Rings of Smoke

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.

Short Story- Part I (of Untitled)

Posted on | April 19, 2010 | 4 Comments

Part-I
Day One
I: The Son

He has killed my mother. I don’t know how he did it- but I think I know when. I think yesterday, when I was sleeping, he killed my mother and disposed of her body in the night. I saw him driving away in his car in the middle of the night, when he thought I was asleep. Only I was awake, and I saw him. And earlier that evening they were fighting. Violently. I think my mother even threw that big vase we kept on the dining table at him. But she would have missed, I think. Pity. Then he sent me out and when I came home mother was no longer there. I think I should inform the police. He killed my mother. My father killed my mother.

They say I cannot concentrate. I don’t know why think like that. I see things that others do not. And still they make me go to see that talk-talk doctor guy. He is stupid. Always telling me to talk and talk and talk; and all the while I never want to talk. I hate talking, I think they all want to know what I am thinking, always- the doctor, He, even my mother sometimes; they never leave me alone with my thoughts. I think the talk-talk doctor guy and He- they do not really dig the way I think- how I see what others don’t see, how I am perceptive to vibes of other people.  They make me take pills- a green one and a blue one, and the green one used to make me lazy, always making me want to sleep.

There is a bottle of whiskey in front of me- His whiskey, stolen from his minibar; they wouldn’t even let me drink whiskey- and the level of whiskey in the bottle is as low as the depression I feel. I don’t know why I am sad, I think I should be happy- I generally do when break rules-His rules and the talk-talk doctor’s rules. But it makes me rather sad when mother finds me breaking the rules. Mother likes me- she is not like Him and that talk-talk doctor and the bitch-girl math teacher I had when I was in high school or that dumbfuckersonofabitch history professor I had in college or the-what’s the use of counting names- mother loves me and I love her too. And that’s all there is to it. She will always be there to take care of me. She is not like them. Not like Him.

The ice in the icebucket looks very interesting when seen from directly up top.  It reflects the cigarette’s scarlet tip and forms interesting patterns of red spots in white ice and it is nice to see them even though the smoke burns my eyes. Cigarettes are also not allowed me- but I sometimes smoke, even though it makes me feel really bad when mother comes to know I have been smoking. He knows, of course- He knows I smoke and it makes me happy, and so He tries to make me stop smoking. So I have to smoke in secret. In my room, at night, when they have gone to sleep, I walk up to the balcony and quietly have a drag or three- even though sometimes I fear they are not asleep when they are sleeping, that they are just lying down quietly pretending to sleep so they can catch me smoking. Mother once did catch me like that- but she did not scold me, she only took the cigarette and stubbed it out and went out of the room into the kitchen after telling me to sleep and later I heard her crying, sobbing my name when she thought I was asleep only I was still awake and I heard her and I felt bad and did not smoke a single cigarette for a whole week because I also love her and do not want to see her cry again- and after that I have been real careful while smoking so she never catches me again or she will cry again. But she never screams at me- she is awesome like that in many ways- she understands how I feel and she loves me and if she were to see- Mother is dead! He killed her!

II: The Son

It is three in the morning. He is probably asleep. I wonder why mother married him. She is so nice and so beautiful, she could have had anyone. Why did she pick a loser like him? I don’t like him at all. She should have thought of my feelings before she married him, no? But then I am being unfair, probably- I wasn’t even born, after all, when she chose to marry him. And He probably pretended to be much more fun then- fooling mother into a life of no-fun, just talk-talk arguments and throwings of plates and stuff, and making of shitloads of money which no one ever seems to need there being credit cards and all. He has his own company where He does some kind of computer stuff- and He just seems to meet a lot of people wearing badly fitting suits and ties that seem to be too tight for their necks and showing them presentations in dark conference rooms where everyone listens to Him and seemingly they pay Him a lot of money to do that. Strange. If someone paid me to listen to Him, I wouldn’t.

The bottle is empty. Is he sleeping? I think it is safe to go and bring another bottle from His minibar. He wouldn’t know. He doesn’t drink at all, it was mother who installed the minibar, even though it is His. Mother is an artist. She makes paintings and writes poems. She is regal. And beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Far, far prettier than that strange girl in college who once sent me roses even though it was not my birthday and whose card I tore without reading and threw the roses in the dustbin, what did she think of herself! Gold digger, I know she did not love me- she only liked me because of my credit cards, mother’s actually, which I used as mine- and she always covered up for me because He would not let me have any credit cards. And she was not even as pretty as the girl I was in love with once, only she did not really like me I think, she never responded to my friend request on Orkut, and I did not really love her, I think- it might just have been attraction- an infatuation, like mother said; and anyway, she did not deserve to be loved by someone like me and she was not even a fraction of pretty like mother was. Of course, I never told mother that. Mother!

Yesterday, He was fighting with mother! And mother tried to throw that vase at Him, I think. Only, she is so frail, the vase probably fell on the floor and shattered before it reached him. Pity. I always tell mother that He doesn’t care for her. She never listens. I even asked her why she married Him. She said that she loved Him. At the time. But she didn’t say she loved Him now.

I think I should go get another bottle from the minibar. A good whiskey. Something that mother would like to drink. She likes good whiskeys. Not like those wimpy women who drink those stupid tasting wines and sniffle over silly romantic movies. Mother appreciats whiskey like few men would ever do. And that is another reason I love her. Mother!! I am gonna kill him!

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Comments

4 Responses to “Short Story- Part I (of Untitled)”

  1. Jeevan
    April 20th, 2010 @ 10:12 am

    so good, so good!

  2. Tweets that mention Short Story- Part I (of Untitled) : Rings of Smoke -- Topsy.com
    April 20th, 2010 @ 10:28 am

    [...] This post was mentioned on Twitter by jeevan, sandeip. sandeip said: Part One of new short story http://ringsofsmoke.com/2010/04/19/short-story-part-i-of-untitled/ [...]

  3. Sandeep
    April 20th, 2010 @ 12:37 pm

    @jeevan: Thanks. Part II will be up soon :)

  4. Short Story- Part II (of Untitled) : Rings of Smoke
    April 20th, 2010 @ 10:14 pm

    [...] NB: This is part II of a short story which is still being written. Part I can be found here. [...]

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