Every touch on me could put a sneer on that cursed face, the face that emits the seven sins with an ailing gleam, the face of Beelzebub!
He knew that. Still, he put his hands on me! Something must be terribly wrong!
He was on the phone: a long heart-wrenching conversation with a girl. He was biting his upper lip nervously, must be out of excessive distress.
It was the girl with whom he had fiddled around, the one who wanted to spend her life with him whereas he did not care for her at all. He was appealing but completely self-indulgence. He had deluded himself with a heightened sense of self-worth. Blinded by egomania, he couldn't look above his own reflection.
And then there was that poor girl!
She was like sweet poetry. Her smile could wipe away all his griefs, her silly talks could brighten the night. She was amazing!
Still, he could not be with her. All those charms but one was left! She was like a verselet, a song that grows within but all he wanted was a painting that soothes one's eyes.
It had started off as a fling. The girl grew crazy. He was a dream come true, a mind-stimulant narcotic. His calming voice, hard-hearted attitude, clean-cut face, the girl started inhaling everything. She did not realize how sneakily the venom began to cloud her judgment.
She was quilling future but he was sipping moments.
It took time for him to comprehend why it was brighter around her, why the breeze was warmer, why music was ever more beautiful. He had fallen in love. He could not accept it though, his drooling sense of self-worth made him hesitate. Too good and-not enough, he was hanging in between but the thing beating inside his chest confirmed the feelings that he could not accept.
That forlorn girl, she waited for two long years, sipping from his hollowness he had, expunging all his despairs, the music to his melancholy. Still, he wallowed in his own world, centered around himself. He was like a riddle, a mystery which had better remained unsolved. At times he would take her all in, tearing all the threads of her vacillations, binding her lips towards his, then again a time would come when all of that would disappear, stranding her in a desert of blazing agony.
Finally, she realized, she was never going to be a part of his story. He had a world too small to make space for her. She was crestfallen but did not blame him for all the lies. She could not say anything to him, she just left, muffling her laments, praying for the brightest sun for him.
He phoned her today. She had left 27 days ago. The conversation brought him face to face with reality, made him turn around from his own silly reflection. She told him about how the other 'he', how that 'he' claimed her with all her broken pieces, how that 'he' promised of being beside her for the eternity.
Suddenly he came out of his mind-numbing illusion. That was when he felt the sanctity of her soul, the worth of those sparkles in her glistening eyes, his fortune to have ever been touched by the lips of an aphrodite. Finally, heart and pride stood face to face. It was his heart that made him realize what an imbecile he was blinded by pride. But she was already lost, in the maddening sparks of that new 'He'.
He could not say anything to her, but he wished her happiness in her new endeavor.
All this time even I thought that his pride had prevailed over his weak heart. But at the time he took me in his hand, I knew I was wrong. He kept me in the lower drawer of his writing table, from the day on which he had bought me from that brown-eyed drug-reliant homeless. In moments of desperation, he sometimes took me out, played a bit and then caged me again. But this time it was different. I saw him putting a shiny piece of bullet in my magazine. Then he looked in the mirror. He gripped me with his left hand. I could feel the cold breeze coming from that wide window as he was holding me parallel to his head with that shivering hand. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he put his forefinger on my trigger. He closed his eyes and took a long breath. Then I felt him press the trigger.
I had told you, something was wrong.
He had loved her.
He knew that. Still, he put his hands on me! Something must be terribly wrong!
He was on the phone: a long heart-wrenching conversation with a girl. He was biting his upper lip nervously, must be out of excessive distress.
It was the girl with whom he had fiddled around, the one who wanted to spend her life with him whereas he did not care for her at all. He was appealing but completely self-indulgence. He had deluded himself with a heightened sense of self-worth. Blinded by egomania, he couldn't look above his own reflection.
And then there was that poor girl!
She was like sweet poetry. Her smile could wipe away all his griefs, her silly talks could brighten the night. She was amazing!
Still, he could not be with her. All those charms but one was left! She was like a verselet, a song that grows within but all he wanted was a painting that soothes one's eyes.
It had started off as a fling. The girl grew crazy. He was a dream come true, a mind-stimulant narcotic. His calming voice, hard-hearted attitude, clean-cut face, the girl started inhaling everything. She did not realize how sneakily the venom began to cloud her judgment.
She was quilling future but he was sipping moments.
It took time for him to comprehend why it was brighter around her, why the breeze was warmer, why music was ever more beautiful. He had fallen in love. He could not accept it though, his drooling sense of self-worth made him hesitate. Too good and-not enough, he was hanging in between but the thing beating inside his chest confirmed the feelings that he could not accept.
That forlorn girl, she waited for two long years, sipping from his hollowness he had, expunging all his despairs, the music to his melancholy. Still, he wallowed in his own world, centered around himself. He was like a riddle, a mystery which had better remained unsolved. At times he would take her all in, tearing all the threads of her vacillations, binding her lips towards his, then again a time would come when all of that would disappear, stranding her in a desert of blazing agony.
Finally, she realized, she was never going to be a part of his story. He had a world too small to make space for her. She was crestfallen but did not blame him for all the lies. She could not say anything to him, she just left, muffling her laments, praying for the brightest sun for him.
He phoned her today. She had left 27 days ago. The conversation brought him face to face with reality, made him turn around from his own silly reflection. She told him about how the other 'he', how that 'he' claimed her with all her broken pieces, how that 'he' promised of being beside her for the eternity.
Suddenly he came out of his mind-numbing illusion. That was when he felt the sanctity of her soul, the worth of those sparkles in her glistening eyes, his fortune to have ever been touched by the lips of an aphrodite. Finally, heart and pride stood face to face. It was his heart that made him realize what an imbecile he was blinded by pride. But she was already lost, in the maddening sparks of that new 'He'.
He could not say anything to her, but he wished her happiness in her new endeavor.
All this time even I thought that his pride had prevailed over his weak heart. But at the time he took me in his hand, I knew I was wrong. He kept me in the lower drawer of his writing table, from the day on which he had bought me from that brown-eyed drug-reliant homeless. In moments of desperation, he sometimes took me out, played a bit and then caged me again. But this time it was different. I saw him putting a shiny piece of bullet in my magazine. Then he looked in the mirror. He gripped me with his left hand. I could feel the cold breeze coming from that wide window as he was holding me parallel to his head with that shivering hand. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he put his forefinger on my trigger. He closed his eyes and took a long breath. Then I felt him press the trigger.
I had told you, something was wrong.
He had loved her.
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