THE Prologue:

…or the Beginning of When it is Still Before the Story and Stuff is Introduced Because There Must be a Prologue.

~ Part 2: Lock-Less Monster ~

After removing the lab-coat which I wear for cooking—because aprons are sooo 2030... except when one is naked underneath… which I’m not doing… like… ever—I walk out of the kitchen and into the dark hallway. The shadows greet me in their cold embrace, and every corner hides a demon ready to sink its claws into my squishy guts.

I really should change that lightbulb.

You should.

By the front door, there is a small closet where I stock up some things I have in surplus. Shampoo, scented candles, toilet paper, marbles, canned food, a Stetson hat, a sleep-away bag, running shoes, hiking boots, milk and water bottles, a baseball bat, pepper spray, water guns... Everyday stuff.

I grab a bottle of shampoo. Because it's for a bear, I bought a brand that smells of honey. “Short to mid length, dull hair, prone to greasiness," the label says. Fits her well, and me too for that matter, so  I use it as well. What? I like when my hair smells nice. Sue me.

Who are you talking to?

My other imaginary friends. Why? Jealous?

Humpf. Why would I be? 

Of course, I would never ever mention anything about “prone to greasiness” in front of Yasmin. She can be surprisingly girlish in the most unexpected ways. I’ve seen guys who insulted her hair. They speak in much higher tones now. I hope they’re happy with their Darwin Awards.

I backtrack my steps up to the kitchen and continue past it. Further down the hallways, soft blue light is seeping from underneath a door. That's the bathroom. I can also hear the muffled sound of water running and the mating call of a suffering walrus... ah, no, wait, that's someone humming. 

Urgh. Sweet Muses.

Without knocking, I push the door open. The lock is broken anyway—has been for weeks—one of the perks of living in a cheap apartment, and another thing I need to fix but keep forgetting about. Knocking seems pointless anyway. I’m sure the sound would be drowned out by the dying cries of whatever poor beast is being ritually sacrificed in there.

A wall of hot, humid air hits me as I step into the bathroom, and the gargles of the agonising moose grow louder. “YASMIN! For the love of Mozart’s powdered wig! What has music ever done to you that you try to murder it at any given chance?!”

The choking foghorn falls silent, soon followed by the shower. I'm then treated to the view of a furious, dark-skinned, muscular, and very naked young woman, who turns in my direction with both eyebrows raised and full lips crooked in annoyance, baring pristine white teeth. "What. The. Fuck. Did you say to me, huh? Got a problem with my singing, Nick?” 

She doesn’t seem all that bothered by her state of exposure. In fact, she stands with her feet slightly apart and her finely toned arms crossed. Her pose of manifest irritation has the consequence of pushing up her modest chest—which, between you and me, is the only thing 'modest' about her. Yasmin Jakande is nothing if not prideful and unashamed to let it be known.

And violent.

And violent. Let's not forget violent.

Now, to all the perverted minds out there who already are drawing salacious conclusions to the current predicament... don't. This is no cheap porn flick, and while I do appreciate the view, it is not in any sexual way. Watching Yasmin is more of an intellectual pleasure, akin to observing an artistic masterpiece. Like her brother, Yasmin is a statuesque majesty of her own carving, an image of perfection proclaiming the potential of the human form. 

Some might retort she’s too much brawn and not enough curves to be truly attractive, but those people need to get their eyes checked and probably a brain surgery. Or just get shot in the head, because the world doesn't need them. 

I know I’m biased, but I don’t care. We basically grew up together. We're almost siblings by this point. Skinship comes naturally, but the sexual tension is in the negatives.

Does getting punched in the guts count as "skinship"?

Shut up, Brain.

And, okay, yes, I’m aware that is the line of every badly-written MC ever if he's got a beautiful childhood friend. "She? What?! Nooo. She’s just a childhood friend. She’s like a sister to me. I’ll never think of her that way." And later they discover one of them, or both, had a secret crush on the other the whole time, and no one had noticed, but then they’re still too shy to act on it, and then there’s this other girl who also yadda yadda yodda… bad, unfunny comedy ensues.

Harems. They're so easy to write badly.

A sad truth, but you're digressing.

Sorry.

Yasmin and I actually tried dating for a while. It didn’t work out. Way too awkward. I don’t regret ending it. Yas is genuinely more like a brother to me, so it doesn’t matter wha—wait.

