The Passion

 Her eyes glimmered of shame, a slow blink of deceit,
She moaned, as the hands reached out,
Minds intertwined in a unison of synchronized breath,

Did I betray?

She sighed, I sighed with her.
The clock chimed a midnight rhyme, as she sank into me,
Her gaze, a death stare, I froze, I molted.

Did I betray?

Night is young, I proclaimed,
Her beauty, unrivaled, my sin, the ugly truth.
The flowers bled, staining the sheet, she sighed.

Did I betray?

Her gentle caress, a soft-spoken moan,
I cupped her heart, she stroked my soul,
Something broke, we never spoke.

Did I betray?

Thirty silver coins, the price of a bargain,
Her head on a stake, "witch," the world screamed,
My pleasures, my own, but...

Did I betray?

Her screams, a nightmare to my dreams,
I wake, I try, sleep my mistress, I her slave,
Guilt a torch to bear, sins of mine.

Did I betray?

Greyed by time, age all but a delusion,
I crave none but her screams.
Am I true to myself, or...

Did I betray?

Assassin's Last Stand

Hope is a misnomer. It should be called, "hanging on", or one better, "holding on", but calling it "hope"..., that just gives it too much teeth to bite into. I am not one of those "despaired" NEETs. I am just realistic. And in this universe, hope is what gets you desperate. Not dead, desperate for death. I come from a long line of assassins, and we are good at our job. So, take it from an expert - Hope is not something you hold onto. It is something that gets you killed.

Water? Are you really serious? Water is what you want when I am monologuing about my dreams and aspirations? You are a funny person! A brave one at that, but anyway, I will not deny a dying person their last wish. Water is what you want - you can have it, but once I am done lamenting about the "Tragedy known as life". 

What? You’re dying of thirst?  It’s funny... I thought you were dying from the bullet in your chest. Maybe you're mistaking your dying breath for thirst? Anyway, who am I to deny a last wish... Here, take a sip.  

Hey! Don't spit it out! It’s the only liquid I have on me, and it’s expensive. 

Unbelievable!!!!! You are a remarkably rude person to spit out top-shelf Old-Monk.

I am sorry, I am an emotional person. I quickly get offended when people "waste" luxury—you see, I am from a very poor background. One meal, shared between five siblings per day, with nothing to quench our thirst. I know what you are thinking: "Line of assassins?" I did not lie back there, I am from a line of assassins. Assassins are actually poor—and horny. They make a looooot of kids, and feeding them is not an easy job on an assassin's salary. You should listen to what my spouse has to say about my line of work. To be honest, they are expecting a Claude subscription paid in full for the next six months from the job I am doing right now—"you," in case that was confusing. Death is confusing, and I am an empathetic person. I've got your back, but you see, my kids are in big peril: train in AI to get a job, get a job to buy an AI subscription,  subscribe to bigger models to keep the job... you get the picture - Truly a Predestination movie with their career as the protagonist. 

Anyway, we have been talking a lot about me, what about you. Is your spouse naggy and bitchy like mine... You don't have to say it out loud if you are not comfortable. Just nod. I will understand. You do realize it's rude not to answer questions!!! I understand that your lungs are punctured, and every breath you take is kind of filling your lung cavities like a balloon, and that you would mostly suffocate to death in another... hmm.... five minutes --- but not answering a question is still rude. 

Hey!! Keep your eyes open, I am not yet done. I can smack you around a bit if it will help you concentrate. You should stop being a drama queen, I think I have had enough of your deep sighs and labored breathing.

Hey... hello? ... your attitude to this conversation is making this very one-sided. 

You know what, I am having second thoughts on the legitimacy of our conversation, I no longer know what is real and what is unreal. Am I escaping from my domestic duties by creating a victim in you? Are you a real person whom I have just shot? I no longer know what is real. You tell me, is my struggle more important than the hope you are still clinging to? If I really shot you, then your hope is meaningless - You will most probably suffocate and die. If on the other hand you are a figment of my imagination, then your hope and aspirations are an escape for me - I still have hope. But, again, I can hear your labored breath - Are my senses playing a game with me? Do I really exist, or am I your figment of imagination. Maybe you wanted to die, and you created an "assassin" in your mind to free you of your earthly abode. I feel I am your imagination.

I exist for you not to despair.

I exist for you to have "hope".

The Barnum Paradox

Red is an interesting color; it signifies pain, danger, fear, and sometimes loneliness. I hear that you are looking for a cure, a cure to loneliness, but take it from a veteran, there is no cure. Maybe the gods could smile at you and bless you, but loneliness—it's your compatriot. You did not push people away, you did not want them to disappear, but deep down, you wonder if it was your fault. I say, it's a trap, don't listen to it, but again, I am just a fellow stranger—loneliness makes strangers of bedfellows.

