Running

Sweat trickled down the clean-shaven face. Norman was only keeping up a brisk pace, but it felt as if his heart would give out. Two hours and twenty three minutes since he’d left Preston’s, without a penny in his pocket or any kind of ID on his being. If he were to die that day, it would take Kelly at least a week to be informed of his death. Kelly was all he had – his friend, his family, his wife. They had no kids. And Kelly didn’t seem to want any.

Five minutes later, he allowed himself to turn around and scour the streets for the small man in leather jackets, black pants and leather boots. Norman had never observed the man’s facial features too properly, and in any case, the gun was a fair warning that he should keep his distance.

But the phone call the other night – that told him to make a run for it.

The threat was blatant, obvious and carried no undertones of a greater scheme behind it all. Norman would die, shot in the head, even if he decided to run. A strange surge of optimism, probably developed through the three years of dealing drugs on the side, made him decide to try anyway.

Salesmen always made good drug dealers, Norman thought. They traveled around and no one suspected a thing. Well, almost. Lately Kelly had been giving him the ‘squint eye’. And Norman had been kissing his way out of trouble. Before boarding the Dallas flight however, Norman had looked her straight in the eye and told her he had gotten a promotion and they wanted him to sell larger packages, subtly glancing over at the duffel bags he would not let her touch, as he spoke. Delicate stuff, he said, priceless.

Nearing four hours and ten, Norman allowed himself to slow down. He decided he’d like time to go over his short, miserable life before they put a bullet through his brain. There was not much to go over, he’d done a whole lot of bad but so near the end of his time, Norman realized, he wouldn’t do things any different even if given the chance. He thought about Kelly. He loved Kelly, with all his heart. Probably the one thing he did right and as true as he could manage, was Kelly.

His heart began to burn now. His throat was dry and closing up fast, his stomach churned violently, threatening to release last night’s take out and a substantial portion of bile. Norman bit his tongue, trying hard not to puke. He couldn’t risk letting his body lose more fluid. And just when he thought he’d pass out, someone grabbed his shoulders hard. And then he passed out.

Norman woke up to total darkness, tied hands and feet, a stinging smell of urine and a massive disappointment at having woken up still alive. He hated the drama. All the drama in the world wouldn’t count for shit when he died; he’d burn in hell. When after a long while nothing happened, Norman decided to hold his breath till he died. He fell asleep instead and dreamt of Kelly. She was more beautiful than ever, the blush of pregnancy clear on her fair cheeks. Kelly was finally pregnant; her belly was swollen ever so slightly, her skin was shinier and her hair more lively. But she was not smiling. She didn’t even look happy, just smug and distant. And the man standing beside her wasn’t Norman as well. He was balding, and smelt undeniably of beer, blood and urine. He wore a blue shirt and black pants, which on any other man would have added positively to his appearance, but it took from him. He looked sly and far more dangerous than the guy who had been following Norman.

The worst part was, Kelly held on to his arm fast and tight and far surer than she did with him. Maybe because the guy was holding a gun and Norman was tied helplessly to a chair. In the fifteen or so seconds it took for the bullet to hit his temple, Norman realized the guy was an excellent shot, death hurt more than he had anticipated, and why Kelly didn’t mind not having kids with him.

 

 

 

 

 

Kevin Tatum Died

Kevin Tatum died of drug overdose, said the police, family and girlfriend. However, law did call for interrogations, but they lasted only all of four hours.
Ian Fernandez, Liam Spacey and Marie McKesson were charged with possession of cocaine. That came as no surprise to anyone. The rest of Kevin’s class were dorks, anyway. If anyone was guilty of anything, they had been taken in, save the one that died and escaped to hell.
Not much changed after Kevin; the school still hosted the Science Fair and the annual Mathlete Meet.
Norman Feller led his team to mathematical victory. That too, came as no surprise to anyone.
Celebrations followed at Feller’s house, attended by all five members of his team. Feller’s mom made pie, delicious pie. Before 7, everyone went back home save Denise Ackermann, who stayed back for another slice of pie.
Denise was senior to Norman in years and in school, but Norman was the veteran when it came to brain power. Denise and Norman hardly ever spoke after Norman replaced her as team leader. No surprise there. Again.
That night, things changed. Denise spoke, said congratulations and even left Norman a small gift.
However, it took Norman a few minutes after she left to finally realize that Denise and he were going to be friends, and he hastily undid the first token of their friendship: a flash drive marked with the initials ‘K.T’, a used syringe and a note which read :

“I did my bit to keep our secret. And you’re going to be a father.

