Security was called
at the local mall
to remove a man
for disturbing peace.
He was crying openly
while holding a doll,
which said,
“I love you, Mommy.”
Tag: Fiction
The Bracelet: Part 2
Author’s note: This is second installment of the title story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories. I would recommend reading Part 1 once again to gather the momentum of memories that led you to this point. You can find it here: The Bracelet: Part 1.
He is here. But why has he brought so many others along? Has his family arrived for our marriage as he had promised? But their faces are not friendly. In fact, they are downright angry. Why are they carrying pitch forks?
My familiars rush to meet him at the door, but he scowls and pushes them back inside. He motions at me to come out with him. I comply.
As I step out, someone grabs my hands from behind and I cry in pain. My love…he speaks something that I can’t understand. It is English, but so different from the way he usually talks. He asks me about the father of our unborn child. Flustered at the implication, my voice shaking, I shout, “It’s you!”
“And that,” he says, “is my confession.”
I can’t understand where this is going. He had come to me two weeks back, and I told him about the baby. He was surprised, but he had never questioned the father of the baby. That day, I had reminded him of his promise to marry me as soon as his family comes, and he had agreed.
Now, he holds a book and quotes questions from it. He asks about witchcraft…I tell him he already knows I’m a healer. I had treated him when he was dying of fever. I say I love him. But he shouts me down and asks me to answer only in ‘Yes’ and ‘No’.
The questions blame me of witchcraft and of forcing him to impregnate me. No matter whether my answer is a ‘Yes’ or ‘No’, they incriminate me of being a witch either way. So, I try to remain silent, but it earns me his knee in the stomach, every time…
I writhe in pain, while my mind is on the baby. At this rate, he’ll kill our child! I beg him to have mercy on the unborn. For a second, I see guilt in his eyes. Then, he pushes me inside the cottage and closes the door.
Hope surges through me. Have I been spared?
I hear a lock click outside. Smoke fills my nostrils—they have set my cottage on fire! Out of the window, I see them waiting with pitchforks with bloodlust in their eyes. If I get out somehow, they will simply slice me in pieces and throw back in here. There is no hope for me.
My familiars are scared and freaking out—clawing down the door and the now‑closed windows, all on fire.
With shaking hands, I go to the miniscule back window meant for the pets to go out when needed. I hastily pull out the bracelet from my hand—the little effigies I had carved out of cat’s‑eye stone to tie the familiars to me. They don’t have to die with me. I try to throw my bracelet with all my strength out of the tiny hole. But the smoke has blinded me, and I can’t get a clear shot. It falls back in.
I am on all fours, gasping for breath and coughing. I order the cat to grab the bracelet and get out. I tell them all to leave. Ordinarily, they would have complied.
But they don’t. They have covered me from all sides the best they can. They are trying to protect me with their power, but they aren’t strong enough. I feel their frustration, their heartache, their loyalty, their friendship, their love…
…their never‑wavering devotion while the raging fire consumes us all. I can hear my familiars think of the man who deceived us into loving him; trusting him; giving him our all…
Their pain is my own as our lungs burn and hearts heave. How could death be so slow or so tormenting? I can’t find my knife to kill us. Someone had already removed it while they questioned me.
We burn together and I feel the crippling pain inch by inch…our hair, our fur, our feather…
Burning rage fills me as I feel my babies of magic die one by one just as clearly as I feel my unborn baby die within me…
My hollowed‑out heart lets go of that thread that ties me to life. I wish to die here and now. I beg the Gods for death…
Too slowly, I feel life leave me… Deep down, I know that when they find my body tomorrow in the museum, I’ll have one burn scar—on the wrist that now wears the bracelet…
END
Photo by Manpreet Kaur
If you would rather read it all together in the book, The Bracelet and other short stories is available for free download here: Link
The Museum: Part 1
Author’s note: This is first installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories.
Not sure why I went inside the museum that day. Was it loneliness?
