She wanted to read me. She always demanded me to write a story. She was intrigued by the elemental constituents of fables. 

“History is short-lived and delusionary. Fables are the essence of humanity, living to the eternity,” she would argue. She believed that everyone and everything has a story and all of them, without exception, fade into each other like rivers fade into oceans and oceans fade into land and land into deserts then into mountains and maybe again into river. She would cite breathtaking instances of the complex cobwebs, that, just two stories could form.

“Everything effects everything…if a butterfly flaps its wings at just the right time and just the right place, it can cause a hurricane a thousands of miles away, weeks later,” she often produced the metaphorical chaos theory butterfly to strengthen her case, and no doubt the butterfly had taken her imagination far.

She was as good with stories, lies, dares, diplomatic nods, as she was with reading people. She was a parchment, with smell and weathering of time, with a story on it that was fading from her face but heart kept it veiled from the overt weathering. But she was mysterious! The parchment was burning and every eye gazing to catch a word from it eventually burned. It was ironic that she wore reading frames because she always read better with her eyes closed. 

I wore glasses too. I wonder how both of never explored each other’s eyes thanks to the two glass walls mounted on our noses like a man’s ego over his head. Is there a point reading and repenting the bygones?

 She was less of a speaker. All the sounds she often produced were squeaks, a sigh or any other sound that has no name in the English Dictionary. She was onomatopoeic. Her replies started with an onomatopoeic sound followed by mocking on the sound and then putting forth the ideas from her mind that hardly emancipated itself from the fantasyland. 

“Wow! This is heaven!”  She was very excited when I once guided her to a room that resembled Dumbledore’s office, only better. She was jumping a little on the carpet covered in dust. All of the books and antiquities seemed to tickle her desires to have them.  In the three minutes that we spent there, she almost imagined every minute detail that resembled Dumbledore’s. Paleontology, astrology, astronomy, Astrophysics, botany, mathematics, various chemistries and other section that made up the first floor meant sections like herbology, advanced wizardry, quiddich etc to her. She had a library in her house. 

I clearly remember the last time I saw her. Things had taken such a turn that I expected that to be our last, but probably she hadn’t. She, I suppose, wanted our story to end at the same place where it made its inception. She had made a wish to be buried on the day the heaven was crying. She is granted! It is raining! I am at liberty to cry for my loss, the rain would cover my ‘man’s ego’, but I don’t want to. All I want is to let the rain drain over me and soak my soul that is hurt but contended for the gloomy, yet satisfying ending that we have reached.

“Break the monotony!” Her guiding principle. “Live fast, die soon, before you are somebody’s or somebody is your liability!” I always disagreed to her at this statement. I argued, ‘Liabilities walk behind people, try holding someone’s hand and walk together, just a few steps.” She would smile and never refute.

Her ideologies for life sometimes hurt my heart that was so in love with her. I never told her, lest I might lose her, given, she was a different one, like a sketch by an average child in endeavors to excel. The strokes on her life were haphazardly intermitted but as a whole, the sketch surely was a masterpiece.

She was graceful to everyone and in love with none, never! It did pain when I saw this standing in my shoes, but if I were to observe us as a third person, say, perched on the sky, yes she cared for me the most in the world and her principles clearly seemed to be on knees. She did reciprocate my sentiments, silently, when the world and I were sleeping together tired by the puzzling jigsaw of life with missing pieces! She did!

She was sad sometimes, when she was alone. I wondered if it was me who she was missing, but clearly I was giving myself a bit of extra importance. She was sad when I wasn’t looking at her. She would sleep on the floor of her library most of the nights. “I want to smell like the old books.” “I want my smell to speak my age.” She said. Other nights, when I was at her place, she would gently slide herself under my blanket after I was asleep, or at least she thought I was. She would leave before I woke up and lie back on her library floor. She clearly needed love and attention but something stopped her from demanding it. I wanted more of her but was scared to lose even the wee bit of what I had. I kept mute!

She played violin. “Why violin?” I was always inquisitive. She never told. She happened to choose the questions she would answer and oversee others. Some nights, lit well by the moon, she would sit on the terrace and play the sad instrument for hours and hours and I would sit on the rails watching her moonlit face behind the veils of her open straight hair, like looking at moon light filter through the leaves of an old tree.
The times we made love were the moments of extreme ecstasy for her, apparently. She would be pleased and all warm, lost in my arms, humming some lost melodies. She was beautiful. Her thighs had some healed cut wounds. “Yes, I paint too!” She had told me, all smiles. She made superficial cuts on her body, like the thighs when the gloom and pangs in her heart became unbearable. Blood was her drug! It relieved her of all the pains. The miserable thighs bore the allegories of the unbearable agony, from the unknown source that she had. She smiled when I kissed them. “Your lips kiss my pain away.”

She was different. She, perhaps, needed a doctor. I thought at times that she had bipolar disorder. But I liked her the way she was; aloof from society, with all her desires naked. Perhaps she was just different. Perhaps all of us need a doctor.  She was waiting to kill herself before her diseases did. She wanted the books of her library to have the only things they were missing, blood stains; old dry bloodstains. 

She would say some super serious things like these and then laugh them off. I was confused until this morning when I went to her place and I found her dead, with violin in one hand. The wrists were slit and the blood drained into a pile of books heaped close to her. The room was decorated with Christmas lights and a lot of eatables that she had probably cooked herself. She was all bloody in her favorite wedding gown.
Thanks for reading,  go ahead suggest a title for this story! 

Prashant

justwriteprashant.09@gmail.com 

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Is it the “White Powder”?

He fell down with a crash. He is my fried and if he falls, with a plate full of eatables, smearing
himself all over, what am I supposed to do? What do they expect a friend, like me, to do? Well I’m
expected to laugh, laugh till my stomach starts to pain like heel. Laugh in such an uncivilized way that
the party looks at me in disgust, treating me a man from Paleolithic age.
Why am I silent then? Why am I so indifferent? Why am I so grave and intense in my expressions?
Why am I not affected by the party’s music, why is the food not appealing me? What in me is bringing
this cataclysm of anguish? Why are my lips numb? Why aren’t they yelling like my heart is?
What is the deafening noise inside me all about? Is it the flinch, the sleeplessness, the drink? Is
sleep taking over me? Why can’t I sleep then? Why can’t I feel rest even when I didn’t sleep for two
days? Oh why am I feeling like death? Is my doom approaching?
Everything around me is so scary and awful. Will I feel pain if I stab my heart thousand times? Will
I bleed if I slit my veins? Will I die craving of powder?
Why am I drowning in the swamp of reverberations? Why are the echoes shrill enough to rip open
my bosom? Why am I feeling so much pain? I need the powder