Her

Every touch on me could put a sneer on that cursed face, the face that emits the seven sins with an ailing gleam, the face of Beelzebub! He knew that. Still he put his hands on me! Something must be terribly wrong!He was having a phone call, a long heart-wrenching conversation with a girl while biting his upper lip nervously, must be out of excessive distress.

It was the girl with whom he had fiddled around, the one who willed to live a lifetime with him whereas he only wanted a few jiffs. He was appealing but a boosted self indulgence was what offered along. He was drawn into his own self worth. Blinded by egomania , he forgot to look above his own reflection.

And then there was that poor girl!

She was like a sweet poetry. Her smile could wipe away all his griefs, her silly talks could brighten the night. She was amusing!

Still he could not be with her. All those charms but one was left! She was like a verselet, a song that grows within but all he wanted was a painting that soothes eyes.

It started off as a fling. The girl grew crazy. He was a dream came real, a mind-stimulant narcotic. His calming voice, hard-hearted attitude, clean-cut face, the girl started inhaling everything. The girl could not realise how sneakily the venom began to augment her reality.

She was quilling future but he was sipping moments.

For him It took time to comprehend why it was brighter around her, why the breeze was warm, the tune was melodic. He fell in love. He could not accept though, his drooling sense of own-self made him stuck in the middle. Too good and not enough, he was meddling in between but the one beating inside his chest was surely affirmed.

That forlorn girl, she weaved for 2 long years, gulping every hollowness he had, expunging all his despairs, giving tunes to all his melancholies. Still he was wallowed in his own world, centering around all ‘He’s. He was there like a riddle, a mystery which was better to be unresolved. At times he would take her all in, tearing all the threads of her vascillations, spellbinding her lips towards his then again a time would come when all of that would get vapoured, stranding her in a desert of blazing agony.

Finally she realised, she was not part of his story. He had a world so little but still she could never put herself in that. She was crestfallen but did not accuse him for all those lie- pleasing. She could not tell him anything, she just left, muffling her lements, praying the brightest sun for him.

He phoned her today. From her departure, it was the 27th day. The conversation was what brought him in the reality, made him turn around from his silly reflection. She was talking about how there had appeared another ‘he’, how that ‘he’ claimed her with all her broken pieces, how that ‘he’ promised of being beside her for the eternity.

Suddenly he came out of his mind-numbing illusion. This was when he could feel the sanctity of her soul, the worth of those sparkles in her glistening eyes, his fortune to ever been on the lips of an aphrodite.Finally heart and pride stood face to face. It was his heart who made him realise how imbecile the pride was. But she was already lost, in the maddening sparks of that new ‘He’.

He could not tell her anything, apart from blessing her towards her new endeavour.

All this time even I thought that his pride was prevailing his weak heart. But the time he took me in his hand, I knew I was wrong. He kept me in the lower drawer of his writing table, from the day on which he had bought me from that brown eyed drug-reliant homeless. In moments of desperation he sometimes took me out , played a bit then again caged me in. But this time it was nothing like those. I saw him putting a shiny piece of bullet in my magazine. Then he looked in the mirror. He gripped me with his left hand. I could feel the cold breeze coming from that wide window as he was holding me parallel to his head with that shivering hand. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he put his forefinger in my trigger. He closed his eyes and took a long breath. Then I felt a motion in the trigger.I told you, something was wrong.

He loved her.

Published in: The Mason Jar as ‘Mohema’

Image Courtesy: Pixabay