Unspoken Sins

All the shops were closed, the street was deserted. I was about to take the stairs when I noticed there was still some blood on my left palm. I started rubbing the blood off, but it dried up.

The stairs were dark and unfamiliar. I climbed the stairs with a burning cigarette on my lips. The lobby was dimly lit and the plaster was falling off. The brown wooden door of the apartment was staring at me.

I snuffed out the cigarette bud with my boots before opening the door and made my way in. The bulb in the lamp was flickering on the left wall. The bed was neatly made and at one end candles were burning. But my senses were soon overpowered by her aroma.

She was sitting on the bed. It was not a usual place for us to meet, but she said it was urgent. Her legs were covered with black stockings; her slender body was adorned by a black corset, legs folded with black heels on her sleek pointed feet. Her hands stretched firmly behind her, supporting her back on the bed. Her hair flowing down from her right shoulder. Red lips resembling the setting sun with all its glory and grandeur; black mascara darker than new moon night; red nails ablaze like hell fire.

Her eyes had a different emotion that day.

Not seducing but her charisma was such even Satan’s eyeballs would be pleased. Beauty is too small a word.

I kept my black over coat on the sofa and walked towards her. Her shoulders protruded a little. She straightened her legs and looked towards me with lustful eyes.

I grabbed her hand, pulled her towards me and planted my lips on hers. She closed her eyes and brought her tongue into my mouth. Her hands rolled over my back, moving upwards, she caressed my hair.

We both were in ecstasy. I threw her onto the bed and removed my shirt. She started to move back with swift inviting movements.

I was on top of her, we started kissing again. Her wet lips went from my ears to my neck, while my fingers pushed up her dress as I caressed her thighs.

With one sudden push on my chest, she rolled me over, got on top of me and looked deep into my eyes. Her mascara was little disfigured. Till now we hadn't said a word. Her lips moved to say, you do know that I love you? Tears started rolling from her eyes; she lowered herself on me, kissed and sucked my lips.

I couldn’t understand, it felt like it was our last passionate love. Shattered by this thought, I clasped her waist, closed even the minute distance between us and kissed her with more passion and valour.

Suddenly she removed her lips from mine, moved back, quickly swept her hand under the pillow and pulled out a dagger. With a crushing blow she buried it deep into the centre of my heart.

 Why? I grunted; grabbed her throat... choking her. She twisted the dagger and that was my last breath. Tears were still rolling down her eyes; blood was oozing out of my chest. My eyes still open, blood red, filled with questions and despair.

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I hate to see the moon

Sitting silently on an armchair in a dimly lit cold room, a novel lying on the armrest, a cigarette burning in my left hand… I open my eyes to see a full moon outside the window. A bright soothing moon with some dark spots, they say the spots are a part of its beauty. Claiming the dark blue sky, hiding behind the clouds and sometimes emerging from it as if slowly my beloved removed her veil; it slowly mesmerized me into a world of serenity.

Few stars shining so distantly, some flickering just enough and so mildly not to distract all the attention but to elude the persona of the moon. A tree with branches hanging just outside the window, some very thin and fragile, pointing towards the moon as if calling it to be closer and more closer, getting seduced, charmed  by its presence.

Yes, I felt it that way. The moon was the epicenter where all the artistry of the creator and my intent was directed to. The whole ambiance became so exuberant and exhilarating that I immediately stood up, rushed towards the window and closed the curtains.

I don’t want the moon in my life. I can’t remember the last time I looked outside the window at night. My eyes have stopped searching for the absolute beauty; but I don’t know why the image was still lingering in my mind. To my dismay I couldn’t take my mind off. I think the moon too wants its beauty to be seen, admired; it wants poems written on it; smiles back when someone looks with love towards it. So much love, affection, admiration to one beauty which doesn’t even have light of its own. The glow which it emanates, belongs to someone else; someone who burns every day.

Feeling helpless, I took a deep breath and brought my left hand closer to my mouth. Not realizing that the cigarette has already fallen from my hand and the novel slipped from the armrest. My eyes started searching for the burning cigarette. As soon as my eyes laid its sight on it, I walked quickly with staggering steps, picked it up, took a deep satisfying drag and again sat on the armchair. I picked the novel back onto my lap and started looking for the page where I left.

