how to react and so he started running away. And after a while, things turned out fine. Fine for everyone else of course. He was not really fine, but eventually he still became fine.

Just when he thought that he was really fine, history repeated to remind him of what he could not run away from. Nevertheless, he still ran. It was as if the marathon was addictive. Somehow, the test of endurance and will power seemed like an exciting game to trifle with. However, it left a bad after taste in mouth. But after a while, everything turned out fine. Fine for everyone else of course. He was not really fine, but eventually he still became fine.

Now the third time round. It had come back again to haunt him. He should have been more experienced and mature now. He should know how to handle it well. He should know the necessary steps he needs to take and what he should avoid doing and not doing. He should know everything that is required of him to ensure that the situation turns out in the best way for everyone.

Strangely, he was still unsure. He felt like a moron, a slow learner who should have grasped an easy concept eons ago but somehow remained stuck at the most elementary level of the task. Perhaps he should do what he usually does. In that manner. That will bring the same outcome. Where everything turned out fine. Fine for everyone else of course. He would not really be fine, but eventually he would become fine. Somehow, there was some hints of hesitation.

The crossroad now stands before him: To take the trodden path or the road less travelled.

Robert Frost unconsciously came to his mind, as though urging him to choose the path he had chosen. But it doesn't really feel convincing either.

He decided perhaps he would take out his sleeping bag and call that juncture his temporary home. Perhaps after a good night's sleep, enough fallen leaves would have gathered on the patch of ground in front of him to join the separate paths into a single straight road.

Beneath the blanket of caliginosity, on the cobbled streets dimly lit by streetlamps, gruffy Ben trudged along the pathway with some trepidation. The ominous moon peeked at him behind the thick clouds and deftly slipped back into the comforts of the cloudy hideout whenever anyone tried to catch him in the eye. Such acts of clandestine nature certainly imposed an air of apprehension and uncertainty in the tranquil serenity of the night. Ben dragged his foot lazily as he hummed to an obsolete old Chinese tune, going off-key at almost every other note. He thought he might be crazy walking around in the streets at such a late hour, especially in a country notorious for heinous late night robberies. But he had no choice. He had fallen asleep at the dinner table and all his friends had driven off without him, deliberately playing a prank on him. He somewhat regretted going for dinner with his friends at such a deserted location. The poor location of the restaurant somewhat gave an exotic feel to the ambience, painting an atmosphere of a mystical Oriental rustic feel. However, the food there was disappointing. It had perhaps disappointed him so much that he had fallen asleep at the dinner table. And there he was, stranded in a forlorn place, with no forms of transport back home. He had walked for quite some distance by now, and a cab was nowhere in sight.

Ben instinctively picked his nose and at the same time gave a loud hoarse cough, as the chilling wind gripped his nerves a little in the destitute land. He just had to pray that a cab would come along the way and he could just hop on and get home safely. As he was dragging his slippers along the sandy road, his imagination started to roam. It seemed as though he had just awaken from his drowsy daze and it suddenly dawned upon him that his situation was a pretty dangerous one to be in. Walking alone in the middle of the night along a deserted stretch of road in a country that topped the charts in crime rates. Unarmed. He could well see himself featured in the obituaries of the next day's papers. He blew his nose with his right sleeve and that sort of cleared up his mind a little. What was all those paranoia about? Why would he come to any harm at all? He had got no money whatsoever, nothing that would attract potential muggers. And that was a comforting thought. That could well assure him his safety. He cursed himself for not bringing his handphone out. His amnesia was really getting from bad to worse. That must have been the ninty-sixth time that he had forgotten to bring his handphone out.

Occasionally, some cars drove past him. Thoughts of hitching a ride did cross his mind but the fear of running into bad company made him drop the idea. It was at this time when he spotted a cab from a distance, moving towards his direction. The headlights were on him and he flagged incessantly for the cab to stop. Hope. He was glad that a cab finally came. Now he would not run into some mafia along the way anymore. He would not be unknowingly stabbed in the back by some insane fellow. More importantly, he was certain that he would not be privileged enough to earn a place in the next day's obituaries.

