We are the mashup of all the things we let into our life.

We are the mashup of all the things we let into our life.
The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more ---William Wordsworth

Monday, 22 October 2012

Tears of green-eyed angels

They were all dead. Love kills. Did i love her? Was there a choice? The past is a gaping hole. You try to run from it, but the more you run, the deeper, more terrible it grows behind you, its edges yawning at your heels. Your only chance is to turn around and face it. 

Entrails of burnt omelets and fried eggs in the fry pan, broken crockery and bottles of beer and cigarette butts strewn on the floor, altogether completed the picture of a house without a woman. Her laughter and inaudible mutterings came, like a distant hoot of a train, then died away and ceased. Like a cricket's trumpet dwindling swiftly into silence. He sighed explosively and stared into his beer as he sulked in his sofa with his shoulders hunched, his eyes inward. It is time, he thought with a smirk, and drained his beer in one big gulp. The cops arrived, sirens singing in the off-key harmony of a manic-depressive choir. The rain was still drumming on his roof with a mob-like ferocity and the growling of clouds and thunder heralded the coming of another storm. Zeus was angry on him alright. Taking all the necessary stuff he needed, he plunged into the darkness of the night. Freezing wind and rain was tearing at his face, like sandpaper and razors, he thrust his hands deep into his coat and kept walking, every sense of his alert and vigilant. Bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, a frown that now became a part of his normal expression, and a scar that ran from the corner of his eye to the bridge of this nose completed the picture of a man on the run. Running from his life. Was it past midnight? He had been walking for almost 3 hours...or so he thought. Footfalls in the darkness, a glint of a knife, echoes, screams of pain. Schizoprehnia almost became his next sense. A  cold, hard, stabbing pain at the small of his back roused him from his stupor, he reeled around and found himself in a dead-end street. His temple throbbed, his heart hammered like wild beast in a cage, and staggering a few steps he hit a wall and fell on the floor, lying unconcious.

"Why are vampire movies always set in L.A or New Mexico? They cant even get a tan! If i were a blood sucker, i'd move to the North pole. Winter's one looong night"

"What would you do for food? Suck blood from penguins?"

"Naw. Eskimos, man. Eskimos."

The cold, frosty air whispering in his ears woke him up with  a start. He felt the earth vibrating beneath him and saw to his surprise, places flashing by him in a second. He was on a train. Craning his head back he discerned two people clad in an overcoat and jacket, holiding a .32 Smith and Wesson revolver. His blood ran cold and a rush of  adrenaline flowed through his veins. Regaining his former position he listened intently. 

"God, you're sick, man. I'd rather go for the flesh of fallen angels, ha-ha-ha. That would be more fun."

'The flesh of fallen angels'. Something clicked in his brain and disordered images of people, places and talks started revolving in his head without any bearing. Unclenching his fist he saw in his hand a long, shiny, syringe with a green liquid in it and a picture of a green letter 'V' with a syringe in it's between. He dropped the syringe which fell down with a loud thud. He kept replaying the sound of that thud in his mind.  A sound he had heard many times.

He wasn't out in the wilderness, no freezing wind tearing at his face, like sandpaper and razors, no wail of sirens or the city howling after him anymore. 

He was safe.

A menacing smirk danced on his lips and lifting his head, he laughed loudly, oblivious to the clicking sound of boots and shoutings behind his back. Rivulets of tears streamed down his face. Tears of mirth. The Tears of green-eyed angels.


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