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

No music. No hum of machines. Just the buzz of one flickering light in the far corner. It blinked like it was thinking about something awful.

Keanu stepped inside. Hoodie up. Bag in hand. A plastic basket of stained clothes.

He picked a machine in the back. The dirtiest one. The one with the crack in its glass door and the coin slot that stuck a little.

He liked the way it groaned when it started. Like it remembered things.

One by one, he loaded the clothes. A red hoodie. Jeans with holes. A shirt that used to be white.

A pair of socks that didn't match. He smiled at that.

In the bottom of the bag, something else.

Tiny. Yellow. A little patch of cartoon eyes on the wrist.

Keanu didn't move. The air in the laundromat shifted—stale and sour.

A dryer door slammed shut on its own across the room. But there was no one there.

The machine in front of him began to shake harder than it should. Hard enough to rattle the floor. The glass pulsed—bump, bump—like a heartbeat.

Inside the glass drum, shadows twisted. Something was in the laundry. Something crawling. Tiny fingers pressed against the glass. No face. Just a shape. Just... motion.

The machine shut off. No ding. No beep. Just dead silence.

Keanu stood up, slowly. He opened the washer. Steam rolled out.

"This program includes a spin cycle. For your sins."

Don't forget to separate the darks and the whites