A succinct eulogy delivered.
Everything desired said.
‘Riya is dead’.
Pain was normal.
She romanticised both,
and hung in the middle, of nowhere.
As alcohol flowed down my throat,
the pretense came crashing down,
I felt vulnerable and broken
to the core.
Do you see? He pointed ahead.
I aimed the knife
at the mirror behind him.
Not anymore, I cried.
Nothing definite was said when they walked down the road together. Along side each other. Unaware of irrelevant or relevant details about the other’s thoughts. Not a word was exchanged as their eyes locked and they danced in silence to a moonless night. No one spoke as her starry sky turned dark for him. Jolted by the moment, he waltzed away on his own. Yet, again without a word. She looked inattentively at the empty space. The skies cleared up; she pirouetted in her spot under a starry, starry night.
Man: Where do I begin?
Judge: Why don’t you begin when you bought the gun?
Man: The story began 10 years before I illegally purchased that weapon.
Judge: For what?
Man: To protect me from the mad men.
Judge: Where are these mad men?
Man: Somewhere in my neighbourhood.
Judge: Have they attacked you?
Man: They keep banging on the doors.
Judge: Didn’t you report it to the police?
Man: I did. They didn’t believe me.
Man: They said the men, the doors and the banging was happening inside my head.
Judge: But you didn’t agree?
Man: No. There was a real threat. The gun was for my protection.
Judge: Did the real man you shot threaten you?
Man: No. But he banged on my door.
Two disconnected trains of thought. Two disconnected stories.