I am always the horny bitch, she retorted. Was there a faint tint of pride in her statement? Or was I imagining things? Next thing she will say is that I stole her husband. Do I need to hang around till that revelation happens? Or do I just say bye like many of her friends? But then I wish life was that simple. There are times when she had tried to do it. And every time we have ended up in a mental health facility. There are times when she had tried to end it all. I dread those days. We end up in some emergency ward with insensitive hospital attendants. Can't blame them, who wants to save someone who has given up on life. But today it's different. I want her to choose. Only one of us can exist. And I guess I have won. For there she is perched on that window sill looking 13 stories down at the traffic below as if she is seeing it for the first time. Bloody bitch, how she had tormented a poor soul like me with all her eccentricities. Let go, dear. Let go.
I have to write. Those were the words that escaped the dying man's lips. He was found lying unconscious near a mountain of blank paper. His autopsy revealed over exhaustion as the reason. But what did he want to write so badly that it killed him, no one knows. The task was designated to the junior cop who was part of the investigation team. Let's call him Namura. So here we are with Namura in a room with the mountain of blank paper. He is awed as to why should there be so many papers near a dying man. He picks a sheet on the top. He studies it. It's as blank as blank papers can be. No pencil or pen has violated its virgin whiteness. Namura thinks of the white bed sheets back home. He is tired. All he wants is to crash on his bed. He feels angry about the whole situation. Here I am, staring at a blank piece of paper, wondering why someone who wanted to write so badly didn't write a single word, while the whole world is sleeping on their comfy beds. He wanted to tear the ...
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