Lone Wolf (One-Shot)

Chapter 0

“If you do this, you’ll never write again.”

The quill in my hand suspended in the air. Even in this dark room–one that’s different from the luxury I used to have; red carpet turned into screeching wooden floor, a space that is smaller than my closet, soft queen-sized bed dethroned like that of a prisoner’s bunk, and golden chandelier dimmed into a dying candle–I could feel his burning stare. He was pleading in my back, trying to knock me into my senses–like what he always did. But I never faced to listen. And he knows, that even now, I wouldn’t.

I gently dropped my hand on the desk. Even with that small action, I could hear the complaint of the old furniture even without the dreading silence. I gazed at the window above me, with the moon and thousand stars saying hello. Back then, in my old place, I’d watch them at this same time. Sneaking out to the main balcony, just so I could admire them. It always struck me, how could these sky lights illuminate the dusk? I always thought that they served as hope. That even in one’s darkest hour, the moon’s always nearer than the sun and the star’s always brighter than the sky.

But now, from the balcony to this rotting room, they can’t reach me anymore.

So I’ll do it.

I’ll illuminate that fading hope.

“You don’t have to be worried,” I laughed. “I’m not afraid to not hold a pen again. I’ve written my entire life for this day.”

It’s funny because I never hoped to do this. This wasn’t the end goal. There never was for me. Writing was a path that continued like a thread, one that never stopped weaving. And that cloth became many things. A cape that made me fly. A blanket that comforted my pain. A tapestry that shared my joy. It was my bridge to the world–the messages I couldn’t deliver; the fight I couldn’t start to my parents, the gratitude I was too shy to send, and the confession to the man I love.

I smiled at the quill I’m holding. I didn’t think there will come a time for the last drop of ink, and the last scribble of my signature. A situation that isn’t caused by a retirement.

“Are you really out of your mind?” his loud voice roared in the small corners of the room. I closed my eyes and waited as he cut our small distance. He never forgets how small the air is between the flooring of my room and the occupant’s ceiling below. He never forgot anything. But his frustrations in me always shaken his calm composure–making his steps and breaths heavy.

He harshly swiveled my chair so I could face him. I looked up because his height always dominated, even with a slightly-squatted posture. He was glaring, thick brows furrowed and piercing eyes that glinted with anger and plead.

“Your frowns really irritate me. I told you, didn’t I?” I smiled softly. “And I’ve already decided. I did tell you that too, didn’t I?”

Losing strength, he collapsed in the bed before me. He brushed his hair, making the untrimmed strands more disheveled than before. “Stop this, please. Don’t do it.” His voice cracked. “You’ll die.”

Seeing tears fall from his face hurt more than him rejecting me. He was always strong. I wouldn’t even probably last this long if it wasn’t for him. He had always been my compass and foundation. To clean up the mess of my childishness. To hear my silent woes. His laugh and smile made my heart flutter. His reprimanding voice that taught me lessons. I loved him. From his perfection up to his flaws. And seeing him mourn for my expected fate bleeds a lot more than him apologizing at the garden years ago.

“You do know, right? If you really do this, you know you’re going to die.”

I reached for his cheeks to wipe the tears away.