As I sit in this closed room, near me, is a small table, on which a half-filled water jug is kept, just near a flower vase, which is a home for some glorious violet lilies. I hate lilies. From the window, clearly visible, is afire the golden sun, shining with some curious, obscure self-pride. There've been multiple knockings at my door in the last half hour. They say it's time. But, somewhere, somewhere deep within me, some part of me can't believe so; it doesn't want to believe so. My head has been aching for quite a while now. I think it's been more than a day. There is a constant, periodic ticking sound of the clock in my room that seems to make it all worse. It is piercing my soul like a deep, sharp needle. I've been squeezing my head with all the force my hands have, and yet, the pain is consistent, and I can't help but assume that it's just a matter of minutes my brain will rip my skull apart, and burst out. I don't know how long I will be in my room alone, with pain, accompanied by these many, some now menacing photographs that hang on the wall in front of me.
Out of the extreme hollowness that has filled the room since the moment I entered, a hand appears from behind, reaching out to me, with a little tablet resting upon it. I turn a little around to see her, standing tall, with her favourite tattoo shining like a star, in the light of the sun that seems to fall only to light her up. For, I still feel that I'm in the dark.
"Here," she speaks.
"You know the others," I say, while picking up the medicine, "at least knocked."
"Oh, really?" she asks in her typical sarcastic tone. "Your life is so private to me."
"Shut up!" I put the drug in my mouth, and turn around to pick up the water jug, which isn't where I thought it was.
"Here!" she says, holding the jug. I snatch it from her, and take a big gulp.
"Were you really waiting for me to hand the pill to you?"
"I wasn't waiting for anybody."
"Why hadn't you taken it, then?"
"Because...it...isn't good for health," I make up an answer.
"Oh, come on! So much drama!"
"Aah! Yes. You are the one to say."
"Come on!" she chuckles "Chill, bro."
She says it so often, and I hate it when she does. Actually, there are a lot of things that I hate about her. If I were to get a grain of sand every time I got annoyed by something she did, I'd be the owner of at least a couple of palaces.
"It's easy for you to say." I wish I didn't just say this. This is exactly what happens when I get annoyed; I say something and I regret about saying it. I actually don't know how we've managed to stay together for so long. I bet most of the people out there would have turned to murderers, if they were us. But somehow, if my worst fear was to be portrayed visually, it would be us saying goodbye to each other. How is it that some little happy moments are enough to overpower all the other negative things that happen on a journey, and that too, so effectively, that sometimes, you don't even want the destination to ever arrive?
She says nothing for a few seconds, looking down at the ground via the window, with her defeated face, some wayward emotions dripping from the shine in her eyes, and then, "Sorry." Her sorry has always been the heat to the metal of my heart. Heart sure is the most weird thing god ever engineered.
I close my eyes, cover my face with both my hands, and take a really, really deep sigh. She waits for a minute in silence, and then say, "So did she, Neha, like the gift?" in a slow, soft, almost childish manner. I can't help but chuckle.
While still softly laughing, I say, "Is this the time? Is this what you care about right now?"
"I—" she says, in an unruffled voice, "—care about you."
Even if there was some bitterness left on my face after her sorry, it sure isn't there now. It's almost as if she knows the science of acupuncture with souls rather than the body. Calmly, and weirdly, but smiling, I reply, "She loved it, the gift."
"Really?" I see a gleam run all over her face. "I told you! Good for you to take me with you on your first date. What would happen to you if I didn't co—" she halted. Did she really just say—? I can feel both the smiles in the room vanish in thin air. She licks her lips with hesitation. I start looking at the floor again. Maybe the rage in me didn't die after the charming hugs of her words, but was just put to sleep, because I can feel it again. Does she even think before she speaks?
What follow are seconds of acute silence, layered under the ever ticking sound of clock.
"Well," she clears her throat, "someone found the one he liked," and chuckles dubiously. This is it!
I stand up with force, red, "You could've too!" I shout, "You just went after the wrong person."
"Uhh—I know it now. I just didn't k—"
"I did! Way back! And I told you!"
"I know you did but I thought you were just being paranoid again!"
"You know all this is happening because of you, right! You broke," I feel my voice crack as I say, "everything!"
"I didn't do it int—"
"Please, for god's sake, just shut up!" I know if I go on, I may say something that I will regret about later...
... And yet I go on, "Just for once you could've listened to me!"
"When did I not?" she asks, her voice trembling.
"When did you?" I can feel my cheeks wet with tears.
"I told you to not get this stupid tattoo on your forehead. But you did."
"What?"
"I told you not to go after that guy. You did."
"I know, but—"
"I told you to not come with me that night to the club! But you still came."
"To help you."
"I told you to not leave without me—"
"But—"
"—I told you that you were drunk, that you shouldn't drive. I was just going to drop you but you just never listen!" I shout, my eyes burning with pain and anger, and my veins fighting themselves to not blow up. Breathing heavily, I notice the agony on her face. I don't think I should have shouted.
"I thought it was best to leave you two alone." she says, regretfully. "I'm sorry."
My eyes hold more tears than the blood my body holds. My lips quiver as my face twitches and crying, I go near her, and hug her. I sob, and she cries too. I think it was not rage in me that made me say what I said, but my longing to hug her. I had been praying to feel her embrace for one last time. It wasn't anger, but an intense unexpressed love, that had burdened my heart up until now.
"At least you could've..." I struggle to say, "...it's just that..." I cry, and cry, "I love you. I–"
"I love you too! I love you so much!" she blubbers too.
"–love you!"
Knock, knock! Someone calls my name from outside the door. We wipe our tears off.
"It's time," she says.
"I know," I whisper. "I'll miss you."
"Chill, bro," she smiles, and I smile too.
Knock, Knock! I go to the door, and open it. A man in full white appears.
"Hey," says he, timidly, "h-how's the headache?"
"It's," I sigh, "okay now. I took a pill."
"Everybody is waiting for you down there."
"Oh, yeah, I know. I'm sorry. Let's go."
And as I leave, I turn around, and take a final look at her, standing with a beautiful smile, near the photographs that hang on the wall, photographs of a girl with a tattoo of a lily on her forehead and light brown eyes, with one of the photographs having a wreath around its frame. From the window, clearly visible, is a blood red sun, kissing the horizon. The periodic sound of the ticking clock goes on and on.