Here it is! My eyes exclaimed. I again engulfed my thoughts into the book; started reading, contemplating, just to take my thoughts away. But I couldn’t stop those moments of the time I spent admiring the moon to creep into my mind. When I used to write poems on it, love it, embrace it in the depth of my eyes. Time has changed so much, what happened? I asked apprehensively. When I reached the second paragraph, suddenly a flash of light passed through my eyes. It said “I don’t want to be the moon; I want to be its meaning.”

Unaware; suddenly the curtains flew away. The moon was staring at me with its entire glow through the window. I could see nothing else, no stars, no sky, no clouds and no branches that were before calling the moon so desirably. The epitome of beauty was now hurting my eyes.

I realized the importance of the moon was not of its alone; sky, stars, trees, clouds, everything together gave the moon its beauty… its grace. The elegance does not belong to the moon alone. All play there part in the creation of the perfect masterpiece. I played my part in bringing out the essence... feeling it, praising it, celebrating it. But the moon didn’t realize…

One becomes a moon but never immerses in its meaning. Now I realized why I hate to see the moon.

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The lane

I stood in front of a lonely lane, intrigued, little skeptical whether I should march my tired legs through the inviting path. There was a dilapidated wooden home on the right with a broken swing in the withered lawn. I could see the depth of the narrow lane and can feel the silence of the home. A brown colour sofa abode in the porch, claiming the place, reminding that someone used to spend secluded evenings on it. A wooden tea table was kept beside it, but why a cup was still left on it? An incomplete moment, an evening of longing, waiting for someone to arrive?

 I was contemplating when I stepped my left foot on the lane. I don’t know why I chose to take that path on that day. I usually go to my home from the main road on everyday walks from the park. I used to see that lane every day, it somehow attracted me… enticed me in a way that my heart used to get engulfed by a paranoia due to an intense emotion which the lane bestowed.

With my first step I felt a chill run down my spine, there was no wind but it seemed like a storm had passed through that place. I saw a jar lying beside the fence of the lawn. The top was covered with a muddy purple cloth and tightly tied with a red colour nylon rope as if it was meant not to be opened by anyone. The jar was dull dark blue with stars and a girl flying a white kite painted on it.

 But why it was lying there, I questioned while bringing the jar closer to my chest. It was not heavy. After untying the red nylon rope I placed the cloth on the fence. A folded paper was there inside it. I took out the paper, it was wet. Somehow I desperately tried to read after slowly unfolding the paper but the ink was blotted leaving it unreadable. There was a sentence written on it but I couldn't understand. I realized it was French when I encountered a disfigured word chéri in it.

Who wrote it? And why that person left it here? Many questions were striking in my frantic thoughts. My eyes started searching the entire page and I found a name written at the bottom of it. Rosemary. Who was she? Did she live here? Why she left this over here? I looked at the house again, staring at the windows. It was dark inside, white torn curtains were hanging, gloomy but still it gave a sense of belonging.

I looked at the extreme right window, and I think I saw someone. I took a quick step forward focusing my bright eager eyes, but a thought held me back that it might have been just a shadow. I folded the paper, put it back in the jar and covered it with the cloth again.

I was confused. What should I do with it, leave it here? After thinking for a while I kept it in my back pack so that I can save it from this ruinous surrounding. This place which has consumed everything around it, swallowed, hidden it in the deep dungeon of its realm.

I started my walk again, my hesitance was replaced by the acceptance of the profound aura which that place was reciprocating. It was not just gloomy as I felt before. But now I felt a melancholy. Its vibe was attached to mine. There was a connect, now it brought out a peculiar character. I did not feel lonely, but yes, as if alone in a field surrounded by hundreds of kerosene lamps.

There is something which still calls me to that lane… that house… but after that day I haven’t crossed that path again. During my daily evening walks I just stand there, in front of the lane, capturing the melancholy in my deprived eyes.  There is a feeling that if I take few steps towards the house, something wouldn't let me go…

 I don’t know why I kept that jar with me. Do I feel empowered or a sense of fulfillment is attained by owning someone else’s memory? Or might be just to know; to acknowledge; be a part of someone else’s memory which in return becomes a proof of my existence. Why I felt the need to secure it, cherish it? We all like mysteries. We create mysteries where none exist. In that hope I still hold onto that jar. One day I might find its reason of lying there, one day I might decipher the mutilated words. One day I might know who Rosemary is. 

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