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.
