Sellophane

At times I feel so utterly helpless. No, not helpless. Never helpless.

Ugh, Linkin Park. Late night, tunes that seem drenched in Nicotine. Beats that I am sure were thought off in some dark room. Not unlike my own. The light of a lonely computer falling onto someone, wet hair falling across his face. Half covering his head. Eyes blurred with the effort of fighting back sleep, eyes clinched so tight that tears come out at times. Paekhana, it means shit. How would someone know that it doesn’t? I could lie?

It’s all so strangely relatives. At times I just want to compress my thoughts, especially the ones that want me to chose to manipulate, and then put it in a pill and then just throw it into some caustic concoction. Maybe I would watch the fumes come out? Maybe they would be different colors?

One like rum in winters, one like the blood leaking out of a corpse’s mouth. Or maybe the color of someone’s hair. How would it make a difference though. They would be fumes?

Proof of annihilation? Unimportant?

What do you do when you want someone this much?

Could you kill for her?

Yes

Could you in a fit frenzied frustration rip a dagger out of your robes and kill someone?

Probably

Wouldn’t it matter if the other one gets hurt?

In those seconds of blinded rage, unfettered anger? No. I feel free, or is it the complete opposite? Which one is it?

Don’t you seek violence Kaya asked me once?

And my answer was- Of course? Why shouldn’t I?

Why not?

I deserve the pain; I deserve to inflict the pain. The more the better.

What’s the deal with a fair fight anyway? Blood invisible, non existent thing?

Saala Chutiya! It’s such crap. A fight that is fought fair is not a fight. It’s just a random pre-arranged pseudo sparring session.

Why do you want to fight?

And if the answer is because I want to inflict pain, then does it really matter whether it’s fair or not?
Does it?

I keep asking myself?

All I know is if someone’s coming to hurt me or hurt her? I shall not fight fair, fair isn’t even the question. Don’t get me wrong, she can take care of herself. Better than me in fact, but I will. I shall rip, I shall tear, I shall lacerate, I shall wound, I shall hurt. I will. Fuck the shalls, all of them I will.

Linkin Park stops droning, what track is this any way. Instrumental Remixes? Sound like trance or house I like.

Change of Music, random Christina Aguilera song.

I need to stop objectifying people. They matter, who am I to think of them as incapable of thought, action or whatever it is?

Who am I? What’s so great about me any way? Fine, I could fib through your teeth and get off work early or get attendance, or even get so and so to fall in love with me, put out and blah. Does all this matter, fine you think you can write? What’s there to be so cocky about? You hardly know what’s going on in your own head? How the hell do you expect to write? Fine people love you?
But really think about it?

Do you deserve it.

I know you won’t answer that question.

Ugh, you know you won’t.

Stop talking in third person you fucker, Kaya whispers.

Me, all me.
Always me.

Too scared to let someone else precede that.

Ever.

Bang Bang.

It’s over.

One gun shot.

One bullet.

One small hole, preferably in the skull, bang in the centre.

A round red hole? Like a bindi or a setting sun.

Blood leaking out, slowly like honey dripping off the edge of the round dabur jar? Or will spew out in lazy spurts?

And of course, the smile.

The creepy smile. The one with horny eyes, and my tongue flickering over my lips.

Except that it’s different now, the eyes lay glassy and glazed. Dead is the word. The smile is frigid in it’s intensity. And warm blood is leaking out of my mouth. Coming out of the space between my teeth.

Slowly, slowly.
Drip drip. Bang bang.

It’s over.

The car has stopped.