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.