All posts by darshchauhan

My Poem

Hi guys, this is a quick poem I wrote yesterday before we were evacuated :(. Hope you enjoy and feel free to give feedback!!


If he was wrong, then I was a fool,

To have thought he was capable, capable of breaking the rules.

To explore is to know, and to know is to love to live,

To live life at its fullest, we must first forgive.

Yet to do so in this world, in this world filled with hate,

It is like already knowing knowing your fate.

An no-one, no-one knows their fate.

Not you, not me,

So let’s live life at its fullest,

Let’s live life with glee!

My English Othello Assignment: Hidden Scene and Sonnet

Hi all, I have a creative response to Shakespeare’s Othello I’d like to share. I’d appreciate any feedback, thanks!!!


Othello Sonnet, Act One Scene Three


I hath done nought to be condemned to thou,

Nor thy affairs of the patriarch State.

Me, forced to be witness to torment and how,

My lover with my father birthed their hate.

Grieving in self-pity masked in sorrow,

Whilst Othello spoke of our harmony,

Tears of the great green beast he put for show.

Behind him was only lonely money.

But alas, his status was all to him,

Higher t’was than the love of his daughter.

Or t’was on unjust policy he dimmed,

His slight of my being, not who “ought her”.

  • Yet for every mark he made on their kin,

My end may’ve come by my lover’s sin.



Written by Darsh Chauhan









Othello Creative Response Assessment Task Draft

Act V Scene III

Cyprus: Desdemona’s bedchamber

Enter Iago, bound in chains

IAGO [to himself]          And yet my chance hath not escaped me.


IAGO [crying loudly]            Tis most curséd fate! Thy who hath learned,

that not to be honest was in fact to be wise,

as seen and smelt and heard and felt by the Moor,

was masked under hate and jealousy,

whose solitary occupant was him.


Oh, take heed- if anyone be near

I cry from the bottom of my hurt heart,

I am sorry for the unfolded events,

Though I must conceal with great caution,

T’was never me who hath lied to thee,

But instead dishonest Emilia,

That harlot so claiming to be mine wife.

They do not call me ‘honest’ for no reason,

And I beg of thee all to listen,

And to forgive with gratitude and peace.


My wife, Emilia, hath made the foul call to you all,

By torturing Othello with their romance,

She hath forced death upon him and his wife.

She could not bear the guilt, nor the sorrow,

And placed this heavy weight on his shoulders,

Which were burdened as it already was.

Then he consoled me, as people oft do,

And out of confusion, out of hate, out of misery,

Othello did to Desdemona,

The deed he dared to do to himself.


And yet I am left. I am here,

Standing, bound, watching, waiting for you to come,

To understand and to realise,

What bad fate hath come to the people of Cyprus.

So come. Here me now, and come.



Enter lodovico and cassio

CASSIO               We hath heard thee. Our swords now be abolished from thy sight,

But not without caution, and hesitation.

LODOVICO                     Indeed, for when the Moor is lost, then all is lost,

And this palace will never be the same.

So let us mourn, let us pray, let us forgive

All that hath happened, and all that is to come.

IAGO                                             I could not agree any more. We must

Learn to grow and live, and recover from this.

CASSIO                                           Come Lodovico, let us release him.

Iago hath maintained honesty,

And love, and sacrifice amongst us.

Let this act of miscommunication

Rest in these chains as we dispose of them,

And all the pain that they hath caused us all.

LODOVICO                                                              Indeed.


They release Iago from his chains.


Come, my brothers, for we are left for Cyprus,

And Cyprus is left for us.


IAGO                                     Excuse me for one moment my good friends,

I have much to ponder on after today.

I will be out with you in a jiffy.




A few moments later;


BIANCA                                           Dear Iago, how do you fare?

Hath Cassio and Lodovico bade you bye?

IAGO                                                              Indeed they hath.

BIANCA                            What content have you made them aware of?

IAGO                                 Nothing any more or less than we hath discussed.

Dear my golden angel Bianca,

It is not many people who be aware

That t’is you and t’is me who hath foiled

The intentions of the infidel Moor.

