The words hit the wall and exploded like raw eggs. They left a gooey trail as they dripped down. She escaped before he could hurl a few at her. She wiped off the few drops that landed on her dress. Outside his room, the world was bright. Everyone smiled. Words were handled with care. They were passed on like new borns. She felt relieved. Her friends have always warned her about his sudden outbursts. But she never thought she will be at the receiving end one day. And that day was today.
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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