The Mickey Mouse Man - a Short Story by Chia De Zhong

The Mickey Mouse Man

By Chia De Zhong

But why must I remember?

*

I was 8. I attended a convent school a few blocks away from home, and every evening, I would walk through a dark road home. Then one faithful night, as I walked through a void deck, I saw him. Dressed in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and shorts, slippers dragging through concrete, he looked friendly. Almost welcoming. With glasses perched gently on his nose, and an awkward grin on his teenage face, he reminded me of my piano teacher my mother used to hire.

And so I smiled back.

I remember him making small, measured steps towards me. A lollipop in his hand - an innocent gift to a young child. I licked my lips. I was always quite a gregarious young lady, making friends with the coffee shop auntie, the condo janitor. A blossoming flower.

And so I smiled back, and reached out my hand in anticipation.

What happened next was an unspeakable evil. With a swoop, the lollipop disappeared into his pocket, but out came two outstretched hands, which dug into my skirt with a desperate longing. I struggled but no sound came out of my throat.

The smile had long faded from my face, now shining with sweat. And red with fear.

I, the damsel in distress, had no fairy-tale prince to save me from the clutches of the Mickey Mouse Man. All I had left was my voice. Weak. Trembling. I pleaded but my words were buried within the folds of his jacket, heard by no one else in the dead of night.

I struggled to no avail, and when we reached a desolate area of my estate, he dropped me on the floor, brushing off imaginary cobwebs from strands of runaway hair, now in a dishevelled mess. And then I felt him, a dagger digging deep within my loins. Nothing could stop him from defiling me. As he achieved release, I opened my eyes and there I saw him, eyes closed, lips parted. In his hand was a tattoo. It said, “I believe in Freedom” in a messy scrawl.

Those were the hands that forever imprisoned me in my nightmare. I was found in the morning by the newspaper man. My eyes still open, vacant. Soulless. My parents took me home and made a police report, but when questioned for the perpetrator, my young mind had only one reply.

“He believes in freedom. He believes in freedom.”

I never ate that lollipop.

*

That was 22 years ago. I have since then created the illusion: Busty Girl 88. Hot. Horny. Big tits. Double DD, always yearning for that D. My online profile was always swamped with requests from hungry men. But within that illusion was a ravaged soul. Always looking. Always searching. Always in memory of the child who was taken away, and then returned, broken.

Once broken, considered sold -

That should never have been a child’s destiny.

But at least I’ll never be lonely, for I have the bodies of men by my side. Never mind their hearts, for I too have lost mine to –

Did I say that I charge by the hour?

*

Today, one of the men come knocking at my door, just like with many other nights. I look at the clock. It was 9pm. Their wives must be at home, waiting. He, like many other men, are entertaining clients till late.

“Work is important,” She would chime.

I could almost see her enigmatic smile, reflected on the red of my lips.

I check myself in the mirror, chuckling. There was a faint love bite left by a previous customer. Rash, unrequited love. I feel my breasts, tingling with sensitivity from the night before. He was too aggressive, I thought; but the money was worth it.

The fruit of my labour.

I then clasped my bra on, a classy red piece. Throwing on a thin, almost translucent nightdress, I went to the door.

In that peephole stood a man, just like many days before. I heaved a heavy breath of anticipation, tilted my hip, and opened the door.

“I’ve been waiting for you my love,” I quipped in a high whisper.

Some men liked it slow. They would bring with them a wine bottle, and sit me down gently by the sofa table, breathing slowly into my hair. The fruits on my table were never cut, never bitten into. The conversation was always boring.

“You’re really sexy by the way.”

“It’s my first time actually.”

I always liked the play-pretend. And then I would shyly beckon to the bedroom, and with a hand - feel the bristles on his face. This hand would then travel gently down, from his neck, to his shirt, to his belly, to where the fire burns so passionately below.

Today was different.

He came through the door like a wild bull, taking me into his arms. Slamming the door behind him, he pushed me onto the sofa, kissing me passionately. He was in his late thirties, weathered but well-built. I nodded with approval, beautiful was him, and beautiful would be the money that enters my pocket after that session.

My words came out as a gentle caress, travelling down his neck and into his psyche. “I need you baby.”

Breathing into my neck, making small nibbles at every corner, he turned into a ferocious beast at my invitation. I cry out: half in excitement, half in fear. He claws vigorously at my dress. I am mildly annoyed: the nightdress was from Victoria’s Secret.

But then it was off.

He grappled at my breasts, heaving them together like new dough. I was a new girl all over again, passionate and in love. He was not young, but in his mind was a young beast out to play.

