Cold Blood

It’s another Sunday morning, the clock in the desktop shows 9.12 am and I sit up to write on something that probably bothered my sleep last night. It won’t be a simple love triangle like the previous but may be mysterious, I think to myself. Oh, I want to avoid this ‘think to myself’ phrase, but I don’t know what to substitute. Let me begin something different.

When he began to see her, village people around him didn’t notice and didn’t shrug their shoulders. The distance of twenty meters between two huts meant the families more than neighbors. Trust the boy when he knew what the girl had in her breakfast.

He was only eighteen and looked even younger, owing to his tall physique, thin face, fair complexion and short hair. The girl had no birth certificate like him. His parents said she was born after two months he had started to cry. And they said it was a full moon light when she had started to cry, another on earth!

The village comprised of not more than thirty people, built up on a hill, little away from a forest and extended to a mile in the opposite direction to meet a railway bridge made hundred years ago. In reality no body was interested to develop road or health or education over the area. The area was a dot on the border in both the maps of two neighboring states.

He assented to support his father in the woods and she stayed inside with her mother. In his single-mindedness he always liked to look at her. Her long dark-brown hair reached her back. She usually wore a lustrous maroon silk frock at rigid round waist and knee length. She offered her a smile when his gullible eyes met her for more than seconds. How could he not love her, with those black eyes and that brown hair, and the adorable way she blushed whenever he looked into her eyes?

Time went far before he realized. They had been exchanging smiles without a word for years when his father one evening opened the theme of enticement of neighbor’s daughter’s nuptials in the next week. With a silent nod, he left the house heading for a usual smudge near the fountain which was known to no one but to the girl. They had not necessarily met there but she had an eye over him all the time. He sat there; his pain was long and agonizing.

She got married on the decreed date.

The sky was cloudy that evening. She had visited her parents for a night. He had checked her sandals at the door while coming to the street. As usual he reached the smudge and kept gazing at the clouds. It started to rain, slowly first and then heavily. But he didn’t care. There was an unpredictable storm and heavy logs got unplugged from the soil. He sat rooted to the ground. And then there was a thud of slippery steps. He looked behind and there she was. She was drenched in rain and mud and approaching towards him from behind like an over-excited terrier. Her breast outlines looked so perfect in her wet clothes. She came close to him and sat next to him.

Moments elapsed. Her hair was open, untied. He brought her face close to him. She took his hand rasping on her thighs. He had expected that. But then he saw things clearly. He had to do it. He had no choice. As long as she remained so mesmerizingly, intoxicatingly beautiful, he was in love with her. He felt a warm wetness between her legs. In the rain & the storm, under the sky and on the smudge, he made love to her. The penetration was so strong; she wondered she hadn’t lost consciousness. Like a rip tide she was no longer aware of the rain but the sensations deep inside her. But he was violent, physically and mentally. And when exhausted, he gathered her long hair and tightened it around her neck. She felt suffocated. He put his lips into her even though he knew her scream would vanish in the storm and gripped her hairs rigid enough till she left her last breath.

He smiled with half coy, top lip slightly curled. Once he had loved her long hair.

Uncle Sam asked, “Do you like silent characters as I can guess from your two write-ups?”

I fell silent.

Signature: God Bless You.

               Satyabrata.

P.S.: The above mentioned story is absolutely an upshot of my haphazard contemplation and is not identical or similar to any story that I’ve read before to the best of my knowledge & concern. Any part of it to be copied or printed or published is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Satyabrata Sahoo.