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

The waiting room smelled like fluoride and betrayal.

Keanu sat in the tiny plastic chair with his knees practically at his chest, flipping through a National Geographic Kids magazine about dolphins.

A kid next to him was watching Peppa Pig with no headphones. Keanu's eye twitched. The kid stared at him. Keanu stared back.

"Mr. Keanu?" the receptionist called sweetly.

He stood. The Peppa Pig kid whispered, "I hope it hurts," as he walked past.

Inside, the dentist's chair reclined automatically. A soft jazz instrumental of Eye of the Tiger played over the speakers.

Dr. Simons appeared. Tall. Glasses. Suspiciously perfect teeth.

The mirror tool was in—but so was something else. A second hand. Holding a scalpel.

Keanu didn't say "ahh." He bit down.

Simons screamed as three of his fingers got jammed between molars.

Keanu flipped forward out of the chair, still biting. Simons flailed behind him like a fleshy kite.

The dental assistant pulled a drill from the wall. "FOR THE ORDER OF MOLARON!"

Keanu spun, dragging Simons like a human shield. The assistant hesitated—too long.

He kicked the tray cart. Floss flew. A sharp dental pick embedded itself into her eye. She collapsed into a pile of bibs.

Keanu spat the fingers into the rinse sink and hit the "swirl" button.

Simons gasped on the floor. "You—you know about the Mouth Cult…"

Keanu wiped his mouth with a paper bib.

He stepped over the bodies, grabbed a free toothbrush sample from the desk, and walked out.

He glanced at the mirror. "Guess I'm not getting a lollipop."

Open wide and die