Boredom?
Morbid curiosity?
Or was it just the hope of seeing Cleo again?
*****
It would be fair to say that he was neck deep in Egypt…or may be deeper still. He was absolutely in love with his birthplace. In fact, the first time I had met him was inside city museum’s underground Egyptian section.
That day, I was bored, had no plans and went alone. I was admiring the gold throne when Cleo had approached me and offered a tour of the section. He hadn’t even introduced his friend, who had simply smiled and left us alone.
He seemed quite well informed on the subject of ancient Egypt and his enthusiasm was contagious. He talked like a thirteen-year-old on a trip to a football match. Soon, I was skipping along his side from display to display. He had stories about each piece—the pottery and the potters; the carving and the carvers; the two sarcophagus (the elaborately carved ancient Egyptian caskets) and the mummies hidden inside—the king and one of his slaves.
He was intelligent and witty and had a quirky sense of humour. He was chivalrous but not overbearing. He treated me like a queen, and no woman can ignore that kind of attention. When at the end of visiting hours, he had asked me to visit again, I could not help but promise to return the next weekend.
So, for seven weekends, we met at the museum. We laughed and talked. I told him about my life at college, my dorm room and my crazy roommate. He told me about his childhood antics, crocodiles on the Nile, pyramids and Egypt. He was holding back his present life though, as if he wasn’t ready to share it yet. He didn’t tell me what he did for a living and if he had a family back in Egypt.
It worried me a little, but I wasn’t the one to probe.
And we had time.
His interest in me felt genuine though. When we held hands as we walked through the museum discussing different displays, I could feel that he was as reluctant to let go of my hand as I. Sometimes, he would look into my eyes with the look that made me wonder if he was going to get down on one knee and ask me to marry him.
I would have said “Yes” without doubt, even if it meant moving to Egypt with him.
But he never asked the question in words, and I didn’t know how to begin that conversation, especially since we were never alone—he wouldn’t leave the museum. He lived on the campus, or so he said. He wouldn’t come out with me for dinner, lunch or even coffee. He always had something to do, something to show, something to talk about, which was not his present life or our future. He didn’t even have a mobile phone number, so we couldn’t connect unless I visited the museum.
*****
Two weeks back, he told me he was moving to Egypt; and it seems that he had known the fact for a long time. Apparently, a certain part of the Egyptian display at the museum—including the mummies of the king and his slave—had come from a private collector whose family had acquired it from the black market several centuries ago without the consent of the Egyptian government, as was the norm in those days. But a team of Egyptian researchers had traced them back to the correct tomb a few years back. They had discussed the matter between the two countries and were moving the collection back to where it belonged. Cleo was leaving with it, back to where he belonged.
And I wanted to go with him.
Author’s note: To be continued…
Photo by Spencer Davis on Unsplash
If you would rather read it all together in the book, The Bracelet and other short stories is available for free download here: Link
Broken: Part 3
Author’s note: This is third installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories. You can find the other parts here: Broken: Part 1 and Broken: Part 2.
On the morning of the fourth day, I gathered wildflowers that grew within the temple yard. A tiger was manning the boundary. It gave me hope that my ‘friends’ wouldn’t be able to come tomorrow, and I wouldn’t have to go back. I could stay here forever, seeing her every day. I held the flowers lovingly in my arms until she came, afraid to put them down lest they’d get dirty.
When she came, I all but jumped up. She placed the basket in the same place and looked at me. I meekly held out the flowers. She accepted them quietly with a smile that almost made me swoon. She turned to leave. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I might have to leave soon. How could I go without knowing her name? Or rather, how could I go at all?
“Please don’t go,” I begged her.
“Do you need anything else from me?” her voice was teasing.
“I…I don’t even know your name,” I blushed to the roots of my hair like a schoolboy.
“I thought you’ll never ask. People call me Kyarr,” she replied.
“Oh! I thought Kyarr was the deity here.”