Even now, Lodovico and Cassio,

Those two, poor and ignorant souls

Believe in my innocence, and only seek

The restoration of torn Cyprus,

Only with a sparkling crown on their heads.

Oh, dear, how greed, even now,

Troubles the good souls of the ambitious,

And optimistically bound soldiers

Of this already fallen State.


Come, my dear, for you hath done well,

In clouding the hazéd judgement to darkness

Of the once-valiant Cassio,

Who hath never, never been worthy

Of the position of lieutenant.

Of my position as lieutenant.

BIANCA                            T’was only you who hath carried out this master plan,

My brave and dearest Iago. I did but my part.

IAGO                                 You are more generous than you were, it seems.

Yet come now, my dear Bianca.

Come, for we have a State to rule.



Word Count: 610 words


Written Explanation

The above hidden scene was written in conjunction with the conclusion of Shakespeare’s Othello. The main concept behind this scene was to give some, but not absolute, indication of Iago’s motives for his actions throughout the course of the play. At no point, in either the play or this scene, are his motives explicitly revealed; instead they are delivered to the reader in such a way that he/she may interpret them in his/her own way. Iago’s deceitful character is upheld in this scene as he continues to lie to Cassio and Lodovico, as the reader finds out that he and Bianca had been planning Othello’s death for a long time. At some points in the scene, some internal rhyme has been implemented (e.g. as seen and smelt and heard and felt). This is to show the reader sensory judgement, and the repetition of and aids in illustrating the line’s significance. The decision to write the scene in Middle English was reached as it adds an element of realism to the scene and picks up accurately from when the play ended. Some other literary devices incorporated in the scene are assonance/alliteration (The intentions of the infidel Moor). There have also been some thematic references in the scene (greed…troubles the souls). This is to highlight greed as an underlying theme in the play; Brabantio’s view of Desdemona as property, Iago’s jealousy is motivated by his strong desire for the lieutenant position, etc. A vast majority of the incentives for the major events in the play are motivated by greed, and it is made to appear ironic that Iago reflects on this in Cassio and Lodovico’s desire for the attainment of Cyprus, when in fact, he is the antagonist. Conclusively, this scene gives some insight into thought process of Iago after the dramatic final scene as well as the unseen yet critical role of Bianca in the play.


Word Count: 302 words


Prompt: You enter your new, yet old house for the first time. As you walk into your room, you hear a shout of ‘help’!

This was from a while ago but I dug it up from my bag. It is mainly on the entry to the room. Please feel free to provide feedback and enjoy!

I tiptoed stealthily along the corridor, eyes wary and alert, ready to react to anything unusual. Stale dust wafted into my nose as I tried to suppress a sneeze. The wooden floorboards creaked me, moaning in pain as I walked on. I reached what my sister had told me was my new room, and stopped to stare at it.

I never wanted to move here. These old cobwebs replaced the image in my mind of a sunny afternoon, in the backyard at my old house. We could run and play in the grass without a care in the world. Well, there was just one concern. The rent was climbing day by day, and it seemed as if we hoped that ignoring it for long enough would make it disappear. But it didn’t. That’s why we’re here.

Here in this old shamble called a house. My mind returned to the dreadful reality I was facing. I reached out to the doorknob, hand trembling. Slowly I turned it, and walked into an empty room.

The last thing I remembered before the rising pale hand took me was a cry of ‘help’ from my sister in the next room.

And then I was gone.

Blog Post: 07/10/16: Darsh Chauhan

We have been instructed to write a post on this block today. I am unsure of what topic to cover in this post. Andre, one of the leaders, has offered to give a prompt to those members who are stuck as to what to write about. I need a prompt but then I want to give myself the credit for the idea that I come up with for this post. So thanks for your kind offer Andre, but I will pass today.

Looks like Reagan has just come in. I believe he owes myself and Alex a bag of Flanno’s cookies. They are famous around the school for their taste and value. But unfortunately, Reagan has forgotten to give me the cookies. I am encouraging him to return to Mr Flannagan’s office but it looks like he cannot be bothered. He says he’ll give us cookies for this post. Well once this post is up, I’ll be looking forward to those cookies.