Ben stopped the cab and hurriedly threw himself into the backseat. His elation was only momentary and soon he was gripped with anxiety and fear. The cabbie did not give him a good feeling. Somehow, he had a vision of a solemn face printed on the back of the next day's papers. Under the obituaries. With his name below the picture. And also possibly a headline story to accompany that as well – ‘Taxi driver kills passenger’. He choked on his phlegm and gasped for some fresh air through the window. That seemed to clear his mind again. He really needs to rid his mind of such paranoia. Sometimes he wondered if he had a mental condition. Well, apart from his barbarous outlook and monotonous voice, the taxi driver actually seemed pretty normal. But the aura that accompanied his physical features was already enough to send chills racing up and down his spine several times.

The cabbie started talking to him. Ben panicked in his heart but resisted it from manifesting in the expressions on his face. He could not show any signs of weakness. It was all about mind games now. He knew that the cabbie was trying to find out more about him, to test him and see if he was an easy target. These unscrupulous people. Hardcore criminals masquerading as taxi drivers to pick on weak passengers in the middle of the night. He knew at once that the cabbie was testing him when he asked him about whether he carried any weapons with him.

'Parang! I got parang here!' Ben said non-chalantly and pretended to reach out for his 'parang' in his sling bag.

'Hahaha... not bad.. Parang... I have got a pistol here.... hahahhahahh...' the cabbie burst out in an eerie laughter, as though he had totally outwitted him.

Ben's heart sank. His 'parang' against the cabbie's pistol. He just hoped that he would get a quick death.

The journey then became a silent one. And soon Ben reached his destination. He quickly paid his fare and got off the cab. He quickly turned into the back alley and quickened his footsteps to get away. He was relieved that he got back safely.

Seemingly to prove his thought wrong, he heard footsteps behind him. The cabbie! And he had a pistol. And they were at the back alley. And it was in the middle of the night. All too perfect for a night of murder. And he felt a tap on his shoulders. At once, he shrieked hysterically and screamed uncontrollably. Just as he did that, he could hear another voice doing the same as well. He saw the cabbie in a state of shock. And the cabbie was holding on to his wallet. He had left it on the cab. They stared at each other. And they saw themselves beneath their skins, for the first time in night.




Ah Kong was in his midnight shift and he was struggling to keep awake. He sipped on his dose of caffeine and continued driving. He knew that he needed to be awake. To be awake enough to keep alert. And to be alert enough to ward off the dangers of the night. Yes, the dangers of the night. The reported sightings of 'floaters' on the roads. Urban legends of 'pontianaks'. Myths about the long-haired female ghosts that stalked cabbies in the night. Those supernatural threats. As well as less supernatural ones. Like maniacs. Demented serial killers. Night robbers. Burglars. The list seemed endless. That brought a wry smile to his face- he patted himself on the shoulder for having the guts to be out earning his keep despite the dangers that lurked around waiting for an opportune time to ambush him.

He was just about to complain about the quiet night and how the lack of customers would result in him running a deficit after having to fork out money from his own pocket to pay for the petrol when he saw a man waving frantically from a distance. He smiled to himself. Hope.

Ah Kong started to feel a tinge of regret for stopping his vehicle. The passenger that just got on reeked of tobacco and alcohol and his wavy long hair that draped across his shoulders, together with his sharp bony features just told Ah Kong that he was not one to be messed around with. What was he doing there in the middle of nowhere at this hour? He could not be up to anything good. Ah Kong secretly just prayed that the passenger would not turn out to be a criminal running away from his crime scene. Could he be a murderer? Could he have just killed someone and buried his body in the forests around there? The thought of that sent his heart pounding faster and faster. Ah Kong knew that he could not afford to think about the what-ifs anymore. Trying to break some ice, Ah Kong asked in a tone that attempted to be friendly, 'What are you doing here at this hour?' Before the passenger could reply, Ah Kong unconsciously slipped into his blabbering mode and went on, 'Haha, you must have carried a weapon like a pen knife or something for you to have the guts to walk around like that in the middle of the night..' Just as these words came out of his mouth, Ah Kong's heart skipped a beat. Beads of perspiration began oozing out of his wrinkled forehead.

