Heartfelt Series No. 4: Rumours

They told me of the deepest, darkest secret this room has kept within walls for years. Rumours have it that a man lived in the room who, when he would be at home, clutched a beating heart.

Nobody knew who owned it until a young ladythey carefully whisperedtold them that it belonged to a maiden, of the same age as the man, who loved him deeply.

The people then reacted differently. Some were disgusted while others laughed. A few pondered on whether it was possible that the lad would kill her for various reasons.

And then she spoke, they revealed to me. She spoke so wittily that everyone was hushed, dumbfounded with what she said.

“Would you like to know, dear, what the girl said?” they asked me.

I shrugged.

That she gave her heart “wholeheartedly” to him, and he accepted it only to find out that he, too, was deeply in love with her,

The old men and women pitied the loss—if not despised the act—of the lad. And then, after a long pause, they added, “’The most tragic of all tragedies.’” One hushed.

Everyone looked at the direction of the speaker, except for the young lady who didn’t move, except for her lips that angled into a smiled.

They said it was an old man, gruff and haggard, who spoke those words.

Then the old man, aged and weak, stood up and walked limply towards the young lady.

Everyone watched, unmoved and unnerved.

“It has been a long time…” he whispered and halted from walking. He was less than a meter away from her. The lady, still smiling, looked down, “Ah, you still have it, and it has been a long time,” he added and smiled.

And then she danced—


“Well, she did not, really—” they replied to me. It was just as how the witnesses described the way she moved. She was like dancing when she moved.

“Gracely? It’s that word,” said the butcher. And I told him it was gracefully. He said yes, that was he meant—gracely, and I sighed.

And they went on telling me—

She gracely (gracefully—I corrected him in my head)danced as she turned to him. And she spoke, “And you do, too,” and raised her left hand.

The man raised his right hand. In it was something that looked like a rugged stress ball. They both laughed. Then the old man limply rushed to her and wrapped the lady in his dirty arms and kissed her soft lips with his flaky lips. Yes, they confirmed to me, they kissed. In front of everyone. Longing for each other lingered in that moment. And the next thing they knew, the old man lay on the street, lifeless, and in his chest, one part was never found again.

They concluded.

I stood there in front of everyone as they wait for me to say something. Funny how sometimes people say too much when you only ask for a simple thing like, “Is this room vacant and can be rented?” You start to hear information that may not really matter at all once you decide to make it as such—but in my case, I decided on the other thing: It does and will matter. You get lots and lots of stories and rumours and hearsays and pieces of advice that could form a gigantic puzzle but never an answer to your inquiry. While at some point, when you ask for something specific and detailed and urgent, you just get a ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ or ‘go away’ which leaves you hanging.

Their stares started to feel heavy on me, so I looked around and walked towards the window, “How much?” I said.

“You are currently standing on the exact same place where she was last seen alive,” the butcher replied.

Here we go again.

“Cool,” I said and walked towards them and stopped at the middle of the room. “I’m loving this more.”

“And now, you are on the same spot where she was seen with..her chest…” spoke the landlady, her eyes reflected a mixture of bewilderment, horror, and relief. Although the last seemed irrelevant, I understood why she felt it.

“Great,” I said and looked down on the floor.

Are those blood stains?

“How ‘bout I’ll buy this, name your price.” I added.

“Young miss, it seems you’re in such a haste to decide,” the landlord spoke at last, but nervously. “The other rooms are more furnished and spacious—”

“I like it as it is,” I cut him off. He swallowed the other words he was about to say. “How much?”

“Dear, did you not listen to our stories?” said the clerk who was an old lady.

“Maybe we should tell her about it again but in a simpler way,” added the gardener who was the clerk’s older brother.

“No more storytelling, thank you. Storytelling won’t help sending me off to sleep,” I said to them, “And much more, the story won’t send me off this room,” I said firmly.

The five of them—old and wrinkled in their own ages and ways—looked at each other with terror and disbelief in their eyes. No words came out from any of them, I felt impatient.

“Here. All I got is 35 thousand. You can have the 30, and this room is mine,” I said.

I walked around the room, leaving my bag and coat sprawled on the floor. The dilapidated wallpaper revealed that the room was blood red. The door still had its original white paint that looked grey because of age and dirt. Nothing was in the room except for the chandelier on the ceiling, another white door leading to the wash room and closet, and a black-painted writing desk with pull-up cover—that creaked when opened—a chair and two big drawers on the left leg and two small drawers on each side on top of the desk.

Later. Open them later. My mind instructed me as I placed my hand on the drawer on the left leg to open it.

“Leave me alone now, please.” I sighed. The five old people already left the room—leaving me with the room’s papers and barely an amount from what I offered them for it—but I could still hear their whispers and disturbed strides at the end of the hallway. They said they were glad to get rid of the lift, but they weren’t pleased with how they did. They thought of demolishing it—which I think was the rudest and stupidest idea—but got scared. They thought of a million things to do with the room, but they all ended up with getting scared.

Funny how people see themselves doing lots of stuff because they want to or need to or feel like doing them but end up being scared. Yet, they never see the fact that the less they do things, the more they’re missing out and that is scarier in the end (in this case though, I’m glad they did the former). I told them that I would be fine, and they would see me more often, as I would intend to let them know I’m okay and nothing bad would happen to me. I thought we’re settled when they sealed the door behind them.


The moon shone so bright.

It was more than enough for me to see the words scribbled on an old paper I was holding.

I’m on page one, the other pages laid on the table. They smelled like old wood, damp and almost rotten but still readable despite the dark red stains the paper obtained, mixed with the black ink.

His documents. Her blood. My parents.

This is going to be a long night.