Ashane, the group leader, has said that the person with the most views of a post by the end of the year will be given five dollars. Five dollars! I could do a lot of things with that much money.

I’m still trying to find something interesting to write to pass the time. I have table tennis tonight. I am looking forward to table tennis. My current writing ‘style’ reminds me of one WIG meeting where Edward introduced us to a form of writing where everything was written from a dull, logical perspective. Perhaps I am sounding dull now. Perhaps I am not.

There are now fifteen minutes left in this session. I believe I’ve done a reasonably good job so far. If you are reading this, please come and visit this piece over and over again so I get more views so I get the five dollars at the end of the year. I’m returning to that dull perspective again. Oh no. Oh god.

This is disastrous. I feel a burning sensation slowly overcoming my body, paralysing me, limb by limb. Perhaps I will die a slow and sudden death. Perhaps it will be over soon.

See, that’s more exciting, isn’t it? But it does take more effort. Ten minutes left now. Next I have geography with a substitute teacher. We have to continue working on our assignment but most people will probably play games. I need to work in that assignment though. Well, we’ll see what happens.

Looks like it’s time to go now. Please give me views. I hope you’ve enjoyed this post. Goodbye for now.

Crossing the Line

Hi readers, the following is a story I wrote for an English task at my last school. Attached is a statement of intention. It’s a long read but I hope you enjoy!