'Pen-knife? How about a parang?' the passenger bellowed and glared at him through the rear-view mirror. At the same time, the passenger reached for something in his sling bag.

Ah Kong panicked. He knew he was at the mercy of his passenger. If he were to whip out his parang and start to go on a frenzy like he did when he murdered his victim in the forest and buried him there moments ago, Ah Kong would not live to see daybreak. He would not be able to visit the Bak Kut Teh shop he always frequents for breakfast. That daily dose of pork was always what he looked forward to after a night of driving. He begged in his heart that such a simple joy would not be taken away from him.

He got a parang. Ah Kong hoped that his lie would suffice. He hoped that the passenger behind him would be wary of his 'pistol' too. It was all about mind games.

The strong features etched onto the angular bony face commanded an aura of hauteur that surrounded him. His greyish white hair, coupled with his wavy silver eyebrows, accentuated the assertiveness of his features. His stern expression almost never left his face - the facial muscles seemingly conditioned to be perpectually flexed in the same position all the time. When he spoke, the voice that streamed out of his mouth always demanded full attention and complete submission from those who listened. His tall and stout physique just served as a mere reminder to those who harboured any hints of rebellion that he could crush them easily with a single blow. He called himself the Master.

The training ground was one built on the foundations of fear. That was precisely the way he had intended it to be. He would have absolute control, right down to the most minute detail, over everything. With the shackles of fear firmly in place, no one would even dare to question this authority. His power was clothed in the garments of legitimacy on the basis of his self-proclaimed title as the Master.

No one on the training ground wanted to go through the strict regimentation and rigourous physical torture. But they had no choice. They were already there. And they could not leave. Not that they could not leave, but they did not dare to. Even if they wanted to, they could not figure out how to. So they all accepted their fate.

After the training hours, when the disciples were back in their bunks, they would sometimes curse and swear at the Master. Some would even boast about how he would one day go up to the Master and give hm a good beating. Occasionally, some would suggest some comical plans about sneaking out of the dreadful place. But all these talks remained as talks whose existence lingered only within the confines of the dormitories.

Enno was one of those disciples. He loathed the entire system. He always wondered why no one had the guts to do what was necessary. He had long wanted to fight back. The spirit in him was willing, but the body was weak. He could do nothing alone. He simply could not swallow conformity wholesale without any proper reason. But that was exactly what everyone was expected to do. Conformity was expected. Conformity to the rules was the Law. Obedience to the Master was something that needed no further justification and failure to conform or obey was the biggest taboo.

Sometimes Enno thought that he was plain silly. Many others thought so too. Despite that, Enno at times still could not resist himself but challenge the system on numerous occasions. And that never failed to infuriate the Master. When that happened, Enno would try to reason and justify, but he would be lambasted so severely by the Master that he would very often regret what he did. Many labelled him as foolhardy. A few secretly admired his guts, but conceded that it was a brave but futile effort.

On rare occasions when the disciples were given the privilege of leaving the training ground to the world outside, Enno would be overjoyed. But each time he stepped out of the training ground on these rare occasions, his heart would be heavy. He could step out of the place. He could even go as far away as he wanted. But when the time comes for him to return, he would still have to drag himself back to the training ground again. The gate that he passed by each time he was allowed to leave was a place of ambivalent emotions. On one hand it symbolised the hope and joy that he could receive from the outside world, on the other it reminded him of where he had to return eventually.

Enno contemplated the consequences of the plan suggested to him. If the plan was executed well, he could very well change his own destiny and the destiny of all the other disciples. If it were to go wrong, the backlash would be unimaginable. He thought about the countless many outside who were all fervently praying for him. He realised that he had the support of them. They would all be behind him, no matter how tough it was going to be.

