Warning – Please keep your guards up . This is not a sunny work. Not one bit pleasant. And it is dark. Bihan lovers please think twice before reading please
It was music to my ears. The clinking of the razor blades. It gave me an odd pleasure, an odd excitable pleasure. I felt the excitement bubbling up inside my stomach as I stripped to my boxers. I slipped into the shower. A light smile tugged at my lips. The water droplets ran down the length of my rough body. I felt them but I was impatient. Turning off the shower head I strolled to the mirror.
The sight of my unusually pale body greeted me in the mirror. My fingers tingled. I stood closer to the mirror and ran my eyes over the length of my chest and abs, feeling them with my eyes. I smiled as the pale remnants of my works greeted me. I ran my palm over them. I am an artist you see. A very good one in fact. People have appreciated my sketches. But they never knew my real talent. I was good with sketches alright but my brilliance lay in carving. The proof- my body.
You see I am a special case. Very special. It started when I was 10. I was like any other 10 year olds mind you, except orphaned. I don’t know if there are other 10 year olds who are orphaned, but I was one. It wasn’t really a comfortable experience I suppose but I was at peace. Then he came to my life. My Bauji. He took me in. oh I was delighted alright. But then my craving for carving started.
Say what do you think of love? Have you seen it? People say you don’t see love but experience. But I disagree. I have seen love. I have seen love when Maa slapped me when I accidently hit Dhruv. I have seen love when she abused me. I despise it. I despise love. But I love love too. You are amused I suppose. Love is an abstraction. Despise is another abstraction. How can one despise or love love? Honestly I don’t have a clue but I do both.
People often say that I am capable of the most amazing kind of love. I hate it. And I hate them. And I despise myself. I don’t want to love you see, but it’s my second nature. Love is agony for me and I hate it. And I make cuts to get rid of the agony and I love the pleasure. Yes I go back to loving. See I have confused you too.
People also say that I am lucky. It wasn’t like every street urchin had a chance to be the prince of a mansion much less had a chance to be loved. Bauji loved me and I loved him back. His mother loved me and I loved her back. His wife loved me- I bit back my laughter at my joke. What you didn’t get it? Well you wont of course, you are not me. It’s a little poem I have in the back of my head. It goes like this. The first line
“Bauji loved me and I loved him back…”
I took the razor blade and examined its shiny end. Perfect. Unlike me. I ran it gently up and down the length of my right arm. I closed my eyes. It felt right. Bauji’s words came back up.
“You street urchin, you are no son of mine-
I made the cut on top of my shoulder. I didn’t even flinch. I am habituated to pain.
“Thapki is right-
The laughter bubbled up in my stomach. Thapki. They worship her. The blade progressively slid down my pale arm to my elbow. But I know better. I know what she is. I stared at the mirror. The scarlet line on my right arm looked beautiful. The blood was seeping from the wound. This was my favorite part. The blood would eventually slide down making various paths and finally to the floor. The scarlet blotches on the wet floor had the uncanny resemblance to oil paint on canvas and the sight of them pleasured the artist in me. You want to know the next line of my poem?
“His mother loved me and I loved her back…”
I made the cut on my left shoulder. This time I was careful to dig the blade deeper into the wound. This one was special. What is the greater sin? Doing a crime or inaction against the crime? Wait this isn’t right. I am getting it all wrong again. What is the crime in not loving me? See that word again. Love is a crime in itself. Then the people I consider culprits are innocent? I stopped at the elbow and glanced at the mirror. I was mesmerized by the beauty of the scarlet line yet again. She also loves Thapki betiya. Who am I after all? I am not worth tenth of her.
“His wife loved me and I loved her back…”
A mad laughter escaped me. I couldn’t help it. This was the best part of my poem. The irony. My blade demanded my attention. I could hear it calling my name. It wanted to know the place I chose for it to work. I guided it to my chest. This was tricky. I imagined her face. The woman I despise the most yet the woman I love the most. The woman who destroyed me. My hand slipped, the blade almost pierced my heart. I remembered that I had a heart. Good. I had forgotten about that. I had thought all the years of yearning for her love must have withered my heart but then she came and broke it. Thapki. But it’s still there, broken but beating. I drew two lines across my chest. In the mirror my reflection looked beautiful.
“His son loved me and I loved him back…”
This line filled my heart with joy. Oh I loved him. And I broke him too. I loved the power that gave me. I remember that I used to hate myself for the same. I still hate myself but no for that. I broke the perfect little son. My hands twitched. The blade was whispering again. The blood wasn’t enough. More blood it seemed to scream. And I knew I wanted the same. I checked my upper body for a perfect spot and I found it. The collar bone. It was a pristine place, never before touched by my blades. I deserved to celebrate this cut. I broke him and he is suffering. I knew it was payback for all the hurt his existence caused me. Which means I broke his mother. The skin on my collar bone tingled in anticipation and I heard it giggle as I stroked it. Then scarlet.
I adored tending to myself you see. My skin hummed when I dampened the cotton ball. I heard the wounds sing when I took the cotton ball to the wounds. I watched as the cotton ball rolled over the wounds sucking up the red blood. I caressed the cleaned wounds. They felt rough against my fingers. Then I dipped the cotton balls in alcohol. My fingers tingled in excitement. I loved this part of the ritual. I squeezed the alcohol onto my wound. A low sigh escaped me as it burned my skin. I closed my eyes in bliss. I applied alcohol with the cotton ball, leisurely running it over the cuts as I prepared myself for the last cut. You see my poem is not complete. This line is a recent addition. Very recent.
I loved my wife and she loved me back…I loved the angel and the witch loved me back..”
My hands ran through the first aid box for the cotton bandage. Thapki. I love her. And I hate love. I despise love. I love love . She took everything away from me. Everything. She took everything that mattered to me. I took a piece of the bandage and tightened it around my right wrist right below the vein. I did the same on my other wrist. She was a monster with an Angel’s face. And she was an Angel too. She fed on love. My lips curled up. She took all my brother’s love. She took my father’s love. She took my grandmother’s love. She took my mother’s love. I was amused to say the least. how can she take love from a person so incapable of love? And as if all of it wasn’t enough she took my love too and broke me, broke my heart.
The blades were calling me again. They had an alluring voice. I wanted nothing more than their presence. They whispered like a lover. A lover. They had Thapki’s voice. I caressed the blades wiping them clean. I dabbed the alcohol on them.
“I loved the angel and the witch loved me back…”
She loved me. After taking everything away from me, she loved me. I reveled in my knowledge. It gave me pleasure, just like the cuts. She never said a word but her eyes conveyed.
“I loved the angel and the witch loved me back…”
I am going to take everything away from her. The laughter broke. I knew my blades were laughing with me. I trailed my fingers with the blades and I felt the goose bumps of thrill. The purple of the veins enthralled me. And swish to the right. I was intoxicated when the blood gushed out. My right hand was almost limp but I held the blade firmly. My precious blade. Another swish to the left. Right and left does the trick. Then Scarlet all over.
Okay this is the first time I am writing stuff like this …Gillian Flynn’s book Sharp objects was lying on my table and I was thinking how Bihan can be mentally deranged from morning as I was reading up stress and mental illness
Credit to: Lachu