He’s been alive for thirty three years. He lives everyday hoping that he just doesn’t die before he starts living.
The postmortem report said, death due to clogging of neck.
Nobody knew he couldn’t withstand the pressure of doing something he didn’t want to do.
Being someone’s last choice, it doesn’t bother me.
Being no one’s first choice, it twists my heart.
She sat silently, waiting, looking out the window towards the brick laden path surrounded by green, neatly trimmed hedges which led to the front gate. The gate, barely visible, shrouded by fog and smoke, led out to the main road. The road, she thought. Always crowded, bustling, full of chirp, noise and life. But not today. Today was different.
A tear rolled down her cheek. She choked a sob and cleared her throat. She could still hear people screaming, scurrying, wailing for help, dying.
They had come unannounced. Like predators, soft and silent in the dark of night. Machines and men, cold-blooded, full of pure evil, shooting and bombing, killing the innocent. She could still hear them screaming, gunfire ringing in her ears.
She waited, for news of a man she may never see again, her husband. But she couldn’t lose hope. The sound of a car cleared her thoughts. She straightened her hair, rearranged her clothes. A dark black sedan pulled up in front of the gate. An old man, wearing a black pin-striped suit, with a white beard and a black hat came through the gate. His eyes were full of tears and he looked like he hadn’t slept in months. She ran out through the door and stopped in front of him, expectantly, searching for answers in his eyes. There were none. He took of his hat and bowed his head, as if in mourning. She cried.
The waiting was over.
He was like a matchstick, once his flame ceased, he would never burn again. It was then or never. He knew he could do it. He had to do it.
All it would take was ten seconds of insane courage, and something beautiful was to come of it – perhaps a candle, burning for infinity.
Bereft of footprints,
of Monsters and Men
Void of screams,
of movement within
No likelihood of loss or gain,
Much like Alfred Hitchcock’s
Strangers on a Train
No sight of a weapon,
Not a hair out of place
A murderer’s heaven,
An ever changing face
Etched on the face of the dead
No sign of injury,
Except a whack on the head
A viable alibi,
The possibilities are endless
A witness shy,
The other, knocked senseless
Not a single clue,
Or a resounding cry
Not a single lead,
The Perfect Homicide.
Together we dreamed of living in a cottage on that beautiful hill.
And I promise you, dear, that day, our world will come to still.
He finally opened the door to satisfy his curiosity.
All he found was another door.
Travelling the whole wide world was on the top of his bucket list.
After 30 years, he is a successful engineer, and his bucket list intact.
Smiling, she started the book.
Crying, she finished it.
Hopeful, he clicked on S01E01.
Crying, he clicked on S10E18.
Gathering courage, he said ‘Hi.’
Crying, he said ‘Goodbye!’