The jar fell off the rack and shattered. There goes my last hope to regain sanity, thought Shef. It contained all his memories. His childhood, his love, his family, his friends... everything was slowly escaping from the jar in to thin air. He tried breathing in a few, but it didn't seem to work. The jar was his only solace during his madness. He used to extract memory after memory from his ravaged mind and store it in that jar. Now they are all gone. He screamed for help. But his padded cell stifled his screams. Outside he could hear people going about their life as usual. He kicked the walls, hoping they will come apart. He tried piecing the jar together. To his dismay, even the shattered glass pieces started melting away like ice on a hot summer day. He tried to get the nurse's attention by banging his head on the iron bars of his cell. She looked away as if he was not there. Just like the jar that shattered a few minutes back.
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 ...
Comments
Post a Comment