She kept smiling.
“I…My ‘friends’ are due to return tomorrow. I was wondering…thinking that…I…Would you…” I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. What if she says no? What if she considers it an insult? I know nothing about her. She could be married. She looks young but people marry early in this part of the world.
Heck, even I’m married! What was I even thinking?
She waited for a few seconds. Then, probably realised I wasn’t going to finish. So, she simply said, “I know your friends come tomorrow morning. I guess, it is the last time we meet.” She was still smiling.
“Would you like to come with me?” I blurted out, then lost all the courage and looked at my feet.
“I can’t. I’m needed here. But thank you for asking.”
It hurt to see that there was no pain in her eyes. She was smiling as always while my own heart was ripping up in pieces. “Will you at least stay the night? I just want to look at you until I leave,” I knew I was transgressing some social boundary, but I couldn’t remember what…
“I can but you might not like how I look. That’s why I haven’t been staying here for the past three nights.”
I could hear the warning in her voice, but I was past caring now. If it was the last time I was looking at her, I didn’t care if a few hair came out of her bun as she slept. Now that I think of it, I can’t remember how she wore her hair—Was it a bun? Pig tails? Or did she leave them loose over her shoulders? She’d still be the only one I love.
“I insist.”
She shook her head, giving up, and sat on the stone throne on the pedestal. Then she gave me that smile that melted my knees…
…and turned to stone—a magnificent stone Tigress.
*****
My helpers returned the next day and told me the goat was still very much alive. I told them about Kyarr, but they didn’t believe me. They said Kyarr, the stone Tigress, has always been there on the pedestal. She was the temple deity.
They said the curse was turning me mad like all those before me.
*****
I would like to believe them and forget all about her, but how can I?
Even though I have returned home, my dreams are full of tiger calls, and my every waking moment is spent thinking about her. Somehow, her being a tigress makes no difference to me. She’s still the one I love.
Often, I see her walk away from me. I call her. I beg her to stop, but she just gives me a smile that would make me follow her anywhere. And then, she keeps walking until I can walk no more. Once I fall, I crawl behind her until I faint. And when I wake up, I find her gone.
My bleeding feet and knees don’t hurt. My heart bleeds knowing I’ll never see her again. I tried booking a flight to return to my Kyarr, but my wife—I can’t recall her name now—she won’t let me go. I think she’s jealous. Could you please make her understand, Doctor? You do believe me, don’t you?
The doctor looks up at me with eyes filled with pity. He stops the recorder and makes some notes in his pad. He signals a male nurse to escort me to my padded cell—my cage from where I can’t escape and walk until my feet hurt and crawl until my knees bleed…
End
Author’s note: You can find the free PDF version of my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories here: Link.
Photo by Mike Marrah on Unsplash
Broken: Part 1
Author’s note: This is first installment of a short story from my latest book: The Bracelet and the other short stories. You can find the other parts here: Broken: Part 2 and Broken: Part 3.
I had never hunted in this area before, but I was dying to get a tiger’s head for my collection for years now and an eco‑tourism website had mentioned this place. It had boasted of a uniquely high tiger‑per‑kilometre ratio as compared to the rest of the world. Tigers are revered here, so, local poachers don’t touch them. There’s no law against hunting the endangered species in this country though. Just my luck! So, I got a quick tourist Visa, gathered my hunting gear and flew here.
*****
In a country where tigers are revered, I couldn’t directly ask people where I could find a tiger to kill. So, I went around the long route. After the first day of sight‑seeing with a local tourist guide, I tipped him heavily. Then, I said, “I just wish it was a little more exciting than that!” I talked about my hunting trips. He immediately promised to find someone to help me, which he did within the hour.
