In his blood

The lights were off. It was quiet around, as usually it was during that time of the night. The fan, with its old regulator in place, growled on. A mosquito net, sometimes flowing in the ensuing blow, more of filtered the cool air. He was sweating profusely. His eyes were red. Only the night prowler could have distinguished. The FM was playing on his headphones. It felt like torrential party rallies on loud-speakers. They disturbed the setting. He lay still. One by one, hot drops wetted the pillow. Moment by moment, he grew further detached from himself. Instant by instant, he grew calmer.

Maybe, now, he’d have cooled down. He wiped his cheek and then his eyes. He touched his pillow, realizing his weakness. He should have held himself. He thought again, logically and practically. Yes, that was the term she had used, when all the time, it was him who had tried to make her think that way. He realizes every dog has its day. Strengths have an amazing ability to become a weakness at a critical point. He was the epitome of calm, the idea of ubercool for everybody. He had now failed them. He had failed himself.

Dragging himself he washed himself in the washroom. Puffy eyes couldn’t be transformed in a jiffy. He turned off the lights. It was fruitfully dark again. He felt a sigh of relief. He was away from prying eyes. Dutifully, he scratched around before he found his moneybag stacked away in the drawer. Without a hesitation, he took out the parched paper covering something inside.

There was a slicing sound. Maybe a slicing screech would have described it more aptly. Suddenly he felt calm. His wrists felt cool. It was pleasant to find viscous flow struggling through, just like him. Struggle was written in his blood. Steadily he closed his eyes. He hoped once, someone would come and bring him back from that terrible nightmare. He again hoped, this time, that he was never disturbed. And all along he fell into a soothing sleep, lips curled into a penchant smile.