In this sick world of madness and love, never be so assured that the two shan’t cross paths, somewhere down the road.
She had no name, no identity and no memory, when about a year ago, she woke up in a hospital surrounded by the walls as blank as her head. She pleaded and she begged, to the strangers and the men of honour, to find her the reason for her existence, the foundation of her existence. She would ask strangers if they knew her, but to her misfortune, she had run out of luck long before she knew it.
In a cold room at the coldest boulevard of the city, she cried to sleep every night, but not without the slightest sense of desperation.
Hopeless, after months of agony, she quit on her past and embraced a new beginning, one which would offer her a life she wouldn’t have asked for, when young.
She would follow a routine, a life which ran around circles in a jar full of spheres. She would wake up a morning, slip into her prettiest dress, colour her lips like wine and smudge her eyes like smoke in its purest form. And then she would walk out of her home and into the arms of a strange world. She would keep walking aimlessly, staring at the strangers, until her legs gave up on her, and then she would walk some more.
And when back home, she would pick up her sketchbook and vaguely sketch the face of that one man who agitated her the most; the face that made her shriek touched the insides of her brain and left an impression so broken.
And after she was done sketching, she would hunt that man the next day and then murder him in a slow, painful way. Sickening it was, but just to her cause. It was a trade she hadn’t chosen to fall for but the one clue she could gather from her past was the fact that a man had done her wrong; a man was guilty of painting her slate blank, and in the process, her past. And she hoped that in this sick process, she might someday end up murdering the man who condemned her to live in a puzzle.
Believe, that in this world of madness, women such as her exist to give reason to the most obvious fact; madness is superior to any other form of emotion. She was a woman so sick that it would take her slaughtering all the men to believe that she had her revenge.
She would always cover her tracks and hold her secret masked within the walls of her sick obsession, but when is a sin complete without a sinister and a witness?
She became his favourite subject as he inadvertently had developed a bold interest in a woman who could slaughter him if she wanted to. But maybe, he was unaware of the fact. She first caught his eye when on a cold day he sensed the desperation in a woman walking aimlessly, through the city, staring at faces whilst trying to find an end to the road. It began with a silent observation, a sullen interest and a week later, he was following her around everywhere she went.
It was a world of chaos and the only way out was madness.
It wasn’t long before he approached the woman, and asked her out for a coffee. She didn’t care but he emphasised on the fact that her only way out was to murder him. He was unaware, maybe, of the truth in his humour. He gave her a card, in case she wanted to connect, and looked at her with worship.
And as the chaotic world of coincidence would plan, it was his face she would sketch that night. It was time for her madness to find consolation, again, even if momentarily.
Unlike always, she didn’t have to search for the man in her sketch. She called him up and invited him over for a coffee. Strange it was, for her to invite someone to her home when for all this time, the home was the farthest thing from her. Still, she chose to bear the inconvenience for the man, for her revenge was still fragmentary. The prey had hunted the hunter to come to ask for a slaughter. No point stating it, though, the prey is a stupid kind of living.
It was the battle day, then, and she dressed up like the war had already begun. Her lips had never been so red and her eyes, never so dark.
To war, she thought, as he knocked on her door. She welcomed her, offered him a coffee as he watched her lose her consciousness.
She would wake up, tied to a chair in her living room and the man watched her breathe out of her sleep.
“Tell me, has the lust for blood broken you so bad? When must you stop murdering men, for the sake of your sick desires?” he asked as he stroked her hair as a lover would.
“Strange, isn’t it that you would keep me alive when you know what I am capable of? Rape me, if you must, but murder me. Because if you don’t, I will kill you, someday, in a way you wouldn’t dream of.” She replied with red in her eyes.
“Murdering you wouldn’t be hard for me. Did you forget that you married me because I was always willing to do what you asked for?”
She looked at him like his words had already raped her conscious.
