The flame that soothes, is the one that rages.
A thin line, drops down his eyes. A very thin one, at that. Sitting on the couch in that empty and almost unlit room, with even the sun rays of the setting sun, struggling to disperse in... he was consumed in his thoughts.
His, face, as dusk as the one falling outside, stern and expressionless. His eyes red and hairs messed. He hasn’t bathe for last few days. His odor stinks. He looks around and pulls the crushed hash close, fills the chillum and inhales the puff. What he breathes out is a grayish thick smoke and air gets filled with the narcotic. Ambiance was literally intoxicating.
He blinks, very slowly, raises his chin and looks straight at the mirror in front.
'What are you doing?'
'Destroying what has remained.'
He grins, sly. Blinks again.
Somewhere he knew, he was angry. Or, sad... or maybe, both. Being cheated is not a good feeling, being lied is better. Being stolen is worst. He tries to rearrange the order... may be being lied is worst, being stolen is better, and, being cheated is worse.
'Fuck it!'He has been through all three.
'It doesn't matter.'
he grunts.He moves his head, his body felt heavier. May be, the stuff was taking its toll.
'Not anymore!'
He clenches his fist.One moment, all paused, as if something was about to happen.
'Arrgh!'
with that shout he thrashes the table aside, spilling the water and breaking the chillum into two.He lights a matchstick and picks up a photograph kept aside- he and his lady, may be a girl, smiling at each other, either's eyes filled for the other.
They were near some lake, or may a be a check dam. He looked far better a person than now- healthy and happy. He's well dressed... all sober. So, was the girl.
He raises the photograph up to his face, holding firmly.
'I do not want to blame you for anything, maybe it was all my mistake...'
But, he knew , it wasn't entirely his part. He blinks again, this time more rapid.
'Trust is a choice, not a demand.'
‘Memories… haunting… NO!’
(...and hrows the photograph away, somewhere in the dark room.)Meanwhile as the flame reaches the tip, his finger burns. He drops the matchstick… the water beneath him catches fire. The flame was blue- alcohol, it was.
He watches the room catching heat.
He tries to sob- as the room lit up with the fire, he saw everything burning, the photo frames, the wardrobe, the cushions… everything. But, the last drop of tear was shed.
He jumps, at sudden, and picks the photograph from the surface,
to which the fire was approaching slowly. Though it is already half burnt at edges.
As the fire reaches his feet... he steps backwards, to the couch.
(...and sighs.)
'It's cold here.'
(says he while putting on his jacket and the photograph under its sleeves.)He knew that this fire would consume everything eventually.
'But, not now.'And so, he walks out of the room slowly, far away from the ashes of what's already gone.
