Hell Lingering Within

By Max Kwoa

How physical can inner struggle become? Max Kwoa's latest fiction is about to find out. In the midst of mid-life crisis, Victor travels back to his birthplace, only to find a trail of doubt gnawing at his sanity.
Visceral, Max Kwoa's story is a must read to anyone wondering what goes on in the mind of ageing men, or for anyone enjoying a good bloody story that splatter guts around.
“Hell lingering within” weaves a ghastly story with our nerves; a gripping yarn dissecting ageing's raw struggle to the bone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Max Kwoa
• Release date: Feb 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463385173

Max Kwoa

Idealist, nihilist and delicately raw, Max Kwoa is perspective and nuance. Born in the 80's in frenchcountryside, quiet down-to-earth vision nurtured his childhood.Impulsive, he took his life on a tour in his twenties. U.K. night plant, spanish school, indian trainingcenter, chinese glass factory, Kwoa worked the world until his latest stop, the burstling chimera of Shanghai sky office.

Book preview

Hell lingering within

By Max Kwoa

Second Edition by Effy Creations Editions

Copyright 2020 Max Kwoa

This book is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book, or any portion thereof, is the sole property of the author, and may not be reproduced, redistributed to others or used in any way without the written authorization of the author. If you enjoy this book, please encourage your friends to get their own copy. Thank you for supporting and respecting creation.

Table of content

Chapter 1. On the road

Chapter 2. Exploring the past – Scissions adrift

Chapter 3. Back home – Priorities acclimatizing

Chapter 4. Office, where the heart is – Downward

Chapter 5. Limbo – Collapse

Chapter 6. In parties – Now, to happen then

Epilogue

1. On the road

a. Prelude

15 days to go

Swinging PVC skirt vs. Lilac crepe-de-Chine gown's soul

She's asleep. My head is spinning; it must be getting late. The bottle is almost empty. Some people says that alcohol preserve, hey well, that bottle of gin struggled to keep ageing away.

But that girl though, she surely helped!

Such soothing curves... Even filtered through ethylic exhaustion, they just remind me the difference between caving in, and shifting for the best. I light a cheap cigarette, almost mechanically. She left it on the night table for me. That’s right, for me, and no one else! I feel my lungs fixing me in the torpor of the instant; sentenced to live. Crashed asleep on the bed, she gently laughs, before rolling over. I'm so jealous of her dreams; I wish I could ever get her to smile that... earnestly. Her silky curves, carved out from jet stone. Slender undulating lines, perfectly aligned with the intoxicating fumes.

I can feel it crawling up though; somewhere deep within; that... a guilt of shame. Like billions of crawlers inexorably marching. Slowly taking up the space, gently invading my trachea. Drying off the gin. It aches.

I had such a magnificent vision. Beautiful and inspiring, together, we redefined fashion, and the world along. An ideal nurtured by so many years of ambition.

I mean, was it... nurtured? No, not really. It just downed me. Almost like an indisputable evidence. It didn’t even bother to explain, just leaving me the burden of execution.

I was used. I was malleable. I was easily impressed... but I’ve outgrown that stage. I must have... Yes, yes, I’ve outgrown that stage.

So why is shame crawling up?

What other choice did I have? I can’t recall any alternatives? None. And... and I ought to be proud. Of my designs, what they accomplished. Hell with that vampiric ideal. It just gave me constraints.

...

Besides, I wouldn’t call the new collection a blatant betrayal. It’s more like... a discounted alternative vision. I can’t just slave forever to a dream, I have responsibilities now! Yes. Responsibilities.

It’s almost choking me. That guilt. I can taste it down my throat, just waiting for the striking order to swallow me whole. Go to hell. I’d rather linger. She’s a masterpiece; my demons will have to wait a little longer.

Pretty face. Gentle features. Must be youth. She looks so relaxed. Appeased and cocooned in the lilac satin sheets. The perks of luxurious suites only hollow golem like me can afford. She smiles, cooing softly. What a dream that must be. Jealousy shifts to hatred.

She has a tiny dimple, right by the side of her lower lips. A bait, with a tiny hook, right below the scarlet rouge that shields her lower lips. Huh, I still remember how our kiss wiped five years out of her face, washing out a tiny part of her confidence. That was then; we’re now. I bet she's still in university, or in a professional institute. She tried to gloss it over, but now it shows.

I move up, bypassing her upper lip to climb the tip of her delicate nose. I slide the powdered toboggan down the neck bone, reaching the edge of her purplish plum eyebrow.

Funny, her eyelids slightly pulsate. Ba-dum, ba-dum. I challenge myself, opting for the great leap off her eyelashes. I step back, picturing my way over her fake lashes. Risky; I launch myself, off we go.

A strand of hair suddenly cut my momentum, swiping me away. Where am I? All hairy and dark, I hike the path. As I wander up her resting head, the narrow strip of hair grows, textures, fattens up. By hilltop, the series of black furrows lightens up. It gets brighter. Dazzling light polishing silky strands of hair. Uplifting, almost as light as the rising smoke exiting my burning my lips.

Wait, wait, wait! My lethargy almost got me bewitched into thin air. The gentle ridge of her cranium feels so soft. I slide down her neckline, and the black silky path slowly turns into pearly skin. Inertia carries me away. I roll down and spring over her muscular and unyielding shoulder. She told me