A faint treasure trailed down to where secrets lie, and I was now ready to collect my dues.

His briefs were still on, but it was wet, dripping with lust. He was big, and I was ready. Taking off my panties, I wrapped myself around his hips, still with briefs on, hot with passion and dripping with longing. He smelled of heaven. We kiss, and our tongues reach deep into the shadows. I feel his arms, hairy and veined.

And then on his hand I noticed a tattoo.

That tattoo shimmered in the dim light, but on my mind, it read as bright as day. It was green, faded from years in the Sun. A scar crossed out a letter haphazardly. The words scrambled and unscrambled themselves as I read what was on his hand again, and again.

I        Believe        In                    Freedom

I                   Believe                  In                          Freedom

I                          Believe                        In                                    Freedom

I                                  Believe                                In                                           Freedom.

And there he was, that very man, digging into my skirt. Hands outstretched. A grin on his face. Glasses perched gently on that nose. And a small child looked back once again, in absolute terror.

That lollipop was one I never wanted in me.

The monster hiding within the cobwebs of my broken psyche all these years.

It was him, the Mickey Mouse Man.

He looked friendly. Almost welcoming.

And today here he was, the monster I now welcome into my home.

But this time, I am ready. With a fiery passion, I rip off his briefs. We kiss passionately, and then I take him in. It isn’t enough for me. We gyrate on the sofa and there, at the corner of my eye, I see the fruits get knocked over.

Apples.

Peaches.

Pears.

And at that moment I knew what to do, to make him truly mine.

With a quick shove, I knock him off my hips. With a swift hand, I then pick up the fruit knife from the table. With a swift turn of my wrist, he buckles onto the sofa like a dead sack of potatoes, neck lolling to one side, forever.

Hunched back in silence, he seems almost like a baby in his cot, peaceful and with nary a movement. I can see no blood, for all I see is the fiery passion in me.

But in his eyes, I almost saw myself running away, free, an 8-year-old child shaking herself free from the grasp of the Mickey Mouse Man.

It was an 8-year-old child who would never be.

And then with another swift twist of my knife I claim his sword. He will never be able to imprison another child, ever again.

I rearrange the fruits on the table and place his sword in the midst of the colours. A shining artifice worthy of worship in a holy temple that was my home. I then went to my drawer and took out a small lollipop. His hand was open, still warm, as if it would move any moment. I clasp his hand over the lollipop.

It’s a pity he’ll never get to eat it, too.

There was something sweeter than that lollipop, and I could feel it growing, a sugar lump expanding at the back of my tongue. That lump was justice, and I swirled it in my mouth, savouring the almost sickly-sweet goodness blending with the scent of blood in the air.

I gaze into the shiny red sheen that slowly envelops the pastel greens and pinks of the uneaten fruits. The house is silent, save for the constant ticking of the clock in the living room. After what seems like an eternity, I pick the phone up, fingers dancing furtively in the air, before my hand came to a decisive rest over the keypad.

9. 9. 9.

As the call connects, all I can hear now is the sound of my own voice, in a proud proclamation:

“I believe in freedom! I believe in freedom!”

But in his eyes was a deep black, staring into the distance, with no glimmer of recognition in sight. In his eyes now reflected my own, now shimmering with a release.

In a while the police will come, and I can almost hear the faint blare of police sirens in the distance, increasing in volume with each second passing. But nothing can take away the freedom that is now mine.

Nothing.

Not even the Mickey Mouse Man. //

The Invisible Man - A Short Story by Chia De Zhong

The Invisible Man

By Chia De Zhong

He never knew when he became invisible, for he was already invisible to even himself.

Dressed in suit and tie, hair done in a subdued waff and a pleasant smile lurking behind a stony exterior, he was ready to impress. Leaving at exactly 7.45 as with all weekdays, he waved a silent farewell to his mother and father still stoically consuming their breakfast in the dining hall. He left his breakfast uneaten that day. Walking past grandmothers watering plants on pale yellow corridors, and the occasional schoolchild late for school, he grasped at his chest, an old pain: surfacing more those days with the ravage of pressure. A slow lift carried him down 9 floors with one or two other unsmiling faces before he began his fast trot toward the train station, 3 blocks away.

As he quickened his pace to catch the 8.15 train, he walked past tissue sellers crouched on soiled floors, chanting their daily mantras; past scores of wrinkly faces and wrinkly clothes pulling rusted trollies; past well-dressed marketers with plastic faces, an obstacle in an otherwise perfectly orderly routine. He never saw their faces. The station glowed in the morning Sun, as always, and within was a cold white uniformity which permeated through dimpled skin and sweat stains on freshly ironed shirts. But he felt something different that day. Was it a certain longing for release?

