Heal the Heart

8.

The music was too loud, the crowds were too pushy, the drinks were too dry, the lights were too gaudy, and I was too uninterested. Clubs were not my scene. But the more I reinstated that simple fact, the more everyone around me tried to invalidate it. Krishna and Deep turned a deaf ear to all my protests, and had no problem dragging me to a den I desperately did not want to spend any time in. We cut the line, Krishna slipped the bouncer a little something worth his while, we entered the jam-packed disco, went straight for the bar, ordered three shots each, downed the extremely watered down vodka, Deep found his friends from the debating club and conveniently ditched me and Krishna, while Krishna met a few of his buds from class, leaving me alone at a bar to nurse a beer and irritation.

I watched people throw their heads back and swing their hips to the beat. Watched how they left all their care out in the real world to get lost in the sea of bodies. I turned around to call for the bartender. My eyes drifted to the opposite end of the counter, willing for a pair of blue eyes, auburn hair, and kind smile to beam at me. In place, I found a group of boisterous freshmen trying Jägerbombs for the first time.

Instead of ordering another beer and spending the rest of my night lamenting at my poor choice in friends, I keyed in my PIN and closed my tab. I shot a text to Krishna and Deep saying I found someone and we were taking it back to his place. They didn't reply in the time I took to push my way to the exit.

The cool, damp air outside was a welcome freshness on my sweaty face. I hadn't gotten to any purposeful physical activity, yet my shirt stuck to my back with sweat acting as glue. I wished I could stay mad at Krishna and Deep for roping me in and then leaving me to my devices, but they had social lives that didn't quite include me at times. Being part of different circles seemed like an exhausting and pointless chore to me. I always distanced myself from the rest of the world. It was easier to have an artist's eye from the outside rather than the inside, where human emotions polluted the very essence of beauty.

I liked my own company. I chose to observe rather than take part. Till now, it did me good. My eye for detail was what set me apart as a player on the field. These days, though, all it ever led to was more pain and longing. I no longer had an artist's view. Sometimes, I felt like I no longer had a view of anything in front of me.

Maybe Deep and Krishna were right. Maybe Arya was too.

Fuck it out of your system and return the next day with no excuses.

I reached for my wallet. The crumpled paper was tucked into one corner, along with other nonsensical bills. Perhaps that vodka wasn't as watered down as I'd thought. Next thing I knew, I was dialling Cole's number.

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Your brain works in the background, without permission, without your command. It just sits there in all its white matter juice, throwing around solutions and problems in equal quantities. I used to let my what-if situations simmer in those juices for aeons, hoping that one day some sort of acid would dissolve those thoughts and I'd be free to pursue my life with no setbacks.

Idiot.

Those situations came at me full force along with blaring sirens right after I'd had the most violent orgasm that left my entire body racked with shivers and my heart racing to an extent, I thought I'd never be able to calm it down.

I scrambled to snatch my jeans and boxers from the floor. Needles poked my skin, weaselling inside to slash my veins and arteries. Every inch of me tingled as though bugs had made a home right inside my body. The tremors in my hands didn't allow me to button my shirt or zip my jeans or tie my shoelaces.