as my guitar lies bleeding in my arms
And there she sat, with her headphone pounding Metallica into her ears. Did it drown the sound o her thoughts? Not really, although she wished the voice would stop. Her voice, all but, gone. A scream was slowly building, moving through the overtures, the crescendo creeping up on her, slowly, steadily, increasingly urgent. She sat there, with her red nails poised over the cup of tea; almost as if she were about to start plucking the strings of her guitar, which was nowhere in sight.
The steam rising from the masala chai enveloped her index finger ever so softly, till it looked like a shadow of itself. She looked down, at her fingers, her beautiful fingers. He loved her fingers. He always said she had fingers that belonged to an artist; or a surgeon. Those fingers curled tightly into fists; her nails cutting into the silk of her palms, leaving deep moon shapes to remind her of it. She wondered about the sudden turn of events. She wondered the eternal question. She wondered as she let her arms relax, palms falling back to the rough parapet. A sudden rush of blood to her already flushed face, perhaps, was the only sign of life she allowed herself.
She stood for a minute; still and stoic. Abruptly, gulping down the tea, scalding hot as it was, she slung her bag over her shoulder and strode away like walking away from life. He shoulders, slim and solid, looked bent today. Her feet, they moved like made of lead. She looked like she was going to turn around and come back. She looked like she hesitated. But then, she moved on, away from him, going away. She didn’t look back; not once. She didn’t turn back to look at him one last time. There was no point anymore.
She didn’t flinch even as the truck hit her head-on. She faced it like she’d face an audience. She turned her head slightly to her left, noticing, perhaps, how the headlights flashed off her white Swatch. She tilted her head towards the skies, asking for an answer, maybe? Chances are that she simply wanted to look up and see the stars one last time or maybe, the smile was meant to be a challenge – maybe she wanted to taunt her God; show him how powerless he was to save her from this waste. The truck mowed her down. It moved over like she was nothing but a rag, lying on the road. The wheels caressed her legs, and made rough love to her breasts and kissed her lips with a savagery she could’ve never, possibly, imagined. Her hair looked resplendent; shining red and gold and brown under the harsh light of the lone streetlamp on that road.
Even as he ran, yelling out to her to stop, even as the truck driver honked for all he was worth and braked as if it was himself he saw on the street, even as he fell, over himself, the truck made its progress across her, not silently. Not one sound came from her. Not when the crunch her pelvis made resounded out loud, not then. She didn’t utter a word, a cry, a sigh.
There were tears, yes. He did cry. When she was gone, when she was lying dead on that road, he sat down, not next to her, but on the pavement and cried. He howled at the moon, he screamed at the pricks of light in the sky. He looked around with wild eyes, drop after drop following the same path down his cheeks; some finding their way across the bridge of his nose. He sat there for a long time. Then, it was quiet; quiet as death.
And she was dead.
The steam rising from the masala chai enveloped her index finger ever so softly, till it looked like a shadow of itself. She looked down, at her fingers, her beautiful fingers. He loved her fingers. He always said she had fingers that belonged to an artist; or a surgeon. Those fingers curled tightly into fists; her nails cutting into the silk of her palms, leaving deep moon shapes to remind her of it. She wondered about the sudden turn of events. She wondered the eternal question. She wondered as she let her arms relax, palms falling back to the rough parapet. A sudden rush of blood to her already flushed face, perhaps, was the only sign of life she allowed herself.
She stood for a minute; still and stoic. Abruptly, gulping down the tea, scalding hot as it was, she slung her bag over her shoulder and strode away like walking away from life. He shoulders, slim and solid, looked bent today. Her feet, they moved like made of lead. She looked like she was going to turn around and come back. She looked like she hesitated. But then, she moved on, away from him, going away. She didn’t look back; not once. She didn’t turn back to look at him one last time. There was no point anymore.
She didn’t flinch even as the truck hit her head-on. She faced it like she’d face an audience. She turned her head slightly to her left, noticing, perhaps, how the headlights flashed off her white Swatch. She tilted her head towards the skies, asking for an answer, maybe? Chances are that she simply wanted to look up and see the stars one last time or maybe, the smile was meant to be a challenge – maybe she wanted to taunt her God; show him how powerless he was to save her from this waste. The truck mowed her down. It moved over like she was nothing but a rag, lying on the road. The wheels caressed her legs, and made rough love to her breasts and kissed her lips with a savagery she could’ve never, possibly, imagined. Her hair looked resplendent; shining red and gold and brown under the harsh light of the lone streetlamp on that road.
Even as he ran, yelling out to her to stop, even as the truck driver honked for all he was worth and braked as if it was himself he saw on the street, even as he fell, over himself, the truck made its progress across her, not silently. Not one sound came from her. Not when the crunch her pelvis made resounded out loud, not then. She didn’t utter a word, a cry, a sigh.
There were tears, yes. He did cry. When she was gone, when she was lying dead on that road, he sat down, not next to her, but on the pavement and cried. He howled at the moon, he screamed at the pricks of light in the sky. He looked around with wild eyes, drop after drop following the same path down his cheeks; some finding their way across the bridge of his nose. He sat there for a long time. Then, it was quiet; quiet as death.
And she was dead.
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