I had a lover—I will not shy away from stating the truth as the truth. Now, love is a very confusing feeling when you have not confessed it yet. They are unaware of your feelings, but for you, they are the world.

Pardon me, "crush" would be a better term, I believe. The current generation has a knack for un-romanticizing anything and everything.

Whom do you have a crush on?

Ah... silence. Of course. You don't have to answer. I can already see it in the way your eyes avoid mine.

They don't know, do they? Why would they?

Don't glare at me like that. I only asked.

I might have ruffled a feather there — don't hold it against me, it's a habit, I can't help it. You do look like a saint, able to forgive any transgressions — transgressions of me, a mere mortal. But pray tell, why did they move on? I am sure you would not have done anything to upset them. Is it a crime to be yourself?

You don't have to defend yourself to me. Being yourself isn't a crime—and who were they to judge you?

I am sorry, I am bad-mouthing your crush, but again, they did not make you feel special, but I can...

I can see you're still trying to excuse them. You don't have to. They never showed you the same kindness. If harsh words are all you have left, perhaps they've earned them.

I can tell you about my life, but we are not here to talk about it. I am not a psychic, but I do read the tension in the room. Therapy will only go so far — I can vouch. I had a therapist listen to my ramblings for a week, a whole stupid week, and what did I get in return?

There it is again—that vacant stare. You don't seem interested.

Have you been to a therapist? Just a curious question.

The way you avert your gaze gives it away. Was it your lover?  Was it your "crush"? You did open your heart to a therapist. And was it worth the money? Or did you just want to sound "relevant"?  Yay #therapyForLife

Looking at the floor again? Of course. It’s easier to study the carpet than to admit you suffocated them. You loved them so hard you didn't leave them any room to breathe, did you?

So, you did enjoy it - suffocating them with love. There is nothing wrong in enjoying a bit of pleasure, but enjoying it for the sake of enjoyment — I might be a harsh judge on that. Where is your sense of victimhood?

I am not trying to paint a bad picture of your lover, but an abuser is always an abuser. Not loving you back is the biggest abuse. Abandoning you and walking away, when all you needed was an ear to cry to

You still think if you'd been gentler, kinder, quieter... they might have stayed. Maybe you should have shared your vulnerabilities with them; maybe then they would have let you be. The lovers of this world only exist to fix what they love. I think you were too broken for them to fix.

You're angry. I can hear it, even if you refuse to say the words aloud. You should not hate them for not seeing your pain. You should hate them, though, because your love was not enough for them. Maybe your hate is what will evoke a reaction in them. Human beings are stupid — it's like poking someone with a red-hot iron; they are petrified. Hate is similar; people freeze when they encounter fear.

You, my amour, need not fear. I will not let the past repeat in your life. I will keep you safe from your tormentor, the person who rejected your love. I accept it. I accept you for whom you are. My arms are always open for you.

Alas, I but have a condition. You should reject your old self. It was poison. I will craft a new self for you. I will craft a new you.

What? You reject?

Sorry for being so possessive. I love you, my love. Why do you hold on so dearly to the very self that drove love away? It’s selfish! You owe it to yourself — to us —to let that selfish, needy version of you die. Let me strip away the guilt. Let me take away the burden of what you ruined. I am not asking for much, only that you surrender your corruption to me.

I know you're resisting. Everyone resists the cure at first. Shh... don't struggle.

You can't be so selfish that you would choose not to change for love. You have already done so once—rejection is pain, I understand. Let me strip away your flaws. Let me empty you out. I am not the same as them; I will love you, I will cleanse your blemishes, you should let me recast you in a mold which is pure. You are but an angel, only defiled by the promise of love. Let me restore you.

Let me restore you in my image, for I am you, I am the voice which screams "Red" in your nightmares.

The Purple Room - 3

 I know I am repeating this all over again, and I am not at all apologetic about it. There is a rhyme stuck in my head, and every time I try to pen it, I miss-rhyme it. There is that un-explainable  blind spot in my brain, like the cobwebs, which do not let me see beyond my mistakes. Yet, every morning I wake up, yet, every morning I repeat my life, yet, every evening I go back to sleep - no rhyme-or-reason.