The ‘help’ was a small shrewd man who offered his services based on a hefty fee per day. We started small—hunting foxes, then, gazelle and wild boars. I tipped him generously each day, increasing the amount with the size of the game, nudging him to find something even more exciting. He gradually warmed up to me and suggested bigger cats—serval, cheetah, leopard…
I told him, “I’ve done them all in. The only big cats I’d be interested in now would be a lion or a tiger.” I knew well that there were no lions here. So, he would show me tigers.
He hesitated. A long pregnant pause had me wondering if I had gone a little too fast and whether I should have waited a few more days. But hunting tigers could take several attempts ranging between several days to weeks. I could not afford to tick off more days from my one‑month visa.
After what felt like an eternity, he admitted reluctantly, “There’s a place in the forest where tigers throng. That is the only place where you are sure to find them. Mind you, we never hunt them. There is a curse in that place. Anybody who goes hunting tigers in that place ends up as either dead or raving mad.”
Old wives’ tales, of course! “I’m not afraid.”
He looked at me with the resignation of a parent who knew his child was beyond hope. “Okay! But this time, I won’t stay with you for the hunt. I have a family to provide for, so, I can’t afford to be cursed.”
It took immense effort to stop me from rolling my eyes. “Sure, but you can show me where it is, right?”
He nodded quietly, “Yes, but it will cost a lot more—I’m risking a curse and a possible death. I’ll take the money in advance today, so that I can hand it over to my family in case I die.”
I knew he was exaggerating to hike up the amount. He wasn’t even going to be on the hunt. But I hadn’t travelled across the world to save pennies. If the website was to be believed, the number of tigers in the area guaranteed a trophy.
*****
The next morning, he came back with supplies for four-five days, a goat, two labourers and tools to create a hunting platform. The labourers looked apprehensively at my gun, muttering in native language. The ‘help’ translated, “They want you to promise that you wouldn’t fire it until we’ve safely returned from the place. Firing the gun draws the tigers in.”
I could not help rolling my eyes this time. “Come on, the sound of gunfire scares animals away…”
“In other places, gunfire might do that, but it is different here. The tigers kill anyone firing a gun in the area. You’ll see soon enough.”
*****
We travelled as far as we could in an old jeep. Then, we walked on a well‑beaten trail. Apparently, a lot of people walked through that part of the forest without any weapons. So much for risking life!
We left the trail and entered deeper into the forest. After an hour, we stopped near a tall and sturdy tree with high and strong branches that gave me enough cover without obscuring my view. The ‘help’ ensured it was impossible for a tiger to climb it. I knew the last precaution was unnecessary, but he insisted, “You will thank us later.”
While the labourers built the hunting platform and the ‘help’ arranged goat’s fodder, I smoked a cigarette relishing in the tiger calls. The website was right. Too many tigers live in this area. Not sure how though. Tigers are rather territorial. Usually, there is no more than one tiger in several kilometres. But in this place, it sounds as if there is a huge ‘pride’ living in close vicinity—only, tigers don’t live in prides. The biggest group could be a mother with one or two cubs. Then, how could it be that…
By noon, the platform was mounted, and the ‘help’ asked, “Are you sure you want to do it, Sir?”
Mentally, I laughed at the superstition. Overtly, I just nodded.
“Alright,” he pointed towards north. “There is the temple of Kyarr over there. The only survivors from a hunting trip in this area were found hiding there. They were completely mad, mind you, but alive. So, if the situation gets out of hand, try to make a dash for it. I’ll return in the four days and collect whatever is left of you.”
With those parting words, they left.
Author’s note: To be continued…
Photo by Mike Marrah on Unsplash
Breaking the Ice
For months, she hadn’t been stirred.
Suddenly, the ice broke with the unexpected weight and she screamed for help. Melting with the sun as spring approached was something a part of frozen river would accepted as fate. She would have lived a complete life by then. But breaking down early because someone mercilessly stepped on her weakness…that hurt.
So, she screamed for help. But all of them were on their own now as more cracks kept appearing–the stag that had stepped on her continued jumping neatly on the now-broken ice and crossed the river.
