showerhead

So yeah. Rose Cookies.

This isn’t your usual power fantasy or deep character study. It’s just… something that came out of my brain—and maybe yours too.

Keanu, the guy you’re reading about, isn’t really a person. He doesn’t have a personality, no tragic backstory, no moral compass. He’s just there. Walking, talking, smiling. And then suddenly—violence. Out of nowhere.

Why? Because sometimes, life just pushes people. You keep swallowing the little stuff—awkward silences, fake laughs, getting ignored, getting talked over, being the nice one. Over and over. And then one day, something in you snaps… or at least, wants to.

Not gonna lie, a lot of these scenes are born from real stories. Not the stabbings, obviously, but the feelings. Stuff I’ve gone through. Stuff people have told me. That quiet, helpless frustration when you just sit there thinking, “Why do I keep letting this happen?” And maybe, for a second, your brain throws out the worst possible solution just to see how it feels.

Keanu is that. He’s not a person. He’s an impulse. He’s what happens when all that built-up patience finally tips.

Some chapters will be hilarious. Some will be disturbing. Some will make zero sense. That’s intentional. Life doesn’t stick to genre rules, so neither does this.

Thanks for reading. Or hate-reading. Or doomscrolling (I sincerely doubt that) your way into this mess. I’m writing it like a fever dream and trying to surprise myself, so if it gets weird, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

– Sincerely,
Showerhead

Rose Cookies

Keanu leaned forward, arms crossed on the push bar of a shopping cart, scanning the rows of cartons like he was picking a wine for a date he didn't care about.

He turned his head. A kid, maybe twelve, blinked up at him. Wide eyes. Loose hoodie. Holding a crushed juice box.

Keanu stared. "Do I look like I work here?"

The kid tilted his head. "Kinda. You got that… helpful but dead-inside vibe."

Keanu chuckled. "Thanks, I guess."

The kid held up the juice box. "Can I get another one if this one's leaking?"

Keanu took the box and examined it. A small hole, likely bitten. By what? Unclear.

"Yeah," he said, tossing it into the nearest shelf like a spent cigarette. "Go wild."

The kid lit up and ran. Keanu turned back to the milk aisle. Soy. Almond. Oat. Rice. Cashew. Macadamia. Tiger nut?

A woman next to him let out a sigh. "Too many options, huh?"

He looked over. Mid-thirties. Ponytail. Yoga pants. Energy of someone who says "namaste" unironically.

"I just want milk that doesn't taste like regret," she muttered.

He raised an eyebrow. "You ever try rice milk?"

"No. But it sounds like something monks would drink before committing arson."

She burst out laughing. "You're weird."

Keanu smiled. "Yeah. I get that a lot."

They talked for a bit. About cereals. Cartoons. The difference between cinnamon and cinna-monster. It was light. Easy. Normal.

They both left the store at the same time. Parking lot quiet. Sky gray. Cart wheels squeaking like anxious mice.

She waved. "Hey—thanks for the chat. That was fun."

Keanu waved back. "Yeah. Have a good one."

A flick of the wrist. A quiet crunch. The blade slid in smooth—between spine and muscle, just below the shoulder.

She collapsed, eyes wide with confusion, not fear. Not yet.

Keanu caught her gently. Eased her down.

"Rice milk's mid anyway," he whispered.

Somewhere behind him, a cart bumped into a lamppost and kept rolling.