She had tried but failed. The rising sun and silent night had informed her of the passing hours. There was no clock, no window, only a thin rectangular ventilator with iron grills. Her hair were caked with dried blood and mud. The red spot on the crisp white pillow and starched bed drapes explained the amount of blood lost since she arrived. Her head felt light, parched lips and empty stomach presenting no help to her famished body. He slapped her,again, this time gifting her a cut on her lip, sending her back to her unconscious world of dreams.
...............................................................................................................
A burly boy in his late teens, with his chocolaty looks, spiked up gelled hair with loose trousers and loafers sat working. A brief look at him would serve enough to describe his looks, similar to any other boy of his age, full of mischief with bustling energy due to those post puberty raging hormones and the dynamic endurance of youth.
His parents fell victim to a car crash when he was just 12 leaving him to be raised up by his grandparents. It bled his heart, as mother was a source of love and peace while his father was a pristine guide of his life.
Nature was conspiring against him maybe, the tormented soul was left alone in this world when on the New Year's Day his grandfather died. Grandmother, a soft heart octogenarian couldn't bear his passing and ventured in the abode of heaven a month later.
The boy was left with enough means to sustain himself by doing menial jobs. A good big house, with a yard, well furnished with interiors that demanded a new decor but a cozy and homely house. Bourgeois gate, with a huge kitchen and attached living room demonstrated the building had been designed and built in early 30s, but the effort in upkeep was a clear indication that residents fancied extravagant living standards. The fire-proofed walls, the huge basement, the thick glass of windows, screamed that the occupants of house knew a thing or two about fire safety. As a matter of fact, the boy's father was a fire fighter and his mother a mortician, thus he paranoia of death and his experience of fighting fire made them cautious to protect the only child they had along with his grandparents.
He worked at the local 24 * 7 store as a cash counter clerk. He sat in his yellow shirt and matching pants with a slightly faded lemon colored hat embroidered with a flying rocket insignia with 24 on top and 7 at the bottom. Daily he would see all kinds of humans; good and bad, drunk and mad, homeless and runaways, rich and sad. The prostitute of 18 years with her pimp would ask for beers, the boss with his secretary, his hands around her waist bought condoms, the mother with her infant bought cerelac and the child with her grandfather cried for an extra bar of chocolate. It was a mundane job of 12 hours.
He read books, all sorts. Mysteries of murder, criminal thriller, fiction of history, fantastical fantasy. He thrived on book which presented him a subtle escape to a world of dreams and imagery where he could paint the authored musings, amalgamating his style with it. A stash of old and new books were would always lie near his feet at the counter. Monday to Wednesday were the best days as the office goers had no business of buying eateries while children would arrive only in the eve. It presented him a full four hours combined, to read in the course of three days.
He would finish the shift, bought some grocery, some extra meal for her, a bread but would not proceed to exit without the bottle of coke and a carton of milk. His grumbling truck never ceased to irritate him which screamed the need for service. The rickety car would back-fire and would finally come to life succumbing again to the boy's need.
He was a good driver, a cautious one. His sanity didn't want him to expose himself to the world so he had the window panes tinted smokey black. He liked them. Deftly he steered the wheel and parked the car in the driveway as the engine came to a halt. The crackling noise of paper bag broke the silence with cricket sitting, a silentious observer presenting an overture of the events that had taken place during day. He turned the key, twisted the lever with the right hand, while his left arm supported the heavy grocery bag. The tranquil silence of house cracked with the creaking sound of hinges as he stepped in while he pressed onto the switch adjacent to the door. Yellow candle shaped lamps of the chandelier sparkling bright, illuminating the room and everyone in it.
The door stood ajar while the chilly air swung it back and forth cognizant of the fact the irksome creaking of hinges was singing its song. Oaken floor of the house provided a perfect canvass to the stream of red blood sparkling under the light of chandelier, making its way beside the boy's nose, towards his shirt drenching it in the process, escaping through door and finally pooling on the porch, while her meal lay idle stuck and wrapped in a packet on the floor.
...............................................................................................................
A burly boy in his late teens, with his chocolaty looks, spiked up gelled hair with loose trousers and loafers sat working. A brief look at him would serve enough to describe his looks, similar to any other boy of his age, full of mischief with bustling energy due to those post puberty raging hormones and the dynamic endurance of youth.
His parents fell victim to a car crash when he was just 12 leaving him to be raised up by his grandparents. It bled his heart, as mother was a source of love and peace while his father was a pristine guide of his life.
Nature was conspiring against him maybe, the tormented soul was left alone in this world when on the New Year's Day his grandfather died. Grandmother, a soft heart octogenarian couldn't bear his passing and ventured in the abode of heaven a month later.
The boy was left with enough means to sustain himself by doing menial jobs. A good big house, with a yard, well furnished with interiors that demanded a new decor but a cozy and homely house. Bourgeois gate, with a huge kitchen and attached living room demonstrated the building had been designed and built in early 30s, but the effort in upkeep was a clear indication that residents fancied extravagant living standards. The fire-proofed walls, the huge basement, the thick glass of windows, screamed that the occupants of house knew a thing or two about fire safety. As a matter of fact, the boy's father was a fire fighter and his mother a mortician, thus he paranoia of death and his experience of fighting fire made them cautious to protect the only child they had along with his grandparents.
He worked at the local 24 * 7 store as a cash counter clerk. He sat in his yellow shirt and matching pants with a slightly faded lemon colored hat embroidered with a flying rocket insignia with 24 on top and 7 at the bottom. Daily he would see all kinds of humans; good and bad, drunk and mad, homeless and runaways, rich and sad. The prostitute of 18 years with her pimp would ask for beers, the boss with his secretary, his hands around her waist bought condoms, the mother with her infant bought cerelac and the child with her grandfather cried for an extra bar of chocolate. It was a mundane job of 12 hours.
He read books, all sorts. Mysteries of murder, criminal thriller, fiction of history, fantastical fantasy. He thrived on book which presented him a subtle escape to a world of dreams and imagery where he could paint the authored musings, amalgamating his style with it. A stash of old and new books were would always lie near his feet at the counter. Monday to Wednesday were the best days as the office goers had no business of buying eateries while children would arrive only in the eve. It presented him a full four hours combined, to read in the course of three days.
He would finish the shift, bought some grocery, some extra meal for her, a bread but would not proceed to exit without the bottle of coke and a carton of milk. His grumbling truck never ceased to irritate him which screamed the need for service. The rickety car would back-fire and would finally come to life succumbing again to the boy's need.
He was a good driver, a cautious one. His sanity didn't want him to expose himself to the world so he had the window panes tinted smokey black. He liked them. Deftly he steered the wheel and parked the car in the driveway as the engine came to a halt. The crackling noise of paper bag broke the silence with cricket sitting, a silentious observer presenting an overture of the events that had taken place during day. He turned the key, twisted the lever with the right hand, while his left arm supported the heavy grocery bag. The tranquil silence of house cracked with the creaking sound of hinges as he stepped in while he pressed onto the switch adjacent to the door. Yellow candle shaped lamps of the chandelier sparkling bright, illuminating the room and everyone in it.
The door stood ajar while the chilly air swung it back and forth cognizant of the fact the irksome creaking of hinges was singing its song. Oaken floor of the house provided a perfect canvass to the stream of red blood sparkling under the light of chandelier, making its way beside the boy's nose, towards his shirt drenching it in the process, escaping through door and finally pooling on the porch, while her meal lay idle stuck and wrapped in a packet on the floor.
Comments