The river was now a jumble of fast moving pieces of ice running forward to meet the sea.
Most of them were simply resigned. She struggled against the flow, trying to return to her calm and composed existence, but there was nothing to hold on to.
Her fight was desperate and fruitless. Her screams were drowned in the gurgle of the river just like the few woohoos from others…
Woohoos?!
She turned around and saw another part of the river, clearly enjoying the ride. He had always been far away, closer to the bank. But now he was pushing her, shining with a twinkle. His playful smile dared her to try beating him at the game.
She pushed back and he laughed, pushing her again, tickling where they touched. Soon, they were both laughing as they pushed and touched and tickled and woohoo-ed down the river.
Not sure how far they reached before they melted but they certainly never stopped to notice.
Mellifluous
Author’s note: Thank you, Beetly Pete and John Melon for the story ideas.
He was mellifluous. Not his voice–I hadn’t heard it yet. I am talking about the person himself.
As usual, I was late and had to run from my office with my backpack on my shoulders to catch the last bus to my town. I preferred Fridays to visit my parents when it was relatively spacious, as compared to Saturdays when, apparently, the entire world was travelling home.
After a lot of running and jostling, I finally managed to get on the bus. I was still trying to catch my breath at the door while searching for an open seat when I saw him…
…and never looked away.
It was the peace on his face that drew my eyes–a peaceful ship in the sea of turbulent waters…
He wasn’t a regular or I would have remembered such a face. His skin was light brown, and the dimples made him look rather ‘pretty’–if a man can be called ‘pretty’ without being offended.
As I slowly walked forward in the aisle, I realised he was in a deep sleep–how he managed to sleep amidst all the honking and sweltering heat was a mystery to me. But the way his chest rose and fell gracefully with each breath left no doubt that his lights were completely out. His hands resting in his lap looked fluid, even though there was no movement. His black hair flew gently with the wind from the open window and he seemed completely oblivious of my scrutiny…
…or my existence. Somehow, the thought bothered me.
I sat down a couple of seats ahead of him. I would have sat next to him, but the seat was taken by another female. She sat looking rather bored, consulting her watch often, as if wishing for the time move faster. She seemed completely unaffected by his presence.
Was it just me, then, who felt the tug towards him? I wanted to offer her my seat, so that I can sit with him–afterall, she didn’t seem to care either way. But it would be very conspicuous, completely irrational and totally unlike me. Why would I want to sit with him? I didn’t even know his name! Also, I wasn’t a big town girl. I was never friends with boys and my dealings with them were strictly on need-to-know basis. Dating was unheard of in my family and going after a boy made me feel like an overachieving fool.
Not that it stopped me.
I tried to think of other things, like my favourite food waiting for me at home; my father waiting at the bus stand (since it would be dark by the time my bus reached there); my mother waiting at the door, worried why I hadn’t turned up yet (even though I always reached at the same time)…
But it didn’t seem to make a difference. I kept looking back at him–intent on making introductions once he woke up.
Finally, the girl got up and got down the bus and I took her place in a flash.
I was blushing now because people had noticed how I had hurried to get to him. A lot of these people have seen me ride this bus for an year now. We had exchanged gossip on the way to our various destinations. Now they watched my walk of shame back to my seat to retrieve my backpack that I had forgotten in my hurry to secure this seat. They looked at me with me interest, some of them raising their eyebrows in obvious questions with knowing smiles.
I was also blushing because, as I sat back, our shoulders were touching. A small-town Indian girl that I was, I never had a boyfriend, and the only other boy I ever touched was my elder brother–to get piggyback rides. Of course, I sit next to other people in the bus and in office. But it never felt like this–like I was stealing a moment. Pathetic!
