Ann

Safety was the illusion her mind refused to bow before; it recognized that she was, without a doubt, not truly safe. 
          
          Not here, not now. Perhaps not ever? 
          
          ..she kept turning the embodiment of that particular word over and over and over in her mind, this concept turned fact, safety. Her mind kept twisting what should have been an easy notion into layers upon layers for her to attempt to unravel further. 
          
          To get lost in… 
          
          ..safety; did she not feel safe due to the possibility of acts others might decide to carry out, a small uncertainty bound to the fickleness of human nature itself, a nature capable of both deep warmth and heinous crimes? Or was her lack of that precious safe illusion she so desperately sought bound to an unresolved issue where she within herself felt ill equipped to tackle what she might find herself faced with? That her inability to feel safe around others was not actually bound to what they might find themselves capable of, be it as a single person or a flock through a mob mentality ran wild, but that she herself felt a lack in her own abilities to face what might come?
          
          Perhaps she shouldn’t bow before the illusion, merely accept it? 
          
          ..and then what? 

She saw monsters where there were none; irony is, to the man wielding the meat cleaver she was exceptionally blind. 
          
          ..then again, perception is, and always will be, the maker of one’s truth. 

The woman held the pen close to her heart; way too close, almost like a shield instead of a sword, as if she was afraid that the words that lingered behind might start to leak out if she didn’t guard the fast-pumping organ much like a hen would watch over its chicks. 
          
          The hawk was close by, always watching. 
          
          ..always there. 
          
          She sensed its stare on the naked expanse of her flesh, it felt like a bite; it left her feeling tender beneath the constant exposure of black, beady, watchful eyes. 
          
          The woman wanted to flee; fleeing was not an option. 
          
          ..or it was, though that option might rob her more than the bitter bites left behind ever would. 
          
          That much she knew, experience had yielded that knowledge over time, left marks not visible to the naked eye. 
          
          So she didn’t run, not this time. 
          
          Instead, she acknowledged what was lost, felt the sting, the pain. 
          
          ..no, she didn’t run; not this time. 
          
          She stayed; she bled. 
          
          ..as she whispered to herself… her fears turned true…
          
          “..silly, little hen, why ever did you trust them again?”
          
          

Will you ever put My Killer on Amazon like your other book? Every time I come to reread it Im terrified its not going to be there, that book is like a safety blanket my go to when my brain wont shut up or anxiety wants to swallow me whole.

Contentment derived from a sense of utter relief; it colored her once-dark world with clouds of pink. 
          
          She felt elated… almost safe. 
          
          Pure enjoyment enveloped the present moment, it was like balm administered to her raw, bleeding soul.  
          
          She felt like a newborn fawn learning how to walk, only for her it wasn’t the first time around anymore; wonderment delighted her mind as imagined grass caressed the soles of her feet, again. 
          
          To be grounded and yet so very, very elusively light, like a feather caught in the wind, destined to land… 
          
          ..somewhere, perhaps even some time soon; she didn’t want to land, at all. 
          
          She felt good. 
          
          She WAS good. 
          
          Couldn’t she just stay that way, good? 
          
          Wicked was the double-edged sword, nothing lasts forever, not the bad, and as such, neither its counterpart, good. 
          
          Touché. 

Her drawings were crocked, lines all over the place. Still, it was the most enchanting portrait he’d ever seen; the man’s eyes stayed glued to the slightly crumpled piece of paper he held ever so gently in his hands, simply put, he was transfixed. 
          
          He couldn’t quite make out what it was, but that didn’t matter; it still managed to take his breath away regardless of that fact. 
          
          “Well…?”
          
          The three-year-old’s prompt for an appraisal was gifted in turn with a toothy grin as the man’s heart swelled several sizes more than his chest was capable of accommodating, it hurt; a pleasurable pain. 
          
          His eyes became level with hers as he crouched down, voice as soft as a gentle breeze as he replied with a question of his own rather than the expectant praise she so eagerly sought. 
          
          “How do you feel about what you made?”
          
          The inquiry made the squirming girl pause, stillness conquered her flesh whilst her mind and eyes ran rampant over her own work, she surveyed the cat depicted on the slightly crumpled paper. 
          
          “I… well.. It’s purple. Purple is pretty. I think it’s pretty.”
          
          The child pointed at a squiggly line of purple located somewhere near the center of the paper as she spoke, her voice going from a drawn-out uncertain lilt to embodying the strongest of convictions by the time she had finished the assessment of her own craft. 
          
          The man nodded, agreeing. 
          
          “Purple is a fine color indeed, sweetheart. Shall we add it to the refrigerator collection then and archive one of the older ones?”
          
          Pure unfiltered joy, the kind only a child’s innocent mind could summon forth, lit up the young girl face as she nodded in earnest. 
          
          And thus a purple portrait of the neighbors cat, Mr Fish, took the place of last week’s blue dragon; both masterpieces in their own right. 
          
          And the girl.. unbeknownst to herself, learned a valuable lesson that day. 
          
          

Hi there! Finished reading My killer yesterday and my mind is still in a haze after reading it. It's one of the best books I've read. I can't think about starting another book now cause I haven't recovered from Sophia and Michael. I just don't think any other book can top this. I didn't realise picking a book randomly to get over my wattpad block would end up in me clutching my pearls. I finished it in literally one day. I was wondering if My killer will have a sequel? That would be so nice

          It had started as a slight tightening of her jaw, so subtle was the tightening of the masseter muscle that she payed it no heed until the tension had long-since melted downwards, through her oesophagus and into the pit of her stomach where it ever-so-slowly drowned her from the inside-out. 
          
          Dread; she was drowning, it had literally reached her lungs. 
          
          Her breathing changed; it became shallow, erratic, much like the panicked flapping of a birds wings as it attempted and failed to stay afloat on a lake whose surface had become contaminated by fatty layer of sticky oil. 
          
          Useless; the mechanisms of her own flesh, organs designed to keep her alive, had become the very obstacle determined to end her... well, perhaps not outright end her, though it felt like it at that very moment. 
          
          Musings of the grand irony this situation contained might have entertained her had her mind been focused and not scattered about like pearls of a broken necklace; she was everywhere and yet nowhere all at once. 
          
          There and not there… like a kitten trapped in a box, a conundrum.  
          
          
          
          

A tremendous bouquet of questions lay at her feet; blooming snippets from their once rose-tinted past blended together with a handful of forget-me-not’s, and a future she had yet to unravel. 
          
          Her eyes strayed, nearly examining part of the discarded mess, the past… painfully-sweet, it made her heart ache and yearn, so she looked away before she could truly take it in, to make sense of it; she found that action painful too. 
          
          Everything hurt; the cost of love, it robbed her blind. 
          
          And yet, the sight was still there… 
          

Hey Ann,
          
          Firstly, I looove your book My Killer. I read it more than three times. you are very talented! 
          
          Secondly, I’m Nawshin, a Media student at the University of Malaya, and I’m currently working on a research paper about the publishing journey in the digital age. As someone who's also planning to self-publish my own book, I wanted to reach out and ask if you’d be interested in participating in my research. I will just ask about the process, and your unique challenges. If you want, I can give you the questions and you just write the answers even
          (less than 10 min).
          
          The study is all about uncovering the real stories, challenges, and triumphs of independent authors like yourself. Again, I really liked your book and I usually always check your library to see if you are recommending something new. 
          
          The interview can be done via email, text or video call, depending on what works best for you. 
          
          My ig: faria.nawshin
          My gmail: farianawshinpromi@gmail.com. I really am looking forward to hearing from you!