…

……

………

Did I just—

“HOY!! Nick?! Your brain is lagging or what?”

Uh? What– Who– What were we talking about? 

Yas’ nightmarish singing. 

Oh, right. Thanks.

You're welcome.

I wonder if perhaps I briefly escaped reality to get the memory of it out of my mind. Not good. I shouldn’t do that. People will think I’ve got issues.

What a silly notion.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

I know, right?

I shake my head and refocus on the black eyes in front of me, so similar to Dan’s but burning with fiery anger instead of peaceful concern. Those two really have a Yin-Yang thing going on… 

Even though they’re both black.

“A problem with your singing?” I repeat her previous accusation in my most charming tone. “Of course, I don’t have a problem with your singing.” That answer surprises her. I can see it, and I repress a chuckle. She apparently expected one of my more acidic retorts. However, I like to deliver. “I got several problems with your singing.” 

I raise a finger before she can utter a word. “One, it’s loud.” I raise a second finger. “Two, it has no identifiable rhythm.” I raise a third. “It’s utterly off-key.” A fourth. “The tune is butchered beyond recognition. And I’m pretty sure that what little whispers of your wretched chorus of tuberculous cockatoos drifted to the living room are giving McLeon a seizure about right now.” I finish by waving my whole hand with dismissive irritation. McLeon is my cat, by the way.

He's a fat squatter and an ungrateful bastard.

Anyway. He’s as much of a music lover as I am, and he views Yasmin as some dark banshee who has come into his little world to scream his own death.

I can relate. I too can now see my own impending demise taking form in the depth of my childhood friend’s black eyes. Her frown deepens, her jaw sets, her arms uncross, and she clenches her fists. 

Usually, this is the point where I shut up, make peace with my gods, and start running for my life. But I won’t compromise on music. I’ve got sensitive ears, and sometimes a guy’s got to man up and stands up for his convictions!

…also, I am vaguely confident I can reach the front door before she catches me. She probably won’t follow me outside naked. 

Probably. 

I wouldn’t bet my money on it. 

So instead you're betting our life? 

Maybe I do have issues. 

Maybe you do!

Well, objectively, I can still regret losing money. The dead have no regrets.

I don’t want to die though.

Yeah. Me neither.

In an attempt at forestalling any attempt at my physical integrity, I thus finally embark upon my true purpose in braving these hostile wetlands: shampoo delivery.

Schwarzkopf no Jutsu! 

I all but shove the amber-pink bottle in Yasmin’s nose. Her next words get stuck in her mouth as she jerks her head back then squints at the plastic container, her will to rip my head off my beloved neck momentarily forgotten.

Keikaku doori! 

Not much of a plan. 

I know, but a simple distraction can save so many lives… mine in this case. As I like to say: “There’s no fight as easily won as the one never fought.” Eat that Sun Tzu.

I’m no good with planning anyway. I’m more of a cross-that-bridge-when-you-get-to-it kind of guy. Even in Untold Tales, my avatar, Elric Walker, nicknamed “The Wandering Knight”, became famous for his unique adaptability and mastery of improvisation.

Oh… You mean how everyone says you’re an unpredictable and chaotic nutjob?

Shut up, Brain.

Isn’t there another moniker people gave you?

Brain…

The Breakneck Retard? No, that isn’t it… The Rash Moron? That doesn’t seem right either…

That’s enough.

The Headstrong Simpleton?

I said SHUT UP!!

While I was battling my own consciousness—an increasingly frequent occurrence these days—my gaze started to slowly wander downwards from Yasmin confused expression, gliding over the shimmering droplets pearling her dark shoulders. It’s interesting to note that Yas’ skin is a few shades lighter than her brother's. He looks like someone dropped him in an ink bottle at birth. She is a softer chocolate-brown—a heritage from their mother. 

Being of Irish descent, that charming woman belongs to the paler side of ghastly, which makes her frightening at night if you have phasmophobia—it means you’re pathologically afraid of ghosts. Not to be confused with “spectrophobia”, which has nothing to do with spectres, and is, in fact, the fear of mirrors. Which in turn is not to be confused either with “eisoptrophobia”, the fear of seeing your own reflection in a mirror.

Totally not the same.

I have no idea why I know this.

And you are getting lost in thoughts again.

Right.

