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

"You're gonna kill it tonight, man. Literally!" Ben elbowed Keanu in the ribs.

Keanu stared at the mic stand like it had wronged his ancestors. "This feels like a trap."

"C'mon, it's karaoke night! Everyone sings! Even the bartender did a Britney cover. You just gotta feel the vibe."

The vibe, as far as Keanu could tell, was fluorescent lighting, sticky floors, and a group of tech bros in matching polo shirts belting out "Bohemian Rhapsody" like it was a war anthem.

A girl named Lila had signed Keanu up for a song without asking. Apparently, he looked like a "Shawn Mendes kinda guy."

"No," she said. "But that's what makes it fun."

Keanu didn't even know the lyrics. He didn't even know who Shawn Mendes was, if he was being honest. All he knew was the reverb from the mic was giving him an existential crisis.

Ben was drunk. Lila was tipsy. The bartender was playing hype man with a cowbell. And Keanu stood there, on stage, under a flickering LED sign that read "Sing or Suffer."

Off-key. Off-rhythm. Off-everything.

He gave it all he had. People clapped. Lila screamed in delight. Ben cried laughing. A stranger in the back shouted, "Put that man on The Voice!"

Keanu stepped off the stage, sweating. Someone handed him a gin and tonic. Lila kissed his cheek. Ben pulled him into a bear hug.

Keanu smiled. He actually felt kinda good.

Then the guy in the back—the one who yelled about The Voice—stumbled forward, clapped Keanu on the back too hard, and slurred, "You're my hero, man. That took guts."

Keanu looked at him. Just a guy. Loud. Drunk. Grinning too hard, something that felt more like a sneer.

"You know," the man said, "you kinda look like that actor. What's his name? Keanu something?"

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

Then he stabbed the man in the gut.

Ben and Lila were still laughing about something. Someone else took the mic. The bartender rang the cowbell.

He adjusted his jacket, took a deep breath, and muttered:

"Should've picked a different song."

In the end, it didn't even matter