Heartfelt Series No. 3: Something to Remember

I’ve never had someone look at me like the way she did. It’s as if she drew her very strength and every breath from me. It felt awkward, seemed awkward. Yet, I liked it.

I never had the strength to look at her; never had the guts to meet her eyes. And every time I did, I found it hard to look away. It was as if she was trying to read the very depths of my soul. It was disturbing yet inviting. I wanted to give in. I wanted to.


Then I received a note.

It was plain and simple. Like the notes in the movies, the ones you get before you get killed. I was hesitant to open it at first, but I opened it anyway.

Hi! [It read]

How about sparing some time with me?

AR. Room 315

Right then and there, I knew it was from her. I crumpled it. Determined to ignore it and pretend that it never existed. That she never existed.


I found my feet leading me to that room. The door was ajar, yet the room was dark. I peeped in, and there I saw her standing by the moonlit window; her eyes were looking outside, but her mind was afar. It was in her eyes.

“Come in,” she said, almost a whisper, yet it echoed across the room. I planned on slamming the door and leaving at once, yet I did the exact opposite of what I intended to do. It seemed she had a way of making me feel and do the exact same opposite of what I thought I would feel and do.

“Thanks for coming.” She smiled, her eyes still looking somewhere—but they looked warmer now.

What do you want from me? “Yeah, no problem.” I said. I heard a faint laugh and saw her eyes roll to my side, as if she could see further beyond her peripheral vision.

Then, like a ghost that moves and floats fluidly, she turned around to face me, her dress swayed gracefully with her movement. She was still smiling.

“I want you to have my heart,” she said.

I heard it clearly, “What?”

She laughed again. I realized it was contagious. I did not laugh.

She stepped forward.  Or danced maybe. She looked so graceful, it was hard to determine. It was like her every movement was a well-rehearsed ballet step.

“I said, I want you to have my heart.”

“W-why?” I hesitated, “and why m-me?”

“Because you owned it even though I never owned yours,” she said, still smiling.

“W-what would I do with it?” I asked. I felt stupid for asking, but she didn’t seem to mind. It was like nothing really mattered at all.

She frowned. “Hmm.. that’s a good one.” Then, she smiled. “I don’t know,” she shrugged, “What do you think?”

“I don’t know either.”

“Where on earth is my stress ball?!” A distant, thundering voice echoed in the entire building.

We both laughed.

“That’s a good one,” she said, still giggling.

“Yeah,” I replied, smiling.


She stretched her right arm and handed me the scalpel. I took it.

“By the way,” she said, “ You look good in black.” 

She stepped backwards and was about to lie down when—

“Wait,” I said, stopping her. She looked at me. She seemed surprised. She obviously didn’t anticipate what would happen next.

I might have been struggling with myself on what I was doing, but I was certain that what I did was done by my sane, conscious self. And she knew that, that was why she looked surprised.


I moved towards her, grabbed her waist with my left hand and held her face with my right hand. Then, my lips—without a warning—kissed hers. I kissed her. I have never kissed a person before. My first.

And it was a long kiss.

Then, without a warning, I pulled back my lips and inserted a pill in her mouth—which she gladly accepted. She even looked at me with her mystic eyes, and she smiled. She seemed so beautiful with those eyes and the way she smiled. I smiled back and sealed everything with a kiss.

I felt her warm breath in my mouth. Then, I laid her on the floor and stained the scalpel she handed me.

00:—to 01:41

140809 to 150809



Heartfelt Series No. 2: Stress Ball

I just did not know what to say whenever he was around. It was as if every word would matter when I knew it never would, for it never did.

I think the words would make more sense if constructed correctly to form a sentence, such as how this one is made.


I remember the short story I read about a gargoyle guarding a human heart. I wondered which would make a better guard: the stone-cold gargoyle or his stone-hard hand.

I could imagine my heart freezing from the statue, adapting with the frigidness to sustain its life.

However, the thought of my heart in his hand made me shiver. I never imagined it breaking.

I guess that’s the price I have to pay for acting like Harlequin when I knew in my mind that he wasn’t my Columbine.


The squishing sound echoed across the room,  bouncing from wall to wall.

The blood squirted from my heart, staining the floor as well as his shirt. But he was wearing black which was quite unusual for he always wore white and I always wore black—although it didn’t really matter. Not anymore.

He smiled, wickedly enjoying as he squeezed my heart like a stress ball.


The door knob turned. The ray of lights from the outside raced to enter the room from the open door, giving light to the dark room. Then, the lights went on.

A loud, tingling scream echoed through the room and along the hallway. A man rushed to the side of the horrified woman. He himself was terrified with what he saw.


A maiden in black lay on the crimson-stained floor. Her chest was carefully sliced open. The strongest muscle was missing.





Heartfelt Series No. 1: Black and White

I wore black. He wore white. Always. We were the opposite of the extremes. Not that it mattered to him, but for me it did. It does. Well, I never expected to see him again, but I did. The last time I saw him, I started to have these flash backs — as if slowly and eventually reminding me of something I vowed not to remember, for it would only bring heartache and the feeling of longing to be with him, forever.

But I never was with him. Never am. And I don’t think I ever will be.

Like I said, we were the opposite of the extremes. Not just by the way we dress, but by the way we are. He was obviously the shy guy. The Introvert. The Good Boy. On the other hand, I was evidently the loud one. The Extrovert. The Tough Girl with a soft heart. And if the cliché “opposites attract” works on magnets, it does not with the two of us. We were never bound to be together. No matter how opposite we were.

I call him my Clandestine. The biggest secret I never have to hide. I also call him my Life. The Life I never had the chance to live.

I made sure that on the last time I would see him, he would have a smile on his angelic face.

I didn’t see him go. I didn’t have to. I felt my own heart beating against his strong hands. I know that he was smiling wickedly as he walked away.