My name is Aryan Muhammad and four years ago, I crossed the line.
I was born in the summer of ’00 in Dhaka, Bangladesh. I now live in Melbourne, Australia, and attend Palacent Boys College. My mother died when I was born and my dad is in Dhaka jail over alleged terrorism charges. I live with foster parents and my thirteen biological elder brothers. Times are always tough, with our financial and social status within the thriving community. Being a Muslim has exposed me to constant racism, both in and out of school.
When I first attended Palacent Boys College, I was asked to give an introduction about myself to the class. I am an honest person, and the thought of a cover story to shadow the ugly truth was not the right thing to do, so I explained to them how I came to be.
“When I was born, in Dhaka National Hospital, my mother died a few hours after giving birth to me. I was brought up for eleven years under the gifted guidance of my father, who taught me all moral responsibilities in life. I attended a small primary school, and we were a tight-knit pack who helped each other out. In 2011, my father was falsely framed for working for a terror organisation. What was worse was that the person who framed him had been a family friend of ours ever since I was born. My father was sent to a maximum-security jail for life. The police took me and my thirteen elder brothers to foster parents, people from the other side of town we’d never heard from or come across. They decided, against my siblings’ wishes, to immigrate to Australia. We rented an apartment with the help of a bank loan, and with the last pennies in our pockets, paid for education here at this school.”
The class was, quite frankly, shocked. In Bangladesh, we were always nice to each other, and empathised in each other’s problems. I quickly grew to learn that in a large place like Melbourne, this was not the case. What I had expected was some verbal gratitude, what I received was physical harassment. Within the first three hours of being at school, I had earned at least three nicknames for each class. People called me a terrorist, orphan, and all sorts of other scandalous sobriquets. No-one was appreciative of my background, they thought I was a shady nobody who would grow to be homeless. Even the teachers’ demeanour became politically incorrect towards me. They would ask me questions like, “Do you support the fact that girls are not allowed an education in Afghanistan?”
But, despite the constant struggles, I remained strong.
I remained hopeful, and mentally powerful.
Although I did not expect this sort of reaction to my past, I embraced it and took it as a notion that would be able to build my personality into something that I would be known for. Everything the school threw at me, I knew that they were wrong. I knew that being a Muslim was not an indication that I was a terrorist, but a humble, frivolous character whose values shone out in defining me.
Soon, the whole community knew about me, and the taunting and heartbreaking comments I received spread like a wildfire outside of school. When I joined the cross-country team, even my opponents from other schools would tease me before, after and even during the race. Whilst I was running, they’d push past me with intended aggression and scream out words of utter brutality. The feeling was is if I was being shot at by an archer or a gunman.
But through thick and through thin, I did not break.
I did not crumble into darkness and leave an imprinted image stating a message of cowardice and pusillanimity.
Some nights, I tried to consult my brothers on how they deal with the situation, hoping that their cultivated knowledge would be able to set me a direct path and approach to the long-term situation. They would offer their best condolences, but did not have a strong message that stood out from mere sympathy. Though I did not blame them. They too, were facing troubles at school, and there was simply not enough time to deal with the situation. My foster parents were working hard to keep us happy and healthy, and it was for that reason I decided not to pursue to subject with them, worried that they already had plenty of things to think about.
Despite always being the centre of victimisation, I was able to make one trustworthy companion. His name was Jared Samuels, a Christian boy who stood up for what I believed in. He and I would play handball during the school breaks, and talk together in class. He told me that he believed my father was innocent. I was rather intrigued by this thought and asked him why, without any materialistic evidence, he believed me so much. He said he was inspired by my introductory talk at the front of class, and praised my courage for standing up for what I thought was right, despite being put up against so many people. This made me feel joyful. But it was what he said next that made my heart leap.
“My father is a lawyer. I’ve told him about your dad. He said he is willing to help. Would you like to come over to my place this afternoon so we can talk about it?”
I was more flustered than anything else, but after a few seconds, I realised this was the perfect opportunity to solve everything. I agreed to his invitation, and before I knew it, school had finished and I was sitting at the desk of Mr Samuels.
Mr Samuels was a very smart man, both metaphorically and literally. He told me it was a huge bonus for him because he’d been looking for a big case for four and a half months. I told him it was going to be hard to free my father of a crime he didn’t commit, because a lot of authorities and officials in Bangladesh are corrupt, and do anything for money, be it right or wrong. He replied sheerly with confidence, doubtless certainty to get there in the end. I must say I was pleasantly surprised with the sudden invite of help, and also the respectful hospitality I received upon entering the Samuels’ house. Jared’s mother had been quick to offer me drinks and snacks, and also gave me her benignancy in relation to the issue.
From then on, at least three times a week I would visit the Samuels’ house, and each time Jared’s father and I would work one step closer to freeing my wrongfully convicted father. Their home became a place of hope and blissfulness, it was almost like a second dwelling to my own house. After Jared’s father and I would discuss all the legal matters, Jared would come into the room and we would spend quality time together. We would discuss the latest video games, sport news and academia for school. And each time I left their house to return to my own home, a dawn of light would reflect in my new-found smile, and the message carved into my eyes was of optimism and prosperity, knowing that someday, justice would be served. Not only would my father be set free, but the modern-world issue of racism would be solved, and people would truthfully execute their moral values.
We are all human beings. No religion, nationality or skin tone is superior or inferior to another. The innovation-inspired positivity of today’s world is overshadowed by its issues. Racism is something that can be permanently halted if all of us make the effort. No spiritual belief is incorrect. We all look upon them through different eyes, through a different perspective. No-one should have the right to disenable anything you say or do based on your race. Whatever religion you are, whatever skin complexion you have, whatever your nationality is, it is important that you are proud of it.

Statement of Intention
I chose to change the story but convey the same message of the memoir, ‘Crossing the Line’, written by Bronwyn Bancroft. The story is about a girl whose father was Aboriginal and mother was a white settler. Throughout her life, she experienced racism, and wrote about how being a ‘tweener’, meaning cross between a black person and a white person forced her into a corner of victimisation and disgrace and hatred. Contrarily to how she was approached, she adored the fact that she had Aboriginal descent, and spoke from the heart about places she loved spending time at, such as the lake, where she could swim to her heart’s content, forgetting about the harsh realities she faced in her life. The message of the text was that she was persistent and proud of her heritage, and refused to believe that she was an outcast.
What I did with this story was modernised it, keeping the previously mentioned message of the story constant, but exploring the problems of today’s world, covering topics such as being the ‘new kid’ in school to going as far as the problem of terrorism today.
The story is told from the perspective of a Bangladeshi emigrant, whose father is in prison over terror allegations and mother is dead. He is a constant bullying victim at school, and his teachers are of no help to him. But, just like in ‘Crossing the Line’, he remains mentally positive and strong, and works with his lawyer and best friend to free his father, who was falsely accused, and be the symbolic ambassador in racism.
The story does not finish on whether the emigrant’s father was eventually freed or not, this is because it distracts the reader from the main message of the story.
Overall, the message conveyed is in strong relation to identity; both Aboriginal and modernised. It is a battle that seems impossible to win, but through the practice of displaying values, is victorious from the former victim.