He decided to seek help. The next time he leaves the training ground, he would seek help. That was the plan. To seek help. Even if the Master would release his immense wrath on the knowledge of that, he would seek help. The Master might be infallible within the training ground, but he would not be able to stand a chance fighting against a superior opponent.

Enno walked out of the training ground. He knew that he needed to carry out the plan. Because he really needs help. Because the other disciples need help. Because the Master himself needs help.

The land on the other side of the waters looked uninviting and unwelcoming, as he stood on the bridge outstretched onto the other bank. He was returning home. Supposedly. The land on the opposite bank had nurtured a bedlam he had called home for the past two decades. Sometimes he would like to think that he was already numb to the pandemonium and chaos they could induce on his mind, but it was always when he felt himself cracking up and breaking down that he realised that he was not the bastion of strength and impregnable fortress beneath his icy cool facade.

He stood on the bridge, with his arms on the side railings, gazing at the waters below him. He saw himself in the waters and he stared hard at himself. Those eyes were so still and expressionless. His entire demeanour was just chilling- the air of aloofness had seemingly encased him in a space capsule where time had been frozen. He looked just like an artificial effigy, totally unperturbed and oblivious to his surroundings. At least that was what the reflection seemed.

The water surface that mirrored his image was smooth and rippleless. It was as still as his eyes, almost stagnant and disturbingly tranquil. He identified with the waters. The velvety surface was just like him; however, the waters resembled him not just on the surface, but strikingly parallelled himself even more underneath. The water below the top layer of disguise was turbulent, choppy and tumultuous. Pretty much like the invisible waves each of his heartbeat sends to the rest of the body when the heart organ pounds grudgingly. He was glad that he found a soul mate in the waters. The inanimate waters was like a juxtapose of his own life, but he would be more than willing to swap positions with the waters if given an opportunity. He would prefer to be inanimate and insentient. He longed for a quiescent mind, or even a defunct one, so that the burden of emotions, consciousness and free will would not be upon his aching shoulders.

The land ahead was where he ought to be heading, but the land behind was where he wanted to be. Each time he stepped onto the bridge, it was a matter of an unwilling choice. He even wondered if it was even a choice at all. But he chose to perservere. Such suffering would produce perserverance. And perserverance, character; and character, hope.

He knew that hope would not disappoint. Especially if he trusts in Him.

For reasons blur as fog,
they choose to slog
on the endless conveyor belt.
They pace each steps with grudges heartfelt;
in their hearts they defiantly resent
but their bodies readily consent.

For causes unknown and mystified,
they prefer to hide themselves from Light.
On the path of daily life,
they drown their minds in lies.
In place of reason, they exalt their misery
in groans and grumbling agony.

For their sake they are told,
the Light at the tunnel holds.
On a slippery slope they stand,
down to the endless abyss they land.
In the wake of perils yet to come,
will they come undone?

For reasons blur as fog,
they laugh and mock
on the endless conveyor belt.
They march forth with heads swelled,
in their hearts they no longer resent
for to Death they have given consent.

He crept into the room from the window. Under the veil of secrecy, he surreptitiously stealthed across the room in a clandestine manner. His furtive glance laid fixed on the safe at the corner. He sniggered to himself. His gloved hands handled the combination lock like a seasoned expert, deftly wielding the device to his obedience. In a matter of seconds, the lock laid subdued on the floor. He took out his bag and emptied the contents of the safe into it.

'Who's that? What are you doing!' a voice shouted from behind. Needless to say, he had been discovered. Exhilaration suddenly surged through his veins. Robin thought that it was starting to get exciting. He slung his bag across his shoulder and smiled. The man who shouted ran towards him, desperate to stop him from looting his possessions. In one swift motion, Robin swept his legs and tripped the man, leaving him crashing to the floor. He followed up with a hard kick at the man's torso. Robin lifted up the hood of his jacket and hid his face in it. 'Woe to you. I will bring these blessings to those who need it,' with these words, Robin finished the man with a malicious kick to his head. Filled with a sense of achievement, Robin climbed out of the window and disappeared into the silence of the night. His night just began. Quickening his footsteps, Robin headed towards the back alley.

