narrative 1

it was about dusk. were we a group of friends? i’m not sure. what a terrible term it actually is, what with such a vast number of people in the universe that come under one category or none at all. there were many trees. you could see the sky peeking through the leaves of the very tall trees. there was moonlight, there were artificial lights, or we were all owls with eyesight to suit the darkness. i’m not sure.

and then, we were all sitting on the sand. there were attempts to make casual conversation. and then a question comes up. and another question comes up. and the question of why comes up. and it comes up again, and again. and then i wonder, why even minding one’s own business, is a cause of concern for the nosy man. i share this view with the company i am with, and, unsurprisingly, am greeted with “why” once again, and a sense of great disapproval.

i walk down the shores, kicking the sand, and walk towards the water. i stand there, with the water at my ankles… at my knees… at mid-thighs… i hear shouts. i hear my name. but it might not be my name. their call rhymes so much with what is commonly used to address me, that one cannot tell immediately who, or what is being addressed at that sound.

i decide to sit down, cross legged, in the water. the same water that is already rising to my waist if i am on my feet. and then i cannot hear anything except the sound that you usually hear when you are under water. it is a refreshing change. my hair is trying to run away from me, only held back by the roots in my scalp. i feel my body float, float, away. wait. i realise that i am looking at my body from a far. i am both here, and there. they are both me. they are us. i am that.

my eyes open – i do not recall them being closed – and i can see the figures in the distance, appearing to look for something – perhaps they are looking for me. i do not know how they do not spot me, as i get up, and walk towards the trees. the trees which hide most of the beautiful sky. the dark, cold, beautiful sky.

and then i see you. i have never liked you. and your bag. you hit me today, with your bag. your bag hit me. does it matter to me if you had done it on purpose or not? i believe it does not. to me, what i believe is what is important to me. there is no right, and there is no wrong. it is all about faith, and belief, in whatever, and whoever. choices.

i take that bag, and i fulfil the promise i made the minute you had hit me with it. i remember the flash of anger and the instant urge to reach out and claw out your throat. alas, the restrictions of a human hand.

and i realise that blood does come in different colors. after all, blood is thicker than water. i stare and the pale, watery substance, that looks just like plain water … definitely not blue blood, but fake watercolour red. i laugh. even your blood tells the story of your fake-dom. you cannot hide it, for that is what you are. what i have seen you. what everyone else has mistaken as gossip, laughter, and mockery.

the deed is done. the rest come back. they are frantic. they are worried. worried about the guilt of a dead one, perhaps. i am not sure. they have found me. they don’t notice the bag. they don’t notice a missing person. they look at me and shout, and scream. i remind them about their reason for worrying, their fear masqueraded as genuine concern. the tension is high. but yet, nobody notices the bag. nobody notices the cold and the lifeless. nobody.

it is just us, the beautiful sky, the cold water. i am shivering. and i wonder what the color of my blood is. it is wonderful to know that i was remembered over somebody else. it is wonderful to get revenge. it is wonderful to do what you want to with nobody noticing. it is even more wonderful if nobody says anything about what they notice. there are no smiles anymore.

were we a group of friends? i’m not sure.