The entire street asleep, as yellow patchy lights interrupted the stretches of darkness in the pavilion outside. The leaves rustled against the stony pavilion, quivering the silence as it etched its way along the lawn. The ferocity of the thunder was unmatched. It roared with rage, leaving just a speck for its forked blue veined brother as it illuminated the room he slept in.
The oncologist lay there, with an arm raised beside his ear and the other suspended in midair. He began to mumble sermon like sounds, as his lower body fidgeted underneath the covers. It was happening again.
The dream was that as it always had been, he saw himself running through a field of red orchids. He would stand in the centre, gasping for his breath looking around at the monotone red filling the land, the way blood filled a capillary. And in that field, he would see three orchids much different than the others, for they never stood still nor swayed with the gentle wind. Instead, they whispered.
He woke up, sweat glittering his skin and his eyes, now blood red.
He heard the sound of paper strike against his wooden floor, like fire crackling in a stove. He closed his eyes, wrapping himself underneath his covers trying to fall asleep. His attempts were in vain. They always were. The sound grew louder, echoing into the haunted nightfall. The time was three hours after midnight, and that was when they arrived.
'Save me' were the words written on the thousands of notes that lay next to the foot of his bed. He sighed, kicking them underneath. He rubbed his eyes, as he slowly turned over to see the ceiling.
Two owl sized eyes stared back at him. It was that of a lady, crouching over his stomach with infected lacerations embedded into her weak skin.
Do you hear that? She's rehearsing, come see
Her tongue, severed as her voice croaked rougher with the passing of every word. She handed out her bony hand, barely covered by the skin as her engorged blue veins shone beneath them. She led the sleep deprived man out of his room, her walk agonizingly slow. One hand on Ayaan, the other dug deep into the handle of a long body bag that she dragged around with her.
'Where's the furniture?' he asked drowsily
We had it all move out so she could rehearse
He looked aside, at this broken television, heaps of furniture and the painting of a red orchid laid up against the wall.
There she stood in the centre of the room, a little girl with a long yellow frock immersing itself into the floor around her feet, her dark hair extending up till her chest as she wore a pink crown, tilted yet seated upon her head. The lady beside Ayaan pointed her finger towards the princess.
Look Ayaan, look how well my daughter is performing
Ayaan, his eyes first settling on the way the princess walked in small circles around where she stood. He fought to free his hand, then paced towards her, his eyes now fixated on the crown above her head. He crossed the carnage that rested against the wall, strengthening his stride. The closer he approached, the faster she walked in circles. Her footsteps against the marbled floor, the way a hammer would strike the skin. He was now but one step away from her, her movement was rapid, like a graceless dance.
'I told you to leave me alone.' he murmured
The walking stopped, her feet no longer slithered against the floor, her dancing knees froze, standing in one place as a sudden flash of lightning lit up the entire house. The princess, with icy skin as her pale eyes shone beneath the black of her hair.
YOU ARE READING
The Madrasi and her Madman
Random'It makes you wonder doesn't it? Who was the sick one? The murderer with the voices, or the lady he killed for.'