The question has been haunting me for a while, and I have been ignoring its constant rasp - an uncomfortable itch against the back of my brain. It was during these troubling times I met Marybeth, a fellow inmate with me, chirpy and lively, yet miserable at heart. She was in for arson, and I could always see a glow in her eyes when she mentioned the burning county-fair, where she was finally apprehended. No remorse though, only a glow of the unspent embers, waiting for their turn. She was also the one who introduced me to the cellars, damp and earthy caves under the recreation room. She would slip out from the small crack below the last bench, unnoticeable to the guards, until I caught up with her. She was forced, I would believe it rather, and did not voluntarily introduce me to the cellars. 

Her reasons were simple, "They mess with your reality", she would say. I knew better. The thief in me always justified being in a place without being needed. The thief in me always found a reason for being in possession of things which I didn't own. "They never wanted it." I would say. "They never owned it", I would justify, and every day we would venture into the unexplored depths of the cellar. At first there were just cobwebs; then there were the graves. Marybeth was least flustered by their presence, I swallowed my fear, and put a brave front - typical of a thief. Eventually we ventured into a royal burial ground. It did not happen over night, but over several days. It was evident the day we stumbled across it, compared to the other graves littering the cellar, this one stood out, a dead end you might say, a large hall with its own ornate entrance. Even the treasures were bigger.

 Oh, wait I never mentioned the treasures till now.

My bad - but every grave has some form of a memorabilia buried along as a treasure, and I and Marybeth have been robbing the graves off these valuables. Cigarettes are what we trade these trinkets with, and at times a bar of soap, I hope the grave masters do forgive our cravings and the need for a clean bath.

The royal burial ground was different, there were no trinkets, there were no potteries, only a wooden casket, containing a journal. I was not confused, or bewildered - I have seen the craziness of the rich during my life, Marybeth was fuming with anger. "At least these morons could have left something worth trading", she retorted. I didn't pay much heed to her. "There always are more graves to rob", I chimed in, while I pocketed the journal. The journey back to recreation room was uneventful, a periodic grunt of irritation followed by a click of self motivation. Marybeth, though irritated, was good at consoling herself.

I waited for the evening to settle in before exploring the journal, Marybeth was fantasying about her myriad arson, while I turned the pages of the journal. The author did seem confused, finding solace from the windowless room. I could sympathize - I was also in a windowless room. The initial pages spoke about the loneliness, I sympathized, no empathy though, only sympathy. I didn't realize when I dozed off, but sleep was peaceful.

I woke up to Marybeth engrossed in the journal. I frowned - she grumbled - "This guy really enjoyed setting things on fire.". It was not until evening I got my hands on the journal. Since Marybeth had messed up my progress with journal, I started from the beginning - the author was in search of solace, trapped  within a windowless room, with pie for a brain. "This girl reads like me", I retorted to Marybeth, she smirked and went back to her sleep. The journal mirrored my life, and I felt motivated - some one stuck within the rut of a life I was in and came out victorious.  I read the journal cover to cover.

"What did you mean by the journal being a mirror of your life ?" My question irritated Marybeth a bit. "After Coffee", she replied.

At the coffee table, after the first sip, she continued her monologue - "My life is written verbatim in the journal, every little flame  I kindled."

"You are kidding?", I revolted. The journal was about a thief, and not about an arsonist, I was sure about it.

"No. Screw you, you are a leech waiting for an opportunity, stupid dumb bitch".  Marybeth's insult didn't really sit well with me. Words led to scuffle, hair pulling, and a shiv to my side.

Marybeth opened the journal in my face as I lay holding onto my life. "It was never about you," she hissed, her voice a jagged rasp. "This isn't your story; it’s my legend".

She flipped the pages on my face as I lay gasping for air. She flipped through the empty pages as I lay gasping for air.

The Final Cut

The idea of casting someone as young as Elie was frowned upon, but I went ahead with it anyway. Elie had previously acted in one of our lesser-known productions and had won hearts over. I held onto that same hope when I made the decision: "Elie will win hearts over once again." However, unlike last time, this was a big-house production with a lot of money riding on it. The skepticism was justified, and I took it upon myself to pacify the producers' jittery nerves. "Elie will win them over, don't worry," I would say. "You won't regret casting Elie."

Elie’s parents were contacted and the necessary permissions obtained. Money exchanged hands. Elie was brought to the production house accompanied by the mother; it was a strict rule to have a parent around when casting young children. Both were briefed on their roles, and the scripts were finalized, with lines altered so Elie could deliver them naturally. Rehearsals followed, and everyone prepared for the big debut.

The protagonist of the story entered the stage and delivered his lines—pain and angst wrapped in a single burst of verbal diarrhea. He paused, his glance shifting to the distance as grief surfaced on his face. This scene had the entire audience in tears as the protagonist narrated a story of ill-gotten fate: a sickness-ridden family and a child close to the deathbed. Elie entered the scene—coughing, limping, crawling. Elie delivered the rehearsed line. Tears swelled in the protagonist’s eyes as he leaned forward to hug the dying child.

