I usually do this kind of work in isolation. I simply can't stand anyone looking over my shoulder while I am at it. Today, it was a bit different. She was there by the door. Waiting patiently for me to finish. I got a bit irritated at first. Or was did I get distracted? I am not sure. My victim was bleeding profusely. I had planned a swift death. Then I saw her. I slashed a bit below the mark. The arterial spray was a bit too much. It was getting messy. So I quickly finished the job with a swift cut. She wanted me to have my dinner before it became cold. It had already been to the microwave twice. I grudgingly got up. One can't piss off a wife even while finishing off the main character in my story. As I sat there prodding my meal, it struck me, I could've used the gun.
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