Surprise.”

 

Pity

A lot of people turned up at Natalie’s funeral. The whole lot of them, genuinely grieving. Natalie’s was a presence most enjoyed. No one had imagined she’d leave so soon. No one had asked her to stay, either.

She wasn’t an easy child, no. But she was all too lovable. When she was gone, her family lost it. Understandably. They had to be seen to, frequently. The funeral had been arranged by Natalie’s relatives. Her father had begged to pay for it.

The priest said what he had to, what he had been paid to say; he didn’t know Natalie. The ones who did, couldn’t quite sum up what she had meant to them, in any of their speeches. But they didn’t need to. All of them felt the same way and knew exactly what the other meant.

Her mother wanted to bury some of Natalie’s things with her – her diaries, art-books, scrapbooks, and anything else she felt symbolized the fact that there was so much more to her daughter than she had been aware of. She didn’t want to know a different daughter without being able to tell her how she felt about her.

The coffin was lowered, prayers were said. Natalie was now officially gone and her life, as they knew it, was broken and down and analyzed, all of a sudden with interest.

“Pity she had never fallen in love.”

That was the last word. Still grieving, one by one they went home. And only after they all did, he decided to show up. His face twisted with unimaginable grief and shamefulness, he decided to sit down by the tombstone and say everything he didn’t but should have.

And hour later he left, having only sighed. He was in love, but she would never know.

But all he really had to do was read – her mind, her eyes, read through what she said and read all of what she wrote and he’d know.

But he didn’t. And now he couldn’t. Ever.

Pity.

 

The Important Thing

The important thing, she learned, the important thing was to walk on without looking back. And even if you’re walking along the highway alone, in pouring rain, especially if you’re walking along the highway alone in pouring rain, a car will stop. Or two. Or four. And in the fourth car, after you’ve rejected the first three with crossed fingers and daring to push your luck beyond it’s boundaries, will be a handsome man. You’d get in and run your hands over the plush, warm seat and simply breathe in the air of the Sedan you’ve wanted for so long, taking care to make your admiration of the vehicle known to it’s owner. If the owner smiled, and in all likelihood he will, and in the privacy of the moment threw quite a few glances over your body with questionable intention, you’d smile back. And run your hands up his thigh. But not before you’ve shaken the rain from your hair and unbuttoned your shirt down to just about let the man’s imagination run wild, ferocious even.

You’d pray in your mind that he did not have a second woman waiting for him at home, or even if he did, he had balls enough to give her the slip. The Sedan would probably halt at a mansion-y house, and the owner would be kind and horny enough to ask you to spend the night, because it was sinful to let such a young woman out in the streets at night, in the rain.

Well, sin would prevail. The night would not be quiet, and both of you would make the most of each other, till you’d be spent and would have to drop down breathless. And in the following moments of letting the event sink in, you’d hope that the man had had been sex-deprived for long enough to let him fall instantly asleep, after having fucked her to satiety.

Then the syringe would pierce his arm and he’d wake up with wide eyes, only to fall asleep again. You’d take the money, take the car and reflect, as you drove off, on blowing your chances of ever witnessing the Pearly Gates.

But, as you had learned, the important thing was to not look back. You’d just keep on moving forward and hope that the rain would wash away the sordidness of your soul. Tomorrow would be another highway and tonight’s lesson.

Gucci For My Birthday

For the last two years, her grades had consistently been dropping. No one wanted to know why, just that they did. They already had a hundred assumptions as to why, of their own. She didn’t like the way things were going either. She hated disappointing her dad. But she decided it was better letting him know, somehow.