The Music in Me

Hi readers, I wrote this piece in 2015 and it was one of many stories in an anthology made by young writers from all around Melbourne. The prompt was ‘The Music in Me’. Hope you enjoy!

Ever since I was little, I wanted to be in a solo concert, just like a famous musical artist. I wanted the whole world to hear me, and I wanted them to love me for my music.
Now I am thirty-two years old, and have lived with the part that completes me for all my life. One could truthfully label my presence as an anachronism. The insignificance of my being is such that I fear I have become an old and cynical wreck. Despite this, I have a sliver of hope that one day, my musical talent will be revealed to the world. They will hear the notes I emit and be overcome with emotion and glorification.
But time is running out.
Cedric Ellis was what society would label a typical teenager with big dreams. He was unemployed, but hoped to make a lot of money and support his family. What one would notice about Cedric, however, was his devotion to playing the flute. Every night, after he studied, whilst most kids would be watching sitcoms on television, Cedric would be alone in his bedroom, and for two hours, make the merriest tunes. He had so much skill and talent, and hoped to play in a concert one day.
But that was all ten years ago. Now Cedric lives alone, unemployed, and a drunk. He can’t afford the rent for his apartment, and will be kicked out soon. Surviving on booze, he has just the faintest shred of sanity left in him. His flute is packed away in a corner of his room, untouched for years. Sometimes when he is sober, he imagines his childhood dream coming to life. He imagines a phone call saying he’s been invited to perform. But that never really happens. He still has some hope.
But time is running out.
I hear him. He is yawning and getting out of his chair. Hopefully it is for a good reason. The room stinks of stale alcohol. The unclean floor embraces broken bottles, proving its durability undoubtedly. I hear his breath as he continues to approach me. I watch every movement, listen to every sound.
I picture a stage in the middle of the city. I see queues of people who want to see me in action. I hear ticket sellers making cries of order and stability. There is much noise, the sound of hundreds of thousands of people verbally previewing with their companions what they are about to witness.

Suddenly, I am brought back into reality by the sound of his vacuum cleaner. And the broken bottles all feel the wrath of the Hoover, disappearing in one swift action. And then I feel a feeling I have not felt in so many years.
I am levitated.
There is still hope.
Cedric Ellis has had it with his life. He is bored, and feels absolutely purposeless. He decides he wants to recreate his life, and he wants to lead a better one, one not overtaken by booze. He starts off very basically, cleaning the apartment and tidying the mess up. He looks at his flute; the item he practically dedicated his life to when he was a small child. Cedric slowly picks it up, marvelling its unique composition.
And slowly, with much care, he puts it to his mouth and plays. The sound that proceeds cannot be verbally described. You would have to hear it to comprehend its legitimacy. While Cedric played, a flood of memories rushed into his brain, theming his powerful love and devotion to making music.
Then he vividly imagines himself on stage to hundreds of thousands, a stage filled with just him and his flute, and he plays. He plays just as he did a moment ago, only this time to the tremendously sizeable crowd. They are enchanted by his talent.
He is brought back into reality by the swoosh of the Hoover. He is brought back into the reality of his sad, lonely, meaningless life. Then he realises;
There is still hope.
Everything looks clean. Everything looks organised. Are we expecting someone? Surely not. The stink of stale alcohol is no longer present in this tidy apartment. No-one could enter and guess that the tenant was a sullen drunk.
Now he has me physically engrossed by a case, and I feel and hear him confidently striding out of the apartment, holding me ever so close. What has happened? Have we been kicked out for not paying the bills? He thinks that the owners are kind enough to let us stay. I feel a surge of panic overwhelm me. My emotions are continual and various. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do.
I feel the case unzipping and I am temporarily blinded by the sunlight. I see a crowd. We are out on the street. Many people have gathered.
And for the second time in a decade, he releases the music in me.
Cedric Ellis walks out onto the street. He unzips the flute case. There are lots of people watching his every move.
He realises that wanting to play on a stage is wanting fame and recognition. He realises that playing in front of hundreds of thousands has the same effect as playing in front of just a couple of score. The feeling he hopes to derive, a feeling of happiness, can be achieved in what he is about to do, and doesn’t require the misleading bells and whistles of popularity.
But what about making a mistake? What if he plays the wrong notes? Cedric has to trust himself. Only he can make this work and only he can make this fail.
For the second time in a decade, the flute is called to action.
And for the second time in a decade, the flute releases the music in Cedric Ellis.