Robin walked right into the midst of the crowd. The crowd hushed themselves and sat down in their positions quietly as they waited in much eagerness. Robin emptied his bag on the floor and the crowd went wild with excitement at the sight of the loot. 'Help yourselves wtih them!' Robin told them and smiled. The crowd hailed Robin as their hero and distributed the loot among themselves.

Amidst the winters of society, such an occasion certainly acted as the fireplace that warms them, who otherwise were all freezing with poverty and hunger. The impersonal environment had left them feeling dejected and disillusioned. Robin is their only hero. Every night, they would gather and wait for Robin to bring them what they need to fuel their lives. Robin is their symbol of strength and righteousness.

A little boy trudged into their presence, wailing uncontrollably. Torrents of tears gushed out from him and he was overwhelmed with seemingly so much grief and sorrow. 'Hey kid, what's troubling you? Tell Robin and he will deliver you from your troubles.' one from the crowd said. Robin grinned and went towards the little boy. He stroke his head and wiped away his tears. 'Tell me your troubles and what you want me to do for you,' Robin told the little boy who was still trembling and shaking.

'You are the thief that has come to steal, kill and destroy. Why did you kill Daddy?' the boy glared hard at Robin, though his tears were still flowing. The crowd began to look at one another and looked at Robin again. Some understood immediately. They left the loot on the ground and walked off without looking back. Some began to call the little boy insane. Robin put on his hood again. He lifted his head high, unashamedly. He was talked about as the one who robbed the rich and gave to the poor. He knew he would always have his followers, despite some leaving him upon realising who he really was. Robin laid his hands on the head of the boy, the expression of his face manifesting a glint of malice.

After a long period of inactivity, he had decided to come back to life again. He never knew that he needed such a long break. At first, he was just thinking of shelving it aside because he was too busy with other things. Too busy with things that probably didn't really matter to him, things that were pretty trivial yet cumbersome and things that were almost meaningless but were obligated to do. So he decided to take a break.

He remembered the time when he lifted up the lid of the wooden box and marvelled at the roseate glow on the red cushions that lined the interiors of the box, beckoning him to lie on it. He thought that there was no harm lying on it for a while. Afterall, this rest he had been looking forward too had been long overdue. The moment he lay down, he felt himself unwind. The countless straps of elastic bands that were stretched and bound on him were suddenly released, and they didn't release a little at a time, it was all at once. The weight and tension that were wound up so tightly around him disappeared in a split second, the pressure release on his bodily skin was soothing, relieving and lulling.

He began to enjoy the interaction of his skin against the fabrics of the sheetings. He slid the palm of his hand back and forth the interior walls of the wooden box. After a while, he did not feel like getting up any more. He did not feel the need to get back to being busy. There was no need to be entangled with things that did not interest him. Resting his weight fully on the red cushions, he allowed his whole body to be pleasured by the comforts of the fabric.

He was savouring every moment of it. It was almost perfect. Almost, but not yet. He reached out for the lid and pulled it down, shutting himself in the wooden box, in complete darkness. The darkness was perfect. Darkness can only be perfect when light is not present, because as long as there is a tinge of light, the fragility of darkness would be exposed and literally be brought to light. Yes, the darkness he was enjoying was indeed good. He lay in the midst of the darkness, well hidden away from view.

Moments later, he seemed a little dissatisfied again. No doubt it was dark, but it was still not dark enough. He shut his eyes. It was not enough to be hidden from view, he needed to be hidden from himself was well. It was only then that he could truly set his mind at peace.

The serenity of this rest was certainly addictive. So addictive that he even thought he could rest forever. And be dead. It was this very thought that he suddenly woke up from his slumber. He could not be dead. Because he is Undead. He pushed open the lid of the coffin.

He is thirsty. The rosy redness of the coffin cushions can no longer satisfy his insatiable hunger. He needs blood. And he needs it now. He is not Dracula for nothing. He springs out of his coffin and disappears into the silence of the night.