I didn’t like sitting next to him though. It was difficult to look at him properly now. But I could tell his profile was even more interesting. The crow’s feet around his eyes reminded me of happy times; of hikes and dips in the river; of lemonades and jokes; of shared family tales and good-natured ribbing…
It was still light outside and he slept on. His closed eyes were peaceful amidst the various traffic jams that our bus was stuck in. Even the sunlight falling on his face didn’t seem to bother him. His breathing was even and restful–like soulful music meant only for my ears. It made me drowsy. I wanted to talk to him but I didn’t want to disturb his peace. Surely, we can talk once he woke up…
An old fellow Friday traveler woke me up at my stop. The seat next to me was empty except for a gun wrapper. I felt my stomach drop as collected my backpack.
“He waited for you to wake up for eons. Kept stealing glances but didn’t want to disturb your sleep though. So, when his stop came, he jumped over the back of the next seat.”
Sensing my disappointment, she gestured at the gun wrapper with a smile, “I saw him scribble on it right before he left. I think he left his number for you.”
My Neighbour: The Earnest
Author’s note: This post is based on a real incident…well, more or less. I was looking out of the window and witnessed what looked like a clear case of eve-teasing. I am just trying to look at it from the victim’s perspective.
Jeez! How many times do I have to say ‘No’ for someone to understand it? Here I am pecking quietly on the tin shed, eating the grains supplied by the human working below, when this jerk flies down and lands close to me.
So, I think, “Oh! He wants to share”. I move aside and make space for him.
And what does he do? He scoots closer…so close, I can smell the enticing smell of peppermint leaves on his breath.
So, I move further away. And his trots closer.
Sheesh! I jump on the closest low wall, and he follows like he is stitched to my shadow.
I run on the wall, and he follows calling after me, “Hey! Wait up. You are too fast! I can’t keep up!”
I am like, “Dude! That is precisely the point. I don’t want you to keep up with me.”
And he’s like, “Huh?” And he flies and lands too close yet again.
What the heck! Can’t he just go and eat some wheat grains, groom his feathers or sleep on a rooftop somewhere else…far, far away? I can’t be caught talking to him. I’ll be a laughingstock for a lifetime! So, I take flight this time. And he stupidly chases me in the air!
Can’t he see I am not interested? There are better things to do in life than date a stupid pigeon who goes by the name “Rapunzel”! I mean, what woman would ever want to date a guy named Rapunzel!?
I don’t want to be mean, but he leaves me no choice. So, I sit down on a stone archway to the next-door temple and say what sounds like the greatest cuss words ever known to the pigeon-kind, “Rapunzel! Go away!”
He sits a little farther this time, “Not you too! I am NOT Rapunzel!”
“What do you think I am–a chick-just-hatched? I have heard that human girl call you ‘Rapunzel’ at least a dozen times.”
“How do you know that? Have you been keeping tabs on me?” He asks, looking smug.
“I am not keeping tabs on you,” I hope I am not blushing like stupid human girls. “I live here. I hear things.”
“Well, then you know that she calls all pigeons ‘Rapunzel’.”
“Liar!”
“Well, I am a bit wrong there. If you sit on her windowsill in a group, she will probably call you Rapunzel and the rest of the group will be Ella, Snow White, Elsa, Bella and other Disney princesses in that exact order. She can’t tell that some of us are Prince Charming!”
I am intrigued now, “Are you ‘Prince Charming’ then? I mean, it is nearly just as bad!”
“Ugh! No! I don’t have a name. You can just call me ‘Hulk’!”
Eww! “I think, I’ll pass.”
“So, will you come out with me? I know a really cool place with loads of fresh grain and an amazing view of the river,” he says as he carefully moves closer to me on the top of the stone archway, looking a little unsure of himself this time.
Good! I like him better when he is not being haughty…
I mean, I don’t really like him like that…
Well, at least not yet…
Sigh! Who am I kidding? I have been keeping tabs on him…
Still, I roll my eyes, trying to play hard to get, “You really don’t know when to give up!”