“Next station. Next station. Next station.” A composed voice of unknown origin recited his daily dose of positivity, as he inched closer to the silver castle; and an occasional mutter from a faraway phone broke the constant drone of an old engine. That was not welcome, he thought to himself, as he tried to get a little shut-eye. Such was his life, where he only lived when his eyes were closed off from reality.

Collared shirts and dark pants dotted the station as he alighted, a morning just like the other mornings, as he noticed the other corporates shuffling around with Styrofoam cups of brown and white. A straight line he walked, oblivious, up the grey escalator, past shopfronts displaying fancy dresses with colours unsuitable for work, past stone images of men and children from another time. And then he heard the bells toll. From a distant place they sounded, gentle wind chimes from the beckoning sea. Where were these bells, and why did they sound? Was it the church from down the street? Or the bell on top of the old city hall? But he was never curious for answers. As with the call of his own heart, it was all but white noise. He had work to do.

As he entered the large glass doors into his safe abode, he stopped, heaving, short of breath and short on rest. A vacation in a faraway place would suffice for his wellbeing. 7 days out should be fine. But then he pictured the long queues of employees with stacks of files outside his office, awaiting his approval. He then pictured the long faces of his superiors as they measured his very being, each turn of the page a possible negative appraisal on his work. It was a long war, but victory was imminent, a promotion probably due. There will be no vacation.

It could have been different if he slept in one of the days. He could rest for longer, finally, and avoid his heavy dependency on the awful black coffee which he consumed every day to keep his mind focussed. Perhaps, the bitter taste in his mouth could be switched with a nice glass of champagne, bubbling on the top, as he looked out upon a vast blue ocean. Then he would be free. Should he get a day off? No one would notice. But he had a heavy responsibility. Looking out of the window, he clutched at his chest and felt its constant beat, it’s thump quickening with the thought of a free life out of those glass windows. Then he looked at his desk. A lone laptop stared back at him through a large, glossy eye, lines of text dictating what had to be done. There was much to be done.

It could have been different. His parents had always commented on his slender hands, seemingly suitable for a future in music. He could have learnt more of his scales, he thought. As he thought of that alternative reality, the palpitations within his chest increased in intensity. There was so much longing, but he had a long day to go, here, within the grey walls of this silver castle. He was a knight in shining armour, protecting not an honourable damsel, but the dollars and cents so dear to his organisation. Looking at his hands, he thought of what could be. He was interested in music from the time he heard the gentle tinkle of notes on the piano in the restaurant he was brought to frequently at a young age. It was a long time ago, but its image was ingrained in his mind like a vivid painting. The piano was mahogany, and it had oily keys, from the countless patrons who pressed tentatively at the keys, as if in indecision of whether a certain tune should be played. Black and white, black and white – it was a monotone instrument which gave off an intriguing and invisible colour. As he listened, he always noticed patterns of call and feedback in those classical pieces, akin to a mother calling her child. It was mesmerizing when the occasional maestro visited and delivered a beautiful tune free of imperfections. The quick fingers would run through beaten keys, a chorus of angels singing without words. It was a wakeful dreaming, he recalled, but he was the tune that he would never play.

It could have been different. He had met the girl of his dreams during his exchange in university, in faraway America. She was from Eastern Europe, a damsel with luscious curls of red and brown enveloping her soft face. She whispered sweet nothings, a heavy accent promising a life of new beginnings. He listened, intoxicated by what could be. They held hands on the Californian beach, the summer air consuming all the fears they ever had. They could be married in Las Vegas. Starting a life there may not have been easy, but it was the American dream. But with all dreams, it was over. 6 months passed, and they returned to their homes. But with all dreams, there remains but a beautiful memory, and this memory was play like a tape on loop on difficult days. On many days.

However, it was better now. He was safe, in this cold white uniformity which was his home. Where he sat, he looked in and saw bishops like him on a concrete chessboard, religiously completing their duties. Their faces were polished marble, and they were ready to win every battle.  He saw the endless white blossoming into seas of green, the incessant ringing of office phones a call to new possibilities. To new money, they proclaimed in unison at every occasion.

But today was a novel experience. With his heart racing, the possibilities rushed in like locusts to a grain field. Maybe he would take a day off. It was easy. His immediate superior was in the oval office, tucked away in a lush corner of the office. He only had to tell his superior, and the deed would be done. He had 28 days of leave, and this work could wait.

