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Letting my heart bleed on paper.

Message from Writer

Hello! I'm your average run-over-the-mill girl who barely has a pocket of time to read and write. Unlike the majority of students in Singapore, I take theatre as one of my exam subjects, which is both bold and reckless I reckoned, but enjoyable nonetheless. Writing is one of my main forms of expression and I am hoping that by writing more, I will be able to express my feelings and sights with more vibrancy and clarity. Planning to be a actor/singer/poet/writer/Occupational therapist in the future. Any and all feedback on my writing is welcomed! :)

Red lines

May 10, 2016

"The next batch is in," his friend says, reminding him that his lunch break is over. Suddenly it didn't seem like such a good idea to have eaten before this. It's my job, he thinks to himself, barely finding the strength to stand. They deserved it.

He hoped.

The first time he did it, seeing all those red lines across their skin, he busted himself out of the room, hurling out whatever rice, meat or fish he had inside of him into the drain. The other men laughed, calling him a wimp for not holding it in. He thought he could prove them wrong.

But the more he sees those red lines, the more his resolution fades.

Murderer. Opening the door, his eyes meet the row of multicoloured men facing away from him. Pedophile. He picks up the coils of thick rope on the table. Thief. The warning sign sounds, and the bounded men stiffen. Their grip on the metal pole tightens, and their eyes shut tight. Liar. Cheater. Rapist. He lifts the ropes, about to deal the blow till he sees the man, the man that dare not close his eyes, looking at him, watching him.

Begging him.


Once again he sees those red lines across their skin. He leaves, their wails sealed in the room. He knows what he brought was justice, but now all he carries is regret.


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