The scene concluded with the Godman entering the stage and consoling the protagonist while holding Elie’s limp body. The Godman mumbled a prayer under his breath, and then the miracle happened. Elie, who was "dead," was brought back to life. There was a cough, then a sigh, and finally a smile. The crowd cheered, the lights dimmed, and the music surged as the audience danced and praised the Godman.

"Today was a good day; we have fourteen new believers joining the Eye-of-God. Elie did great," the Godman congratulated Elie’s mother. Behind them, the crew moved with practiced efficiency, packing the freshly harvested human hearts into ice.

When going gets tough

Chapter 1

I am sorry - It is a very empty sentence, when there is no one on the other side to receive it. Kaiel learned it the hard way, as his hands pressed against the gaping hole in his wife's chest. Warm blood gushed out squirting from in between his fingers, and tears trickled down his cheeks.

"SOME ONE, HELP US"!!!!

It was his last ditch effort to turn around his life.

"SOME ONE, PLEASE"!!!!

The street sure was crowded, but that day his screams were silent. People looked at him, shaking their heads in sympathy, and then moving on to face their own troubles.

"SOME ONE"!!!

The gushing had stopped by now, and he knew there was no point in turning around his life. He had killed the last person who ever cared for him. He quietly rose, wiping the tears on his sleeve. He stepped away from the pool of blood

and the disappeared into the alley way. He knew better not to stick around. He knew better, not to pay the last respect, the city will devour her.

"The blood trail would have already caught their attention", he glanced at his blood soaked hands.

"I have to find a place to loose the trail."

The small alley way opened into a crowded butcher's market, he felt safer. "I can disappear here."
 

and he picked up the gun from her lifeless hands, pocketing it. He glanced around. The still faces of the onlookers disgusted him.

"SHE COULD HAVE BEEN SAVED" !!!

He let out a helpless scream. People dispersed, and hum of a distant siren caught his ears. "The pigs have finally heard the call". He sighed to himself, as he picked up pace, walking away from the crime. His phone chimed, "Damn, the next task is already sent!!! They must have been watching the whole incident."

Chapter 2

It was a hot July evening, when he first met Lix.

"Is the fleet shaken?"

"What???????" Kaiel strained, sliding his headphones away from his ears,

"IS THIS SEAT TAKEN"

He was not prepared for that kind of a commitment.

"No!", only one syllable he could manage, aaand she was already at home on the seat.

July became August, September, October, and by December Kaiel had mustered enough courage to drop in the big question.

Some would say it was too early, and others would argue the contrary, but for Kaiel and Lix, it was perfectly timed. "Yes!!!!", She answered with a smile, and the following month they were happily ever after driving a "Newly Wed" car. She was the morning, and he was the sunshine. She was cloud and he was the silver lining. It never ceased to amaze people how much love the world had.

But, all happy things do have a sad ending, and for Kaiel and Lix, things were not so different. Once the "promises to a never ending love" phase was done, the "ever lasting"  become "will it ever last?". Their cooing and canoeing turned into conflicts and bickering. Their ups and downs mirrored the world around them, and just like their love, the world saw a turmoil. While their life was being torn apart with the human fallacies, the world around them was being thrown into a disarray brought in by

a social plague in the form of an addictive role playing challenge series. The challenges were a set of games, promising fortunes - if completed, but cruel at its core. Lex and Kaiel, with their love struck eyes were safe from it for a while, but soon were dragged into the depths of hell when the love that they swore by faded into the shadows of regret. The game was simple, an operator gave the tasks as messages on the phone, and the players finished the tasks.
The only catch was the cruelty associated with each task.
an alien invasion, not the one out of the popular science fictions, but the invisible one.

"Human kind's annihilation is its own curiosity.", some great person had said once, and the world now was on the brink of chaos because of this curiosity. The ussual suspect was the cure for cancer. Some lone scientist somewhere, in the pursuit to find the cure for cancer had curiously dabbled with syphilis and rabies viruses, and now these viruses were the new normal. A super bug  as contagious as syphilis and as deadly as rabies. It turned its victims into mindless zombies.
The government was quick to action, crucifying the scientist, and declaring a state of emergency. They had their agents, and these agents made sure that threats were eliminated.
 

Chapter 3

Kaiel joined first, and by the time Lix was involved, Kaiel had already been tasked with three murders. Lix always wondered how Kaiel slept peacefully, and as days passed by the paranoia started gnawing on her soul. What if I am next, she always wondered. The bedroom, once taunted as the temple of love soon turned into a dungeon of mistrust, and soon the guns under their pillows were their only solace. Sleep evaded them and paranoia set in.

