On My Doorstep

On My Doorstep

A Story by Sachiko Ruaya

A young 20-year-old heart-broken woman isolates herself in her "little-urban-box". Not until she doesn't feel very well... *This story is based on a deep depression of my life.

On my doorstep

“My Little Urban Box” �" Sachi Ruaya

My heart is hollow, filled with heavy, dark matter �"weighing my muscles. A lost future...well, it’s his loss anyway. It ain’t my fault that he likes strawberry blondes and hourglass figures with large melons! I let my pitch-black hair flow against my pillow and let the breeze from the open window softly batter my face, just like how the dark matter of my heart flows against gravity to later leak out of my eyes as saltwater crystals �"battering my cheeks. Screeches and cries of children pestering their mothers and the vibration of trams passing by have long been muted from my ears. The air of my “box” lingers with mixed-cuisine and burnt cigar butts which also waver by the urban rap music that played whenever a party continued.

The hazy blue light of noon morphed into the warm, streaked evening which reflected off the colours of this “little urban box” I live in. Even if my naïve broken heart crackles within my chest and the windows of my soul leaks its saltwater ocean, I act as if I am happy �"well, as a distraction at least. ‘There,’ I ring out the final chord as I deactivate my phone. It is complete. I refuse to present myself to anyone on this globe…not when my soft stomach-rolls hang out of my pants when I sit. Not when my chins stack, one-by-one, like a pile of pancakes! Not until I am beautiful enough. 

I press my feet onto the frigid white tiles of the kitchen, “Well, what do we have in here?” I ajar the refrigerator door. Just like any other single twenty-year-old, I hold long gazes at the fridge, hoping something magically appears. But as I was doing so, my fingertips have already found its way to my belly, pinching the blubber below my button. Groaning at my pot belly (not to mention my face), I make my way back to my room �"I never liked sport nor any physical activity. Yes, I’m lazy…lazy enough to skip meals. 

Three whole weeks of consuming only my favourite strawberry-flavoured white tea hoping to lose some weight, writing songs, re-reading novels and watching Netflix, my cheeks have become sullen as the bones pointed higher. Also, my rolls no longer hung out of my denim jeans. But I feel exhausted. Like those year 12 exchange students from South Korea, who had the least of sleep. Even if this was the case, whenever I wanted to fuel myself, my appetite slips through my fingertips. Nevertheless, it is expected that I will pay a plethora of gas bills since I constantly felt as if I was stranded on a glacial land. My bare soles imprint the grey carpet then the frigid kitchen tiles, “D****t!” The air now whiffs of freshly manned iron and my nose is gushing with blood as my sight vividly wavers �"world tilting from side-to-side. 

Frantically grasping for air, I stumble my way to the door. The exit of this box! Even if I just lay in front of my front door, I know someone would pass by and help! Click! Large explosions of panic filled my body. The door is jammed! I knew, as my breathing got unstable, that there was no other way out. I already locked all the windows and doors and threw the key �"threw the key? Where?

I slumped my back on the hardwood door, retracing the last three weeks I spent in this little urban box…the fridge! Despite the unimaginable pain in my abdomen, I stumble back to the kitchen spilling blood on the grey carpet, feet pressing on the rigid tiles, I ajar the metallic door. Grab the key �"which is flanked by the eggs- then stumble (like how my father used to come home drunk) back pass the dark, enclosing hallway.

Clack! Slowly…slowly…despacito…the door screams in agony as it creeps open. A familiar scent of cologne lingers to the tip of my nose, “Kohei?” His frozen, pale eyes eyeball mine. His body slouched on the gelid pavement, bloody and face monstrously mutilated. The flesh on his cheek is wrenched outwards which exposed the jawbone and teeth. He lay there, deathly still, a bluish-bruised colour stretches throughout his body. Chuckling, my own body collapse next to his. And there he was, just as I requested. 

On. My. Doorstep. 


© 2017 Sachiko Ruaya

Author's Note

Sachiko Ruaya
Watch out for my tenses, overly long sentences etc

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freshly manned iron
you like using that to describe blood eh? lol i read that in your other story, and who was Kohei? Like he or she just kind of showed up out of no where, but I can feel for the main character, their sub conciousness

Posted 11 Months Ago

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Sachiko Ruaya

11 Months Ago

At the intro. It describes the feeling of this girl being rejected from the boy she really likes (pr.. read more

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Added on October 30, 2017
Last Updated on October 30, 2017
Tags: Doorstep, malnutrition, death, blood, ice, matter, black, love, hate, starve, food, art, music, song, blonde, him, her, romance, urban, box, little, jawbone, stumble, heart, flow, crystal


Sachiko Ruaya
Sachiko Ruaya

Melbourne, Australia


A Story by Sachiko Ruaya