It was a cloudy day and the clocks were touching fourteen. Felo de se Augustine were writing her story as an erotic freelance writer. Studious and maniacally typing on her typewriter, Augustine was living in Mott Haven, exasperatedly trying to make money for herself. In the outskirts of New York, Augustine, in her twenties, is not your typical young adult you would see living in New York. Using her grandma's vinyl player, Augustine took her just-bought Lana Del Rey vinyl, took it to the player and enclosing it. Augustine have a predilection for vintage things. Augustine lives alone. About four years ago, Augustine lost her husband - but not because of a disease but because of her selfish desires to yearn success and nothing more. As a firm believer of love not existing and not lasting, it was on her works that such bittersweet romantic tragedies were commonly seen. "I want to experience Romeo and Juliet in real life." she said, but as hopeless romantic as she can be, Augustine can only imagine but nothing more. After she had written her third chapter, Augustine heard footsteps in front of her porch, curiously and enthusiastically, she said, "It's too early for electric bills at this time of the month.". Augustine, with her wooden bracelets, she opened her door, blasting her with tempestuous air that made her gasp. In front of her is a black wooden box, enveloped with leaves on the box, there were latin markings carved. At first, Augustine was suspicious, she thought it was a bomb, a scenario you would typically see in an action movie, but Augustine, as hopeless and fearless as ever, she got utterly curious on what is inside, it was like a schrodinger's cat moment. Inside, Augustine scrutinized the box. There were three wooden canisters and a blade. Augustine opened one of the wooden canister and she saw these tiny pebbles of unpulverized green paraphernalias. Augustine smelled the canister and it smelled like soursop. However, when she smelled this, something triggered inside of her. These vague fragments of memories, the foundation of the powder, its origins, its ingredients, its benefits, its otherworldly power, its meticulous makeup, its intricate processings, how to use these powder to satisfy such a desire, all of these thoughts, "All of these epiphanies...", she thought, were all racing to her mind, to her heart, and to every vein of her recalcitrant body. Her body was jerking back and forth, her eyes were bouncing, her nose were bleeding, her mouth was leaking foam, all of these were happening all at once with a whiff of an unknown substance - she was having a seizure. The night was still young when she woke up. Augustine was a lachrymose sugar, all exhausted, all feeble, and everything she could only do was grasp for nearby objects to support for her lean posture. Augustine, still asking herself about what just happened, she threw herself out to the bed, squeaking out a subtle springy noise. She woke up the very next day, when you can see both the moon and the sun at the opposing horizons. She realizes the powder's magnanimous but insidious power and she threw it out at the dumpster, putting it deep down, wishing no one would see and use it. However, little did she know, she thought she just dreamed of everything that happened last night. It was during mealtime and the clocks were racing thirteen, Augustine were brainstorming for her vignettes when there was a thunderous roar among the sky. Again, with a blank face, Augustine opened her door. And guess what? It was the same old box again and this time there was a card tagged with it. "To Felo de se Augustine" it says. Grudgingly, Augustine brought the dark wooden box inside of her rickety house. Augustine still doubting what to do with it until later, Augustine got a call from her flip phone. "This is Augustine who am I speaking with?", she said. "Augustine, this is the publishing company and we regret to inform you that your pending book is not going to get published due to its incompetency from its earlier drafts you sent to us.". After hearing this, Augustine, as grumpy as ever, she just folded her phone out of madness, it was so loud, you can hear the folding sound the next room. Augustine, having a mental breakdown, she became so mad at the world and cursed at the wind. "All I want to have is success, All I want to have is to be ahead, All I want to have is to be someone people would look up to. I do not need people but why is this happening to me!". A long time ago, when she and her husband were still living under the same roof, many offers came to her, many letters, many appreciation she took light of, were raining on their house every once in awhile. But that changed when she lost her husband. Augustine up to now, is still in denial about the fact that you can't be successful alone. Augustine stopped tearing up. She just looked at the wooden box with such intense and desperation. She looked at the box as if she was a murderer about to kill someone with a smiling face. With the seizure earlier that she had thought was a dream - she got the procedure on how to do it. It was like a natural feeling for her by now. She took the blade, touched its edges to see if it was sharp, then she smelled the powder again and again to the point that she was feeling nauseous. She debated whether she should do it or not but that was long ago decided. Again, she cursed at the wind repeatedly but this time with such intense, with such hatred, with such bitterness and toxicity. "I just want to be successful!" she said. Then she pressed the blade down to her epidermis, she screamed, it was a cacophony, so loud you can feel the terror, the pain, in her voices. She slit her wrist but not to the point that it may put her life in danger. The blood oozed from her cut, dripping to the floor below onto the tiles, the carpet, everywhere, there were red everywhere. The fluid felt gooey, warm, sticky, between her fingers as she was holding the blade. Her scarlet juice spreaded across her forearm, she cried, she pleaded for more, but she was being lunatic at this point. And then after extending her cut, she reached for the canister, revealing the powder and pouring all into it over the exposed wrist to her end of her forearms. She did this again below her cut for the second time. After all of these gruesome acts has been over Augustine yearned for two things. She said "I want my mind to think like the best writer! I want to succeed! I want more! I want more! I want more!" and then she proceeded to say "I want to see the truth! I want to be exposed to the truth! I don't want to be successful without being truthful!" After crying and loathing herself for hours and after regretting about what she just did for hours, she slept. It has been a week and nothing special have happened, with her wrist and forearm all tied up and kept sanitary, she sat in her rocking chair, gushing along with the wind, looking at her backyard, admiring its picturesque landscape, its art, and the beauty of life. Then she went inside, to her desk, she touched her table, appreciating its corners, its intricate design, its purpose, then when she began to write and type, although she had now the most innovative mind of all, her body won't cooperate. Because of her forearm and wrist, touching, holding, and pressing a button made her scream - she was heartbroken from this. She got depressed, got hopeless, then she thought if ever there was someone on her side, maybe she could've became more humane, more positive about life, and then she remembered her husband. All that she could only do was cry, weep for her tears, and regret the fact that she hadn't loved her husband as much as she could and if only she could've had her husband with her, then she could've lived a much better life compared to now. She just wishes for all of this to be over. Although there is only one canister left, the hassle of having to hurt yourself over some pathetic desire and still live is too much. In her failed book, with the pain that is involved with pressing the keys, she typed, "There is a difference between being alive and breathing." And then she labeled her unnamed fourth chapter, desperation, then killed herself.