He measured the words to say. Would it be long drawn, with a lengthy explanation on how he would be up to task despite taking that holiday? Or would it be a sweet affair, a smile signifying his superior’s generosity? His superior had always been somewhat of an enigma. They barely even exchanged pleasantries in person, but sent emails which ricocheted through thin plaster walls, to the many secretaries down below. What would his superior even think of him then? Would he think of him as lazy? He had worked hard, and he deserved this rest.

He measured the words to say. The words grew in his mind, and he gritted his teeth. His words could wait, he thought, as he massaged his forehead, a heavy throbbing emitting through vessels in his brain.

He measured the words to say. But he had long forgotten how to speak.

He thought to himself: he would follow his heart this time. His heart rang a heavy thump day by day, calling out in yearning for a tomorrow not like all other tomorrows, and today it rang too like a solemn bell, every beat a loud toll, reminding him that he, too, had a life to live. Getting up from his desk, he walked slowly to his superior’s office. It loomed closer like a dungeon with every step. His heart raced, seemingly against the force of his body, its inertia pressed in earnest against his internal organs, an imaginary escape from the confines of who he was. He will follow his heart for now. The din from within was unbearable this time.

And so, he reached the doors of his superior’s office. But there were no heads turned, no triumphant sounds of victory, no garlands of flowers. His superior’s head remained bowed, as he typed furiously at the keys.  

“May I get the week off?” The words hung from his tongue at that moment. It was barely a whisper.

The toll of bells was too much of a burden to carry. But the pain was now gone. He looked around and could almost see a beautiful beach in the horizon, awaiting his footprints on the fine sand that encompassed the entire locality. He was ready. The beach he saw was a beautiful place to be, the endearing silence reflecting a peace desperately needed; granted.

And so, he went on his way. It was evening, and he noticed the cry of young birds in the distance, their mothers swooping in with crumbs for their young. He noticed hints of red and purple creeping through the sky like drapery in an elegant home. Lights from the nearby shopping malls lit up in colours too much to take in, a strain on eyes used to only the glow of new money. He passed vague shapes of workers sitting on benches, consuming cold sandwiches, a foot out, ready to begin their brisk walks back to their offices for overdue work. They faded away, as if in a looking glass. He saw the smiles hidden behind weary faces, wallets full, and hearts empty. He saw children in tow, parents gently pushing the strollers, smiles on weary faces, hearts alight with love. He saw what could now be.

And then he was home. He looked at the white door, an anomaly in the pale-yellow vicinity. There was a large, vintage sign on it, and it read “Welcome to our home”. Those words were always inviting, a gentle prod into another world within. A world where there would only be love.

He heard his parents murmuring from within, and without pause, he opened the door.

The bells sounded again. It now rang brightly, each toll sending a current through his being. It was evening, and each toll took dreams from the sleeping into the sky above. Was that how dreams were answered? He had never known what it really was, but he had always dismissed those hallucinations as mere distractions from his work. He was at where he really belonged, and nothing would stop him from being so.

The bells were louder this time. It was coming to him, a new world beckoning. Maybe he should become a musician. It wasn’t too late to switch careers. He was nearing 30, but some become masters at 50. He had some experience learning the piano, stopping at Grade 6 when his studies got affected. He had enough money now, perhaps to start taking lessons again. Maybe he could become a gig musician. He had a nice voice, people used to say, before he fell silent.

But the bells were louder this time. Was it an old injury he sustained years back, falling from a bicycle and hitting his head? Or was it the many rock concerts he used to go to before life begun? Perhaps he should see a doctor. It had been a while since he visited the doctor. He had no time to be sick, working days and days to no end. Perhaps he had to rest. But ever since he began his stint, work found him before rest begun, resulting in sleepless nights and darkened eyes, where life had left him. But now he is free, and he will now dream.

He entered the living room. His mother was in the kitchen, cooking. A delicious aroma filled the air, though he remained oblivious, eyes fixated on the strands of hair falling gently on his mother’s weathered face. He entered the kitchen and greeted his mother. But she had nary a turn.

Then the phone rang, and she answered the call.

He could barely make out the callous words his mother exchanged with the caller, and the heated discussions which bounced off the walls of his house, shrill cries entering the homes of his neighbours like steam escaping from a kettle. He could barely register his parents leaving their home, door left ajar. He could barely see now, for the bells now rang as loud as day, each toll a deafening revelation for him: that he will no longer dream.

He never knew when he became invisible, for he was already invisible to even himself.

//