He is late again. I could've gone home early. How can I do that now? The bugger hasn't shown up. So here I am all alone at the watchtower. Waiting for him. Is that him? I can see a slight movement. That must be him. Wait a minute, he never wears khaki clothes. Why is he carrying a gun? That's not like him. Where is my gun? There it is. I have him in my sight. Time for the warning shot. Damn, the gun is jammed. I should've cleaned it long back. Now all that I can do is wait for him to make his move. He is moving closer and closer. Looks like he is not aware of my presence. He is now climbing the ladder to the tower. I will bludgeon him with my gun before he shoots me. There take that and that. Oh damn, it's you? Where did you get this gun? Oh lord, say something. What have I done? Now I can never go home until they find a replacement.
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