Jasmine petal fallen on cigarette ash

I still remember that day was a sorrowful ballad. King Sun woke at seven but hid behind the giant fluffy cloud blanket, leaving Ottawa with the grey, dull sky. The bone-dry, brown leaves of the tree in the front of my room sang their final song in the breeze. I sank into the cozy mattress pool, wallowing myself in the haunting and wicked world of Brass Jackals. It’s a world-top TV series about an imaginary crime gang called Brass Jackals, led by Benedict Beamont. He’s brutal, cruel, like a monster that sickens God. People called him God, people called him Devil, but for me, he was just a human being with a broken soul. The series was set in a fictional country, but it’s not hard for the audience to recognize the vibe of the UK in the 1920s. It was a party of blood and violence, entangled with charming fashion. This series completely hooked my heart. An alarm song cut through my delicate imagination silk. I wearily reached for the phone at the other end of the bed. It was 4:30 P.M., and the sky was dark like midnight—a specialty of Ottawa every winter. I looked at the deadly thick textbook lying on the table, and that “monsieur” stared back at me with his fire-flickering eyes. Uh…Okay… Turtle me slowly put one leg out of the warm blanket, then another one. When I stood up from the bed, everything suddenly spun as if I were on a broken carousel that never stopped running round and round. A wicked hand squeezed my heart as firmly as it could. I could hear the pounding of my veins in my ear. Sweat streaked down my temple and covered my vision. I gasped a big chunk of air, patted my chest ceaselessly, hopelessly trying to calm down. Then, my ear buzzed, and everything faded away. The last thing I saw was the wooden leg of my bed, along with the pretty little corner of the floral bedsheet.