Chapter#2
1092 Words
Next morning.
Across the city, Drew’s former classmates were already back in their sterile homes, glued to their screens. Some were browsing job listings in foreign countries, chasing higher salaries, smoother lives, shinier futures. Others were calling distant relatives, offering favors or bribes to secure powerful positions.
Progress. Prestige. Power.
But Drew was elsewhere — physically present in his crumbling apartment, mentally suspended between madness and genius.
His room was dim, the air heavy with old regrets. Cracked walls, creaking fans, a bed that had seen more insomnia than rest. He had no network. No inheritance. No support system. All of him was him.
On the cluttered table sat a bottle of wine.
He had never tasted alcohol before — not once. But tonight, it wasn’t temptation. It was exhaustion. Not from the world outside… but the void within.
Beside the bottle lay a worn-out book: "Chemicals Made Easy."
A banned title. Something he had stolen years ago, not to read but to sell on the black market when he got desperate enough.
And now?
Now he was desperate enough.
He stared at the book. Then at the wine. Then back again. His fingers trembled, but not with fear — with resolve.
"I can’t sleep," he muttered. "Let’s study."
He picked up the bottle and, without hesitation, smashed it against the wall. Red liquid bled down the plaster like some wounded ghost.
He sat down and opened the book. The spine cracked like old bones, and on the first page, words that didn’t just speak — they laughed:
"Poisons can be useful at times."
"Snakes can bite… but also soothe, like a friend whispering behind your back. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?"
"A barking dog, a riot of sound — a political fight, maybe? Familiar again?"
"You think you know everything, reader? But not me… haha."
Drew stared at the text, then slowly leaned back, his lips curling.
"Man… I love this writer."
Drew closed the book gently — too gently for what boiled inside him.
He walked to the kitchen, grabbed a coffee mug, and began mixing absurd ingredients. A spoonful of salt. A splash of vinegar. A stir. A sip.
The taste hit like acid and betrayal. His throat burned.
He drank it all.
"If a few grains and a bitter liquid can ruin our senses," he thought, "then why not my formula?"
That same night, Drew packed his coat, grabbed the book, and returned to the Village of Love — but not as a visitor this time.
As an invader.
He arrived silently, moving through the still, sleeping village. The moon watched him like a witness. Even in the dark, the village felt warm. Too warm. People noticed him — even in sleepiness, they offered kindness.
"You can stay at our home tonight," one elderly man smiled.
"There's food if you’re hungry," a woman added, holding a lantern.
Drew refused them all, shaking his head coldly.
He kept walking.
The night, in his eyes, hadn’t even started.
As he turned onto a narrow path behind a wooden house, he saw a girl — young, graceful, cleaning the backyard under the moonlight. She looked up, startled by his presence, and instantly rushed inside.
Seconds later, her husband came out. Calm but firm.
"Sir, may I help you?" he asked.
Drew stared for a long second. Then muttered under his breath, "You people are fools. So... conservative."
And he walked away.
The more he saw, the more he burned. Husbands were protectors, and wives didn’t need guards — they believed in their men. Children trusted parents, and parents listened in return. Even politics didn’t divide them — they avoided the noise but knew their rights. They weren’t blind.
They were balanced.
And Drew hated it.
He kept visiting. Again. And again. Looking for a c***k — any weakness. But the more he searched, the stronger they seemed. Peace wasn’t just tradition here. It was a way of life.
The next morning, back in his apartment, Drew screamed like an injured maniac.
He smashed every cup, every mirror, every item within reach. Shards of glass glinted under his feet.
"Hell to them!"
"HELL TO THEM!"
"They’re so, so happy!"
"So damn happy — WHY?"
"Why, God, WHY!?"
His breath was wild. His mind, unhinged.
What he couldn’t destroy… he would replicate. And then infect.
He flipped the page, looking for the author's name — but it was gone.
Burned off. Scratched out. Erased.
Just like everything else in his life.
Drew kept returning.
Again. And again. And again.
He would read "Chemicals Made Easy" at night, pages filled with cryptic formulas and twisted philosophies, then set out to the village with darker intentions each time. Not to observe. Not even to destroy.
But to provoke.
He started small — whispering insults under his breath. Questioning their customs. Laughing during their prayers.
Then, one afternoon, he raised his voice in the middle of their small gathering place and shouted:
"Your religion is outdated. Your faith is a joke!"
There was silence. A deep, still silence.
One of the elders simply looked up to the sky and said:
"Oh God, have mercy on this soul. Guide him."
And the villagers around him, without a trace of anger, raised their hands and softly replied:
"Ameen."
Drew’s eyes narrowed.
He returned the next day, worse. He insulted their elders directly, mocked their age, their clothes, their traditions.
They only smiled.
"Oh man, may you be blessed," one said, gently.
Another day, in sheer frustration, he walked up to a young man — tall, muscular, clearly strong — and slapped him across the face.
The man stepped back, held his cheek for a second, then looked into Drew’s eyes.
"What’s wrong, man?" he said calmly. Not angry. Not afraid. Just... confused.
Within moments, the community gathered. Drew braced himself for a storm. But instead...
They scolded the young man he had slapped.
"Calm down," said one.
"He’s new here," said another.
"Don’t disrespect him. What will he think of us?"
Drew stood in disbelief.
"They’re... unbeatable," he muttered later that night. "You can’t defeat love. You can’t shatter something that refuses to shatter."
He slammed the book shut, his heart racing.
"Fine."
"If I can’t destroy it… I’ll replicate it."
"Make it cheap. Make it easy. Make it meaningless. So they have nothing left to be proud of."
"Let’s see how they hold their heads high when love becomes just another transaction."
His war had changed.
No longer to burn the village — but to infect the world.
- Writer