Not waiting for my fickle brain to catch up, my eyes have already continued their downwards topographical investigation, slowing ever so slightly during the crossing of the palm-sized mounds, to eventually settle inches above the small depression of a navel, in a field of undulations and curves forming absurdly well-toned abs.

For some reason, I feel a slight prickle of annoyance and my eyebrows twitch. 

I think the remnants of my embryonic pride as male specimen are mumbling dishearteningly. 

The mental nudge is feeble, but enough that I don’t catch my newbie mistake in time.

“Like what you see, Hun?” a sweet, disgustingly smug, and enchantingly husky voice snaps me back to reality. 

I’ll never understand how someone with such a heavenly voice sings so catastrophically bad. It should go against some fundamental rule of the Universe.

…

…….

……….

But never mind that!

She caught me staring!

This is bad. Really bad. 

Oh, she won’t be mad. If anything she’s probably flattered. However, if I don’t deflect this, she’s going to tease me about it for the next decade! 

I can already imagine the victorious smirk she’s wearing without even looking up. 

Damned! I should have just given her the bottle and left.

…

……

………

Why didn't I do just that?

Because you had to open your stupid big mouth.

Oh God. I’m such a moron.

You said it.

However, it’s too late for regrets. I need to think of something. BRAAAAAAAIN!! Think of something!

Oh? So NOW you want my opinion.

Aaaaargh! You’re not even real, stop being an uncooperative smartass! 

Jesus! Why am I making this harder for myself?!

I’d say it’s because you don’t have a clue what to do.

You’re probably right…

You know I’m right. I’m you.

This is so confusing.

That it is.

In the end, I settle for a denial tactic. 

Adopting my most convincing ‘What? Me? Noooooooo.’ expression, coupled with my best disarming smile, I raise my eyes to meet Yasmin’s and ask in a tone that would make a politician sound innocent: “What might you be talking about, Winnie Bear?”

Now.

I knoooow what you’re thinking.

Yes, you… people… I… pretend I’m talking to… in my mind…

…

……

………

Do I need help after all?

Don’t ask me.

Anyway. I bet you’re thinking: “Pffft. Winnie Bear? The fuck? What are you? Twelve? And didn’t you guys break up?”

Well, I’d like to bring to your attention that she called me “hun” earlier, which is short for honey.

Those are not pet names.

Those are hierarchical statements from a food chain standpoint.

I am Honey. She’s Winnie Bear. Do I need to draw you a picture? I don’t think so. No need to be Einstein to deduce the result of a direct confrontation.

I’m toasted.

Yasmin smirks at my words. Not a kind smirk either. The smirk a lioness might have if a baby gazelle trip and fall right before her. I gulp. I don’t believe my oblivious act worked. I didn’t expect it too honestly. It was more of a desperate attempt.

Still smirking, she then flexes and kisses her contracted biceps. O, God. All of a sudden, my earlier statement about thinking of her as a brother feels much less absurd. And my budding doubts about my sexuality are blooming in overdrive mode.

I’m so deep in a spiralling whirl of confused thoughts that I barely catch her next words.

“Admit it, Scrawny, you wish you had my babies.”

I blink.

…what?

Errr… interesting?

…

……

………

O, God.

This… This is awkward.

I don’t think she caught the double meaning. She can be such a muscle-head at times. She’s not dumb by any stretch of the imagination—really, far from it... I think?—but she is a bit of a sports nut, and… it’s like she sometimes forgets to turn her brains on, when outside of situations involving at least some form of physical exertion. 

It’s kind of a fascinating switch in her personality, actually.

I see her blinking, the content of her own words slowly sinking in. I use her lapse in focus to bend down and delicately set the shampoo on the wet floor, before sloooooooooowly backing out of the bathroom.

“Yeaaah… You know what, Yas? I’m going to assume the lesser creepy option that you call your biceps that way, and not that you just suggested a crime against both nature and sanity… and I’m going to leave you to your shower. O-kaaaay?”

Not that the idea of bearing Yasmin’s children isn’t… err… “interesting”, in an unholy mad science experiment kind of way, but really, I’d make a terrible father… mother?

I don’t know anymore.

With a last look at her face, I retreat in the dark hallways and close the lock-less door behind me. Only when the panel is securely between us, do I let out the chuckle I was holding. “Hehehe… So she can blush like that, uh?” I wonder out loud, remembering the last glimpse I caught of Yasmin.

…

……

………

She’s so weird.

* * * * *