BROKEN THINGS

Prologue

Rahul stared at his switchblade. His most beloved and beloathed posession. It gave him pain but it took away his pain too. He needed it as much as he needed to breath. And he despised it as much as he despised to breath.

He breathed in and out, very quickly, as if he couldn't get enough air in himself. If they lost today, he was pretty sure he would be to blame. More reasons for them to hate him.

He stared into the mirror, still breathing quickly. A depressing pathetic face stared back. He hated that face so much. Sometimes, he wished he could cut it up too. Slice it until it wasn't recognizable. But unfortunately that face was far too important to the country, today after all was the do or die match of the World Cup. And he was the captain. And as terrible as he was, people who once used to love him weren't. Despite all he had done, they would be horrified should they find what he does to himself.

Or perhaps they wouldn't, he mumbled to himself. Maybe they wouldn't care. And that thought hurt him much more than his precious blade ever would. That was his cue.

He raised his blade and carefully cut, a very straight thin line on his right shoulder.

It was like magic. The sharpness of the pain causing him to take a gasping breath, jerking him back to life. He watched amazed as small trickles of blood oozed out of the thin cut, slowing his mind down. It would have been better if the cut was slightly thicker. But he couldn't risk an injury on such a day.

The relief of his mind shutting up finally nearly had him collapsing but he caught himself. With relief he sunk into the comfort of the sting on his arm, watching the blood slowly drip onto his arm.

Sharp knocking on his door finally made him stop.

"Coming!" he yelled.

He picked up dettol and cleaned his blade first. Then he cleaned his cut and wiped away the blood before wrapping a bandage on it. Then just to be extra careful, he wore a muscle band on it. Finally he put his jersey on, the sleeves covering the band too and opened the door.

It was his once brother. Sourav.

"The bus is leaving," his brother's cold tone stung very hard. But Rahul pressed the place of his cut, letting it ground him.

He nodded, not meeting the other's eyes and turned to grab his kit bag. He locked the door behind him.

"What is that?" Sourav's unexpected question startled him. He was staring at Rahul's hands where something metallic was peaking out.

Rahul quickly stuffed it in his pocket, "It's nothing," he muttered and quickly walked away.

Sourav was going to frown but he stopped. Why should he care about whatever that man was hiding now? His brother, as far as he was concerned, had died the day he had signed those papers. Why should he care about some stranger in his brother's clothes. He picked his kit bag up and followed. He did not care at all.

Still the little doubt lingered... what use was a metal in a cricket match?