My Writing Piece

Hey readers, I am Darsh and the following is a story I penned together that was the winning entry of a writing competition at my last school. Hope you enjoy!

P.S.: If anyone could come up with a good title for this, I would really appreciate it.

Ever since I made the decision to label myself as a victim of depression, the consequences have followed. As I tragically hung up my working boots at the ripe old age of twenty-four, I spent days sitting at a table, brooding over life. I was a self-declared cynical wreck, purposeless in the circle of life.
It was on a routine day when I was seated, muttering obscenities to myself when the phone rang all the way on the other side of the house. Curiosity combined with well-built legs forced me to answer the call. It was from mother, who was having a stupendous time with father on a cruise in Fiji. I was rather shocked, as I thought my parents would make absolutely no effort to communicate with me for the rest of my platitudinous life.
“Hello”, I sputtered, hoping a climax would take place. “Russell. I’ve got some very disappointing news for you.” Sounded like a glimpse of excitement in my life. “Your father was found dead this morning in the hotel.” Never mind that. I had never been particularly close with my parents. My family was not the sort who would really care if a relative broke their skull, death was just a tinge further. Unsure how to react, I hung up. If my father had been ‘found dead’, then there would be an investigation.
I had been sitting at that same dining table on the same chair, watching the same things happen every day. Maybe this was an opportunity for adventure. Thinking this instigated a string of emotions around my head.
But I couldn’t even walk out of the house without activating hundreds of pain sensors inside me. The thought of my parents being near me was startling, let alone with my intentions to get closer. But then again, what if I braved those obstacles? What if I battled through the constant limitations of depression and proved that I was good at something other than drinking five beers a day?
Unable to compose myself, I sighed, exposing my discombobulation to all the other inanimate objects.
Rational and irrational thoughts crossed my mind and filled me with uncertainty and grief as I rose. I grimaced when I heard the phone ring for the second time in two days, yet again, all the way on the other side of the house. Despite recent contemplation over the latest death in my family, I made a rather venturesome decision not to answer the call. Instead, I elected to hear the voicemail, for I didn’t want to have to speak with her, for it would be like riding a bike controlled by the Devil.
“Hello, Russell,” I could hear muffled sobs amidst the verbalisations on the other side of the phone. “It’s confirmed that your father received multiple stab wounds. I think it would be best if you came here- we don’t have enough money to return to England and conduct a funeral. I have sent you a package with the money. Please come as soon as possible.” Father had been stabbed?
The one crucial fact that sunk into my sensitive brain when I realised it was that regardless of whether I wanted to or not, I would have to go. For although I was not deeply connected with my parents, there was still an underlying respect I held for them, as a patriot feels for his country.
Well, Fiji, here I come.

