Till The Count Of Five ✓

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Life is the problem, not alcohol. Life is a drug dealer that follows you even after death. What is life? Problem in disguise.

Vee

23rd April 2019, Tuesday
17:00

Alcohol was never a problem, life was.

Life was this big factory that manufactured various types of problems, filled them in bottles and sold them to us - just like alcohol. When we did not buy readily, they were shoved down our throats. And life grinned at us like that diplomatic salesperson who gave us a deal in the form of a gift coupon and three seconds later, barged into our euphoric thoughts demanding money. We could fight the salesperson, maybe even win but we could not do that in life.

No, alcohol was not a problem. Liar.

I counted the spins of the fan and sipped out of my mug. It was coffee and not alcohol. People would be surprised. I drank. It wasn't like I was this dark kid who didn't talk and students labeled him as someone weird. It was Dandelion Presidency. How could you go there and not talk? It was school to some good people. I gave a lopsided smile to my coffee.

Good people. As good as one can be. As good as Ashiamma looked in the beautiful white frock. She would spin and ask me how she looked. "Or should I paint it?" She never waited for my answer. Every night, it was the same. I would look at her frock and she'd show me its colour. White.

People had the nerve to talk about my drunkenness. They didn't have to see their friend every night when they shut their eyes. They didn't talk to police officers or had another friend whose father declared your first friend dead. The only thing they had common with me was our routine. Going school, coming home, going school, coming home. It kept on going with mild changes in little irrelevant things. In my case, sometimes I ate at home, sometimes I did not. The latter happened on days when my father had a sudden jolt of realization that his son was not capable of being the man he wanted me to be. On those painfully slow days, he would creep up to my room, shout profanities and leave. On those days, I would eat outside my house. That stopped after Ashiamma died. I could hear her say, "Thank me for this." Yeah, thank her for dying and replacing Papa's anger and disappointment with pity.

As I played with my cup, I thought of Roy and his unexpected visit. I had been late and there he had been standing outside the premises wearing casuals.

My best opportunity at avoiding him had come in the form of ducking behind the parked cars and camouflaging among the other late comers. That never happened, not with everyone gasping and leaving my sides, unconsciously letting Roy waltz in their swarm.

His cheerful personality clashed with his question about my whereabouts on Ashiamma's birthday. He had grinned at my scowled expression when I had flat out told him I would not do any talking. I didn't want to, I didn't even have anything to talk about. As far as I was concerned, drunkards slurred their way through everything, truth included apparently.

Roy had wanted my take on her. I had said she was a good person. He had clarified that he wanted my take on her death. I had flipped him the bird. Yes, I had done it on his face while the gatekeeper had raised his eyebrows at me and my driver had called my father who in turn called Roy to apologize.

My take on Ashiamma's death? She was dead. Get over it. For someone who was dear to me, everyone was surprised I didn't want the police to find her killer. They misinterpreted me. My hands clenched around the mug. I placed it on the floor and rolled over to the centre of the bed. Sprawling helped to keep tension at bay.