One evening, Dasha knocked on Chen's door. At this point, Chen could recognize his arrival by the distinct pattern of his knock, placed low and tapped on weakly. He opened the door and saw a flash of red and white. He paled.
"Dasha…?"
A bottle. He had not seen this since home; since he was in that tiny little dot of nothingness everyone proudly called a kampung. He hated it.
He hated it, he hated it, he hated it, hehatedithehatedit—
"It's a gift. My mom and dad got it from a friend but they didn't like it."
Of course they didn't. Drinking was stupid. A Western obsession. As teenagers, okay, sure, it was okay to get a whiff or two but now…
But now his life was its end.
"Thank you."
Chen appreciated the gesture, took the gift, and closed the door. He drank himself to sleep that night.
Waking up, he was sitting at his desk and found his journal open and written with something. A scribble that he did not recall seeing.