I arrived in Fiji a week later. Getting this far was not a simple task. My fragile mind had been an obstacle that almost prevented me from making the journey. I had somehow managed to stir up the courage and propel myself to this new land, this land that my father had been killed in.
When I arrived at the hotel, I was careful to choose my footsteps wisely, as I had already been given a few taut looks by the ‘foreigners’.
I saw mother crying and talking to one of the hotel managers. Then another man appeared at the scene and ushered her away for a private consultation. I supposed it was all part of the traditional ritual carried out by the local authorities, but I was disproved in a matter of seconds she approached me.
Her eyes were swollen from sleepless nights of futile desperation, and her slumped gait debilitated me.
“Rrrussell, did you see that man I was talking to?” she stammered. “He told me the hotel manager killed Derek.”
“Why?” I inquired.
“Taito, the hotel manager, is responsible because he was in charge of the security cameras. Jurna, the man I was speaking to said that Derek and Taito were arguing about the hotel bills before a brawl occurred. It’s alleged that Taito threw a punch at father, before security interjected. Obviously, he made his decisive move at the best time, in the middle of the night when he was sleeping. I can’t believe I fell for the temptation to sneak out for another glass of wine. I’m so sorry Russell. It’s the worst thing I could have done and yet I did it.” That’s a blow to the heart.
“No”, I replied, “it’s okay. You are not to blame for this. We can inform the police and see Taito behind bars.” Mother only offered a half-contented smile and walked away.
As I clandestinely approached Taito, a plan formed in my mind. You read that correctly. I made the plan as I walked to him, not beforehand. Grabbing a rock, from a safe distance, I hurled it at Taito. It struck him on the thigh, and he fell, but only for a few minutes, I guessed. I then strode up to Jurna, ferocity in my eyes. I wanted answers, and I was going to get them.
Jurna appeared a curt man of small stature, and his face became uneasy due to my intimidating posture. “How do you know Taito killed Derek? Who are you? Why does mother trust you?” I blurted these questions, spitting venom.
I didn’t care about depression anymore. It was over. I was living in a bubble of tragic grief and mortification, and that bubble had now snapped. Not popped, snapped. I had snapped. My tolerance with life had SNAPPED.
These thoughts overwhelmed me as I demanded the truth from Jurna. I wanted a response. And I got one.
The cold barrel of a pistol pressed against my neck, making the hairs on my head stand up. It wasn’t the gun that surprised me, it was its wielder.


“I’m terribly sorry for all of this. I had to do it. He was crazy. He was obsessed with money. I needed to get rid of him.” Her voice was changed from a calm and soothing one to the repulsive tone of a cruel woman who had committed murder.
“Why?” my own voice was mixed, as I failed in playing the calm, unwavering hero.
“Father earnt a million pounds in a lottery via work. He told me, and I already had Jurna. So I planned this holiday cruise to set him up. Now we can take his money and live together in a mansion somewhere pretty. You and your fickle mental sickness forced me to end you.”
Boom. Another blow to the heart. Jurna was having an affair? With my mum?
I must stay calm, I told myself.
Before I could, though, I heard a gunshot.
I woke to the smell of the salty beach, and the sound of gentle waves swooshing against the tanned shore.
“Russell, it’s me, Taito. Are you okay? Don’t worry about your mother. She’s dead. She chose to crack her head against the over jail time. Russell, I know she was your mother, but she was a threat to everyone. Don’t worry.” Not the most appealing thing to hear when you’ve been shot at, but never mind that. Wait, shot at? Why can’t I feel any wound? I took the regretful turn to my right, seeing the last of mother’s body. A bloody head covered her once-sweet smile, and eyes of perpetual wisdom came to a permanent halt as the truth dawned upon me. Taito had saved me with the gunshot I had heard, for it was from his gun the bullet was fired. And whilst my life had been saved, I had lost my familiarity with it. What has become of me?
It was with Taito’s pat of determination and strength that I aroused from a period of negative contemplation and despondency as I realised that I was yet to reach my potential. Fate had taken a loved one away from me to show me that I was capable of so, so much more, but I had learnt my lesson. Fighting this battle wasn’t easy, but it showed me that I had to start again. Understanding and contemplating over morals and values had allowed me to reveal to my true self to me and others around me.

I was a changed man.
I was a new man.