For All the Wrong Reasons

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It is this: Holden Caulfield living my life in metaphor. Or I his. Who’s to say which is what? Holden images his life just like I do. I, too, have fallen so much that I don’t want to think about getting up anymore. I just want to be the Catcher in the Rye. Whatever the fuck does that mean.

It is this: Mumford and sons playing Thistle and Weeds on the loop in my mind.

It is this: My father screaming after Ri as she storms past the living room. As I get down with Abhay into the living room, my mother is horrified at the sight of us. I tell them how they got in and my father is furious and decides to remove the stairs from my window.

It is this: My father getting another notification and his face descends into horror as he looks up. Breaking news to him – I didn’t pay the electricity bill. Breaking new to him – I am not a good son. Breaking news to me – I don’t know how the fuck would I ever face Ri.

It is this: I can’t take it anymore. I learned something this morning. Embarrassment and shame are more hurting than any physical wounds. Physical wounds make you survivor. Shame makes you want to quit it.
I have no idea how to even turn around and face Abhay standing there. Why the fuck did I need to write something like that? What would I answer him if he asks the same? I’m not answerable to him. I’m in this mess because of him.
And above all this, I don’t want to be a fucking good son. I don’t want my dad to teach me responsibility every time I open my eyes.
I turn to Abhay, “Just leave, please.”
He stares at me, red-faced. I refuse to submit to his glare. He races up to my room, comes down with his jacket and leaves.

It is this: I have survived the day and now I am about embark on a new journey.  I sit on the terrace, smoking half leftover joint form last night. My father isn’t talking to me. My mother scowled at me the whole day. The ever-ready backpack sits beside me. I realise that the events of today are only the catalyst to my already planned escape. They just acted like the tipping point; they haven’t driven me to it.

Now it is this: A car pulling over the curb, waiting; me sliding downstairs with my backpack, unnoticed; me throwing the bag in the back seat and getting into the passenger seat; me not looking anywhere but straight on the road.

Abhay says, “Are you sure?”

I nod.

He kicks the accelerator and over the curb, on the road in a second. I feel quite guilty calling him and asking for help but that was the only way to leave at this hour. Ri is going to be angry with me the whole life. I couldn’t ask her for this. She would never agree to this in the first place. I am astounded at the fact that Abhay did agree.

He just said that he understands.

But I doubt. Nobody can understand this. I doubt that even I do.

When he pulls in the parking of the train station, he says, “I am sorry, you know.”

I look over at him, and after a pause I say, “It’s my fault man. I shouldn’t have written it down and left it just lying around.”

“No, I’m sorry for putting you through this mess in the first place,” he hesitates. “If I hadn’t...you know, that day at the club, it wouldn’t have messed up with your head.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. To be honest, I don’t want to think about it. It really does mess with my head. It took Ri away from me. And the worst thing is I can’t blame her or Abhay or anyone for that.

I sit in his car, paralysed momentarily. He plays drum with his thumb on the steering. I want to get out but I just don’t know what after that.

“I’ll miss you, you know,” he says and I turn to look at him. He leans in and kisses me. I kiss back. Four seconds. And I am out of his car, kicking the door shut with my leg.