James’ sister in law has been an early adopter of the vape pen. One day, a sinister idea crossed his mind after seeing some videos of zombified vapers online. He wonders what will happen, if he replaces the pods in his sister in law’s vape pen. Will she become more…accessible?
- This is work of fiction, please do not attempt any of the stunts in this story. If you cannot differentiate between fantasy and reality, you should not be on this site.
My sister-in-law Celeste was an early adopter of the vape pen. While the rest of us were still fumbling with lighters and old-school Marlboros, she was already puffing on her sleek, rose gold device, lips pursed like she was filming a perfume ad. Every time I stepped onto the balcony for a cigarette, she’d wrinkle her nose like I just stepped out of the estate’s bin centre.
Celeste had the kind of beauty that turned heads and silenced rooms. Not the ‘Ah lian’ kind of chio, not the kind with over the top tattooed eyebrow, fake eyelashes with a centimeter of powder on the face.
She didn’t need layers of makeup or hours in front of the mirror , just a touch of blush, a sweep of mascara, maybe a bit of gloss, and she was out the door looking like she belonged on the cover of a lifestyle magazine. The kind of face that looked expensive even without trying.
And then there was her figure, effortlessly toned, perfectly proportioned. She wasn’t the type to hit the gym or go on some fucking keto diet. Celeste ate what she wanted, never counted calories, and still walked around in dresses that fit her like they were tailored just for her.
She’d claim it was “superior genes,” but it always felt like the universe had handed her a cheat code most girls didn’t get. Not even my wife Qiuting.
She looks classy, beautiful, and hot, i give it to her but her personality however, that is another story altogether.
Just picture this scene, Celeste sitting with her legs crossed on a rattan chair by the balcony facing a waterway, puffing out vapor in a classy manner, while i squat on the other end of the balcony like your typical Ah beng as i light up my marlboro.
Celeste : that smells like burning tyres James…it’s time you change to this…
I smiled and said nothing.
I’d pretend not to hear her. Or I’d laugh it off. No point arguing. Celeste always had something to say. Always with that smug voice and condescending smirk, like she was doing me a favour just by sharing the same oxygen.
She worked in some bank in Raffles Place, project management or digital transformation or some other fucking skills future white-collar nonsense I never bothered to understand.
Every evening, she’d come home clicking her heels, carrying some expensive tote bag, smelling like roses and ambition. I, on the other hand, came home drenched in sweat and the stink of petrol , the classic eau de ‘gas tank delivery uncle’ scent.
Yes i deliver fucking gas tanks for a living.
I drive a lorry, usually around the west side of Singapore, bringing tanks of gas to housing estates and old coffee shops.
In Celeste’ eyes, I was the mascot for wasted potential, a guy with a diploma who never made it past the starting line.
Someone who cannot even get an interview for an office job.
You know the kind of comments Celeste makes over dinner? The so call casual comments?
Celeste : So you still hauling bombs around ah? how many you deliver today? Will the truck one day blow up at the carpark or not?
This is the kind of shit she says while replying emails with her manicured nails on her foldable phone.
Matt, my brother-in-law and her husband, had started vaping too, obviously influenced by Celeste. We use to smoke together, but no more. He was the type who followed trends like a leaf in the wind. If Celeste told him to start drinking celery juice without straws, drive an EV and wearing lululemon pants, he’d probably thank her for enlightening him.
My wife, Qiuting, did her best to hold the peace.
Qiuting : can you stop this shit, why do you need to judge people everytime you open your mouth?
Celeste : I’m just being honest.
We all lived together in a five-room HDB flat in Sengkang while waiting for our BTOs. Correction, Bto for me, and EC for Celeste and Matt. Bto not high class enough for them.
It was a full house , me and Qiuting in one room, Matt and Celeste in the other, and the in-laws occupying the master. The flat was clean but cramped, the walls thin enough that you could hear the shower running or the kettle whistling or Celeste sighing about something she found beneath her.
Every night, after a long day, I’d squat on the balcony floor in my shorts, puffing on a cigarette under the ceiling fan. No matter how well trained my body was from all that carrying, my muscles still ached. I know, smoking and delivering gas tanks don’t go well together but here’s the thing. i don’t smoke while i’m on the job. I’m trying to quit and that one stick at the end of the day was my reward for a day of honest work.
It was my only real moment of peace. But even that, Celeste couldn’t leave alone.
Celeste : second-hand smoke kills more people than actual smoking you know…you helping Singapore’s population the wrong way James…population control through passive smoking…haha..
She snort and rolled her eyes while i just kept quiet.
I gave her a look, but she just walked off, vape in her mouth, head held high like she just won some imaginary war.
That was the thing about Celeste. She always had to win. Always had to be smarter, cleaner, classier. She was addicted to the feeling of superiority, more than the nicotine she vaped, more than the Chanel perfume she wore.
She didn’t see me as a brother-in-law. I was a stain on her curated lifestyle.
But even stains have their way of sticking.
The thing is, I’d taken it all for too long. The insults. The judgment. The way she looked down on me like I was the cockroach she couldn’t quite kill.
And maybe, on some level, I let her. Maybe I thought being the bigger person meant being the quieter one.
But here’s the thing.
There is only so much shit one can take from another individual before you hit your limit.
And i hit mine that evening.
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