“You really are lost, my love; in such broken ways that you’ve forgotten your husband, and your sick past. We were married, my love, and sick in love when I first discovered this ugly truth about you. I begged you to stop the murders, but you lured me into your sick world with the idea of a sick love. And I was a witness to all your murders thereon, but I was scared too; scared of living with a woman who slaughtered without reason, sleeping with strange men just to satiate her sick thirst for blood. And I was scared, that someday, when thirsty enough, you would murder me too. You have fallen in love with the idea of pain so much that it has made a home inside you, and it refuses to leave, come what may.”
She refused to ask any further questions. Maybe, she was terrified of her own reality. He continued. “I let you kill, I let you be sick and in the process, drag me to be a part of it. But fear has always been the reason for the downfall of all that is evil. I wasn’t scared of the death, but what would become of you without me. And to end the sufferings, I chose the same day last year and beat your head with a shovel and killed you; or so I thought. Don’t you remember, love? It was Valentine’s Day and you were so pretty. Doesn’t life seem to run in a flat circle, when you think that it’s Valentine’s Day again, and you’re pretty again? I didn’t believe that you’d survive such damage to your head but I guess, your thirst had yet to see an end; or why else would you be here, strapped to a chair, waiting for me to end you, again? You lost everything; you lost your husband, your family and your memory but couldn’t give up on this sick thirst of you. Tell me, what can I do make you end this madness? A sacrifice, perhaps? Would it help if I killed myself in front of your eyes, the same painful way?”
She searched for an expression on his face but it was cold, like the blood she’d wash her hands with.
“Kill me.” She said. “If that’s what it takes because if you don’t, I shall not be responsible for the blood yet to be spilt on my hands.” She asked for the slaughter.
“If that’s what you wish for.” He said and injected her arm with poison.
“It’ll take ten minutes, for the poison to end your misery. I wish we could’ve found a way around it. I wish we could’ve celebrated this day, the way it was supposed to be.” He regretted the only mistake of his life; she, whilst she struggled with her breath.
“Have I always been a murderer? Is there no other side of me? Tell me, that you remember me as something other than a murderer. Tell me, before I leave.” She asked as the poison worked its way into her blood.
“You were a hopeless romantic, the kind who is never scared of love. It amazed me to see how much love you had to offer, even if it was stained by the blood of many.” He came close to her, looked into her eyes and whispered. “Is there anything I can do to lower the pain?”
“Kiss me to death.” She said.
“I am not in love with you anymore.” he smiled at her. It was a moment he had been long waiting for. Too much, had he suffered and too much, had he inflicted on her.
“Then why would you look at me with worship in your eyes?” she laughed.
“Kiss me to death, husband, and let me leave the world, not as a murderer but as a hopeless romantic,” she asked as her eyes would force her to quit.
“One last mistake, then, for the sake of love.” He said and kissed her poisoned lips.
And in the basement of the strangest lovers, with murder and blood in their romance, there was hope that someday, people would wake up to realise that madness and love are just the two sides of a coin which refuses to fall on either side.
He kissed her trembling lips as he stared into her eyes. No remorse, those lovers had, for she was not just a romantic. He kissed her, only to be burnt by the poison infused on her lips. Too late it was for him to make amends, as he fell on the floor, paralysed and spineless.
“This shall be the perfect end for us, husband.” She said. “I die today, but not before you. You were too much in love, too scared of love to see that I never forgot you. The moment you asked me for a coffee, I knew that it was you who I had been searching for. Did you think of me to be ignorant enough that I wouldn’t notice you slipping the pills in my coffee? I could’ve killed you then, but I just wanted to see how far you’d go to resist me and it fills my heart to know that you are no different. You’re the same as I, husband; rejoice.”
Her husband laughed, as his body twisted and contracted and he threw up blood.
“I guess, we are the same, after all. Or why would I kiss you, when I knew that your lips were poisoned and that it was your favourite way to murder? Isn’t this how you always told me you’d kill me if you had to; with poison on your lips and love in your heart?” he said with his final breath. She watched her husband die as she surrendered to the poison in her blood.
And there lie the bodies of two lovers, in a basement, far away from the sick form of love we all know. And there lie the remains of the day, the day of celebration for a couple of hopeless romantics.
In this world of madness and love, for once, the two must always cross paths. Or else, why bother to obsess over one of them?