Home for the break, she spent every ounce of courage her frail self could manage to muster, and broke the news. “I’m failing.”

Dad looked at her for a minute without replying. When he left the room, all the courage and purpose she held on to, left her with him. Mom screamed of course. A series of “How can you?”s and “Do you have any idea what this means for your career?”s followed one after the other, fast and harsh.

But it’s like she couldn’t even hear her. Back in her room, the calendar said it was her birthday the next day. And while the blade carved the scar on her wrist, she decided it didn’t matter.

Dusk descended. Dad drove the car out into the street. And in the last few seconds of her consciousness, she wondered whether he’d gone to get her the Gucci handbag she’d said she wanted.

The Escape

Mother of two, she knew when the condom had failed. Unceremoniously picked up from an aisle in the pharmacy down the street, carefully alert for the cheapest brands and paid for with averted eyes, jerky movements and cheeks burning with silent imputation, the condom had failed and a possible third child beckoned from inside her belly, brain, failing health and family economy. She was suspicious but far from sure, and after a long debate with herself, she decided against a pregnancy test and chose to hold on to the almost-negligible hope that it was a false alarm.

That night when the man groped, grovelled, and grunted about in the dark, she broke free from his grip, ran to the bathroom with the bed-sheets dancing about her half naked form, and locked herself in till the next morning. The man shouted all night, curses and such obscenities as she’d never heard before and when light creeped in through the bathroom window, heavy footsteps, evident of a persistent hangover, were heard trudging down the stairs and out the door. The car started up, and drove off. Thankfully, all that noise didn’t wake up the kids, or maybe it did and scared them to silence. Either way, they were spared the wrath of the drunken man she had dared to deprive of sinful pleasure.

Breakfast were half-tumblers full of pumpkin juice for everybody at the table, and then the boy was off to school and the girl went up on her hips and with her to the McGuire’s house, where she worked the day as one of the kitchen-maids. Thrice she fainted, and choked on the morning’s pumpkin juice that threatened to make a reappearance, and when she’d dropped two plates one after the other, Mrs. McGuire asked her to go home.

She’d neared the bend round which stood the two-floored brick building that the man let her come home to after work, and paused for breath. The loud bang of the car door and thundering voice of the perpetually drunk man, made her hold it once again. He had gambled away another twelve hundred dollars, where he made none and she made only three hundred every month. And the money-lenders had started to suspect that they might never be paid back.

If the man’s exclamations were anything to go by, the house had been robbed of every nickel and amounted to less than one-tenth of the amount he had bet on and lost. She patted the five hundred dollars in her apron pocket with shaking hands. She had saved that for herself and the kids. And he knew the house yielded far less than he had calculated. The faint, unmistakable click of a gun barrel being loaded, and she knew he was coming after her.

Her stomach churned, her brain throbbed and her limbs refused to co-operate, but she ran like she’d never run before, and with every jerk of her frail body, she realized that a third child was out of the question. She belched on the asphalt, and kept running, hugging the girl to her bosom and praying that the man did not get to the boy first.

The busy town streets were just in view, and she allowed herself a split second of relief. She was going to the city. Her, the two kids and five hundred dollars to build a new life. The boy waited by the florist’s shop like he always did and she ran faster, and just before she reached his outstretched, anxious hand, she wretched again. But she was smiling now. She had escaped.

The girl cried at her chest and she grabbed the boy’s hand and the bullet burst through her temple before she heard the shot. But the following two were unmistakable and quick in succession. As the three hit the ground and life inched out of her by the second, she realized she had never felt more alive. After all, she really had escaped and there was no coming back.

Bus Ride To Stanton

A breezy morning, light jacket and empty streets were all it took to make me feel like I could take on anything. Two minutes into thinking I would, an old woman grabbed my arm. Clothed in a multitude of patches clashing color and a versatile array of fabric items all wrapped in an uncomfortably long metro-sexual coat, evidently symbolic of the frighteningly increasing population of the street-driven destitutes, I knew she wanted money. Surprising my own self, I dared to ask why. She said she needed to take the bus to Stanton. Her son was dying.

