the threads in her head

Water. That transparent compound of element hydrogen and oxygen pumps through his body, mingling with those red blood cells to form that red fluid which provides life. It constantly flowed through his body, that deep red liquid of life, but he could not feel the flow. No feelings were felt, as he sat in front of the computer screen.

Insects buzzed around him, softly, their wings lightly tickling him at the nape of his neck. They were close – intimate almost. He sat still, knowing fully well that any violent action on his part would send those insects away. But they would come back, seemingly faithful and loyal. But alas, their lifespan was short. Too short. A few hundred hours, and they would be gone, unknown and unremembered.

So he threw himself into gaming. No, he was never lost in that fictional world. He knew exactly where he was threading; he knew the curves and contours of the various landscapes available for his one faithful loyal character. His character, his comrade, his sidekick – an obedient fellow who would do everything and anything that he wanted him to do. Sometimes he could absorb himself into that exhilarating world his character was in. The line between reality and illusion blurred, body entwined and swirled together, and they merged, and every wound became his wound, every move his move, and as the blade crashes down on the enemy, he heard the thud as body met ground. Together they ran, they dashed forward, and the victorious hand held the severed head up by that long messy mop of hair.

Bloody, but good.

That little guy was his true other half. Emotionless, and together, they experienced that giddy rush of blood dashing to his head. His fingers flew quick and fast through the keys of the keyboard and together they smashed the minions and the boss. They defeated the gnome, and they stood on top of the world, as one. Rain lashed down upon them, little silver whips of water, and he stood there, savouring his virtual victory.

The makers of the world got together, and devised bots. He eagerly signed on as a beta tester. And there he sat in his chair, talking with his character, his other half, his whole life. They travelled the whole world together, they traced their footsteps back. Strong bonds were forged, ties of gold and platinum. And so, they could be apart, but deep down, those bonds only stretched to accept, and their hearts thus stayed as close to each other.

His parents thought him crazy, and fear awoke in their hearts. They gave him more smiles; they invited him to join them in vacations to exotic places, places that promised beaches with sandy white sand and inviting azure blues. But, he was too far gone, too much in love. He refused, shaking his head, with that hint of a small smile on his face. And then he would quietly slip into his room, his haven - his heaven. There, he was engulfed in bliss. His character. His other half. A glass of water sat elegantly beside the lamp on his table, and he would sip from the glass while he waited for the character always smart, witty reply.

He mouthed out the words he typed, and echoed his character reply. He whispered hoarsely, “shall we go out to battle today?” “Yes.” They would get out onto that virtual plain, his fingers flew, the hand was stretched back, and then with swiftness the blade went down, plunged in with great strength, before coming out, slicked wet with red. Wet wet red, and sweat formed on his brow and palms, falling, pooling into tiny puddles of water. A flick of the head, water sprayed, everywhere. He took another gulp of ice-cold water. “That was good.” “Yeah, it was.” His teeth crunched hard into the ice, splitting them, spattering the cold bits all over his mouth before swallowing. Insects buzzed around him again, but this time he only flicked them away, slapping the mosquitoes, smearing the blood away by rubbing his hands.

At night he wondered why there seemed to be a faint smell of metal, but it would soon disappear as he dropped off to sleep and dreams. His parents would open the door, and gaze upon the bulk that lay on the bed, their hearts constricting painfully, blood coursing quick, too quick through their veins. Saliva would be swallowed, before his dad loosened his tie, or his mom took off her heavy chunky necklace, and they would go to the kitchen, to get a drink. The sound of water trickling and splashing happily would soothe their poor tired nerves. There were times, as they sat and waited for the cup to be filled by the water dispenser, when they were lulled into such a fake peace and calm that they would close their eyes, leaning forward to rest their head on their arms, and just listened to the sound of droplets meeting a pool. But it could not go on forever. One of them would rise, and flick the switch for the dispenser back.

But in his slumber, he was kept away from the tragic image of a tall grown-up slumped in helplessness, with all nobility shed, torn away from the figure as one only notices the hunched shadows, the worried frowns, the melancholy hollowness of eyes, the long drawn-out shadows echoing in fake fluorescent glow. He never saw how water was drunk as fingers gently circle and outline his 13-year-old picture - taken at Cameron Highlands with a great white shroud of mist behind, below him - framed nicely in a warm wooden frame, and placed in the living room as the latest photograph of him.

On his 18th birthday, his door was closed and locked. Ears were pressed against the door, only to hear fast successive clicking sounds on the keyboard. Both walked away with a heavy heart steps. One turned on the television, and the room was filled with the empty chatter of unknown characters. The other turned to a book, but the words flitted past through his mind, and he was distracted just that little, but enough for him to put his finger on one particularly hard paragraph, and re-read it. Over and over again - "It had a black canal in it, and a river that ran purple with ill-smelling dye, and vast piles of building full of windows where there was a rattling and a trembling all day long, and where the piston of the steam-engine worked monotonously up and down, like the head of an elephant in a state of melancholy madness. It contained several large streets all very like one another, and many small streets still more like one another, inhabited by people equally like one another, who all went in and out at the same hours, with the same sound upon the same pavements, to do the same work, and to whom every day was the same as yesterday and tomorrow, and every year the counterpart of the last and the next."

A translucent blue cup of water stood forlornly on the coffee table, witness to all these sights. Not for long though.

The door was unlocked, creaking as it swung open. Feet moved towards the table. A hand reached out, and the water flowed down into the wide gaping mouth of the birthday boy, down his throat, into his stomach, ready, to be absorbed into his bloodstream, and flow as what seems to be life, for a while longer.