Electric Itlog

An archive of what was and what will be...

Thursday, March 27, 2008


The room fell into an uneasy silence as I slid into it from the doorway on the right: the strong winds that promised a thunderstorm suddenly became dumb and the distant sounds of a howling dog turned into a memory—as if everything was ushered into silence, awaiting the start of a good scene that was meant for unadulterated viewing only.

No commentaries please! No small talk inside the theater! No smoking, drinking or eating allowed inside the auditorium! You are not allowed to breathe!

I put down the bulky messenger bag that has been burdening my shoulder for the past ten hours into its usual position by the dresser and took off my socks and tucked them into my shoes, which I gracefully toed-off while entering the room, then I proceeded by taking-off my shirt and my favorite denim jeans which left behind my blue and white pinstriped boxers that carefully hugged my scrawny body and kept me a safe distance from being fully nude.

I sat on the edge of my bunk that has become my refuge for the past four year—with the crisp blue sheet that was a sight to behold, topped by an old striped comforter laying across the old black bed in a non-recognizable form, carefully pinned down by the two pillows, dressed in a quirky case that bear prints of archaic shells and fleurs-de-lis, that were within my reach—but I decided to forgo slumber, instead I decided to reach to the table at my front and take what was left of a box of Marlboro lights, taking the stick that preceded the one which I had carefully turned over a day before.

The smoke rose into the air, as I let out the remnants of my first puff of the cursed poison—steadily mixing with the stale air that hangs inside the room and with the salty tears that escaped my eyes, brought about by the smell of burning paper and tobacco that slowly filled the room, impregnating the confines of the four walls with the scent of my chosen vice.

My prized dagger lied in peace on the hard concrete floor—a replica of a sixteenth century Italian weapon which I bargained for in a flea market six years before—glimmering with an invitation that I answered as I carefully snuffed my cigarette in a blue shot glass where I house the honorable dead butts that have serviced my lips with smoke.

The eyes of the non-visible audience grew wider, anticipating the scene that will logically follow..

I unsheathed my dagger and ran my fingers across the iron blade, noting in my head the features that have somewhat fallen into a dull state over the past years yet still sharp enough to inflict pain, and I carefully held the knife—as I did not want any accidents to happen that might save my life.

I could hear the imaginary crowd gasp in their seats and squirm in the sight of horror..

There was a slow rush of red and an even louder silence followed as I felt the heat as the liquid slowly crept down my arms and I wondered why a certain heavy numbness started to creep through by body, preventing me from the pain I sought to feel.

My mind told me it was time for another smoke, so I stood up and reached for the almost empty box of gold and white, unfazed by the blood that dripped into the floor and the table.

They can clean it up later.

Using the shaky fingers attached to the hand in the end of my uncut left arm, I took out my wish-stick—the last stick in box that has become a tradition of every pack and I steadied the flame of my lighter into the end of the cigarette that hanged from my lips.

And as the tip of the white roll of shredded tobacco started to burn, I let out the last wish among countless others:

Give me peace.

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