My instincts screamed at me to call her bluff. I did. “Why don’t you try the bus-stop then? I’m sure you’ll find a lot of mothers trying to go home to their dying sons. If they can make it, I’m sure you’ll have no problem.”

And as I walked on, I was conscious of a glaring pair of eyes wrinkled round the corner, shouting far more curses than impulsively escaped her lips. I ignored all of that. I could take on anything.

When I injured my arm pretty bad, during the visit to my godmother who lived in Stanton, and was rushed to the hospital, I still had that cheeky grin on my face telling of my self proclaimed invincibility. An hour or so later, I walked down the reception area, almost showing off the plaster on my arm, basking in the gleam of the survivor’s badge, silently shouting to the world that I had taken on so many things and come through victorious.

Two minutes into the declaration of my victory, I passed the short, twisted figure of an aged female wrapped in an uncomfortably long metro-sexual overcoat.  And a doctor who sighed and left and a nurse who conveyed apologies about not being able to save her son to a distant, empty pair of eyes, wrinkled round the corners.

And then the eyes looked at me. Through me. My pride shattered, the badge became a burden, guilt packed a cruel blow on my guts and for all that taking-on-anything, I crumbled.

 

Ask And You Will Be Answered

She had her dinner and walked up the stairs

To her room, then joined her palms in prayer.

She prayed using the same old words

“Father, help us all to love and care.”

 

She pulled the covers over her tiny self

And tried to hum herself to sleep.

She hummed her favourite nursery rhymes,

Twinkle Twinkle and Baa Baa Black Sheep.

 

She lay indecisively in bed,

Wanting to run into the arms of her Mommy.

Wanting to tell her she had a nightmare,

Wanting to tell her that nightmare’s Daddy.

 

She looked at the little copy of the Bible

Resting on her bedside drawer.

Ran her fingers lightly over the binded cover,

Remembered all the things Mommy had taught her.

 

“I don’t like Daddy anymore, Mommy.

He’s scary and angry all the time.” she whispered,

“Why don’t you tell me where you are, Mommy?

You told me to ask and I’d be answered.”

 

Her little eyes grew moist again,

But she kept right on talking.

“I’m asking you every night, Mommy.

Why don’t you answer, why aren’t YOU talking?!”

 

“Why were there doctors in our house?

You told me you weren’t going to be sick!

Why didn’t you eat your food, Mommy?

Why were you in bed, all of that week?”

 

“Where did they take you away, Mommy?

Why don’t you answer my calls anymore?

Are you angry with me? Or Daddy, Mommy?

Did he not take you to your favourite store?”

 

“I wash the dishes myself now, Mommy.

I water the flowers and make my bed.

I made a picture of you in class the other day.

Why can’t you come over to see it?”

 

“I don’t watch TV no more.

Daddy sold it away to a big fat man.

And I also saw him take some of your stuff

There’s a pendant there, bring it back if you can.”

 

“Daddy took the pendant from me, Mommy.

Now I can’t even look at you.

All I have is your memory, Mommy.

This house doesn’t have a single picture of you.”

 

“What did I do wrong, Mommy?

Daddy told me I was a mistake!

I really have been a good girl, Mommy

Believe me, I really try my best.”

 

She really couldn’t talk anymore,

She almost choked on her own salty tears,

She was tired of asking questions,

Of all her worries, all her fears.

 

The drunken man trudged into her room,

As sleep finally rested on her eyes.

She didn’t even squeak, as he squeezed her throat,

Unconscious to the end of her life.

 

The house was empty the next day,

Save the copy of the Bible on the bedside drawer.

And the moon returned to find a lonely space,

With no questions to ask and no need for answers. 

Forever And Counting

“You gave me a forever within the numbered days.”

“And I can’t tell you how thankful I am for our little infinity.”

 

 

22 words. 2 lines. 2 lives. And endless love.