He has probably sensed I am giving up, because he stands up a little taller, “I know exactly when to give up, which is why I am not giving up on you yet.” He tilts his face to a side inquisitively, which makes his neck shine in a multitude of colours. “So, are you coming with me before all the fresh grain is gone?”
“Well, lead the way. I will probably dump you after we have eaten anyway, Rapunzel!” He rolls his eyes and smiles, and we take off to the nearest fields I have already visited alone this morning.
I know it will be better with him by my side, smelling minty and looking like Prince Charming. But I am not telling him that. At least, not yet!
Author’s note again: To learn more about how my daughter named Rapunzel (poor dear), you can go through my other posts here: Meet Rapunzel and Rapunzel 2.0
The Stranger
Author’s note: The First line of the story was suggested by Webb Blogs
Why is everyone being so loud, and why is this stranger claiming to be my husband? My head hurts like there is a stampede inside it. I can’t recall where I was last night or what I did but I certainly couldn’t have married a stranger overnight!
If only Priscila was here to provide me an alibi. She had promised to meet me at my home last evening. She had something to celebrate and wanted to give me the news in person. But she never showed up. I was bored and lonely. So I decided…
This is where I came up blank. I just can’t remember what I decided or what I did after that. It shouldn’t be too difficult. I am not on drugs and I didn’t have alcohol. I also don’t have a life and have lived vicariously through Priscila since forever. Ideally, I would have had dinner and slept the night off. Only, I am not in my bed. And the owner of the bed, and the house it is in, says that we dated for six months and married a couple of days back in a small ceremony in front of the minister!
How can I date and marry someone and then forget about him?
May be he’s lying. He shows me some pretty convincing pictures of the ceremony with me as the bride. But photos can be fake. Or worse, what if he slipped something in my drink last night? An LSD? That can explain the loss of memory and the headache.
He looks genuinely confused, which unsettles me, but he can be a good actor, “I don’t understand. You were fine with our marriage until last night. You even went out to share the news with a friend! Have I done something wrong?” His eyes are honest. He doesn’t seem like a guy who would gaslight a woman but, then, what do I know? I barely met him five minutes back when I woke up in his bed.
Why isn’t Priscila picking up her phone? Is she alright? It isn’t like her to not show up. Already at the end of my nerves, I throw my phone down on the bed facing upwards.
His brows are crunched in confusion, “Honey, why are you calling yourself?”
“No, I am calling my best friend. She’ll help me figure it all out. She always does when I am not able to make sense of something.”
“Darling, the number is yours…”
“No, it n…” I look closely and beneath the name Priscila, is my own phone number. My stomach drops out of the bottom. “I must have messed up the contacts when I changed my phone. Maybe that’s why I am not able to get through to her. I’ll check the recent calls. She called me last evening.” Hastily, I scroll through the recent calls. I have several incoming calls from Priscila but all of them have my number.
The stranger looks at me with a guarded expression that I hate. Even though he is most certainly not my husband as he claims to be, I want him to know I am not insane. I hated when sometimes people assumed that about me; makes me feel like killing someone. I feel anger rising already, “I don’t understand. I swear Priscila called me last evening. She was so excited about something that she wanted to share. But she never turned up!”
“So you have a best friend named Priscilla too?”
I grit my teeth and my confusion comes out harsh, “What do you mean? Do you know a Priscila as well?”
He slowly stands up and inches towards the door as if I am a wild animal that might attack him. He clearly thinks I am a deranged lunatic. The gesture raises something wild within me. I am too hurt and too livid, and I begin to black out…
Trudging Along
I walk in the woods, my eyes seeing red, literally. My anger is spilling out in waves. The swishing sound she leaves behind her makes me grit my teeth.
Why does she have to sound so graceful even now, while I crush the leaves under my feet?
Why could I never be like her? People stop to admire her when she enters a room while I move in her shadow, forever unnoticed and ignored.
Even Papa…
Well, she isn’t pretty anymore with the glass pieces and blood on her face. I drag her in the ravine, finally at peace.
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 