The breakfast was the most stressful event of the day, with each trotting a hidden arsenal of guns and dynamites. The paranoia soon turned into a deep rooted fear, and sleep soon became the enemy. They could not sleep.

The lack of sleep was followed by its distant cuisine - The hallucinations. The eyes which once saw love, was now burdened with fear and hatred.

On the contrary, the tasks brought in a sense of discipline. Every gash, scratch and cut was very sincerely addressed - following the protocol set by the task masters. It became necessary as these wounds would soon become a decisive factor in deciding who would live and die. Lix was the unfortunate one. She was wounded in one of her operations.

Trust was immediately discarded and every one around her became a potential assassin. This new found insight also meant she was equally dangerous to every one around her. Trust was already bartered for doubt, and soon Lix and Kaiel parted ways.

It was approximately three days after they had parted ways that

Kaiel received the next set of instructions. The instructions never had the name of the target, but only pointed to the location and a description of the target. He was a bit perplexed, as the location was a crowded street, and the description matched that of a person whom he knew. His steps were heavy, but the destination became his new goal. He reached the end of the street when a familiar site greeted him. Lix was at the other end of the street, and he knew who the target was. Lix realised she had been marked as the next target. Its not hard to figure out that you are the mark, when there exists a barrage of attempts at eliminating you. Lix was very careful, and she made sure she was never spotted. May be the end of world made Lix sloppy or her wounds were really painful, but soon she walked right into the trap which was being led into - A crowded street. She saw Kaiel standing at the other end of the street, and knew who her designated assassin was.

They both approached each other, guns drawn, ready to strike. Kaiel was cautious, not knowing how Lix would react.

"None of this was personal", Lix's voice wavered as she addressed Kaiel. He knew what she meant. "Baby, you don't want to do this.", he retorted.

Lix knew what she had signed up for. She knew the alternatives.

"I have known love with you.", her words followed with a gunshot.

Kaiel leapt forward, his hands grabbing Lix as she fell.

The Boy who spoke in Idioms

 I am not exactly the social type, and I am not really proud of it, but it is these limited set of social exposures which almost always brings me in contact with people whom otherwise I would have rejected as out right social outcasts.

I vividly remember the first encounter. It was wee hours of a chilly January, and I was out on one of my usual "Think in the stillness of the night" strolls. I don't quite recollect the topic of my mental misery that morning, but it was intense. I would occasionally mumble arguments to the pressing thought experiment, and shake my head in disagreement as the argument failed to justify the premise.

"I can offer a penny for your thought." The voice startled me out of my self imposed isolation.

I was so deep in my own head that I had not noticed any one else sharing the trail with me.

"Oh, Its nothing, just some philosophical arguments to keep me busy while I hike along the trail."

"Your mumbling caused a stir, now I am all ears with ants in my pants".

He piqued my interest and I decided to share with him the topic of my mental discourse, and at his requests, my self centered mumbling was turned into a louder monologue with an occasional contribution from the stranger on the trail. The stranger  was a young boy in his early teens, with a face full of patchy pubescent growth, and occasional pitch shifts in the voice.

The chance meeting soon became a regular event,  because we both lived in the same neighborhood, and he took the trail every day that time to collect his newspaper deliveries.

He was not exactly the mouthy one, and I realized why we could comfortably share the trail every morning. He loved to listen. He was silent most of the time, but on the occasions when he spoke, he would always be on point. My mental monologue now had an audience and a critique, and I soon realized the lengths I could push my arguments, thanks to a second brain. I slowly started enjoying the company, and this went on for a while.

Life in most cases blind sides you, and in my case it was in the form of a transfer. By the summer I had moved to a new neighborhood and soon my mornings were back to the old "isolated in my mind castle" strolls. I would not deny that I missed having someone add colour to my arguments, we humans choose to move on, and I did the same, but having some one to share the thoughts and conclusions was something I dearly missed.

I soon found a stage where I could share my profound thoughts, and soon had quite a following at my work place. My colleagues had become my sound boards and loyal audiences. This facade went on for a while, until I overhead a water cooler conversation, where some one was really annoyed with the constant showers of "intellectual fallacies" forced upon her. I confronted her, and gave her the stage. Her responses really stunned me. She said and I quote "You are not exactly the philosophical sod you believe your self to be. A kid armed with Idioms can add more to your arguments, than you can with all your knowledge."

Her words brought back what I had forgotten. 

I missed the boy who spoke in idioms.