My Significant Other

In response to the Daily Prompt

Before I could push on the door with my elbow again, it was yanked open from the inside. I was flabbergasted, because a perfect (to me) specimen of male had stopped barely an inch away, just short of slamming into me.

I couldn’t help but scan him from top to bottom, the squiggling creature my arms were full of, forgotten.

His eyes were the first thing that drew me to him, his warm brown eyes.

Then, he smiled. And I melted.

My hold loosened and the kitten I had just brought from the pet shop leapt from my arms. I dove after it without thinking, only to lose my balance and fall down upon the palm of my hands. I felt strong hands grab my shoulders from behind and straighten me up.

Then, he spoke. And I went to Heaven. His deep voice reached the core of my being as he asked me if I was okay. His brow was furrowed in concern in the cutest way, and I was speechless; an affliction that barely affected me.

I finally answered him that I was fine, looking up at him because he was so tall. His shiny chocolate hair, cropped short at the sides, flopped on his forehead. Those soft looking hair were the fourth thing that drew me to him.

And the foremost, was his countenance. His straight posture, the aura of confidence he exuded. I was also partial to the dark jeans, black Tee and black leather jacket he wore. And his warm gentle hands, still on my shoulders, were enough to convince that this was the man I was going to spend my life with. The image of his full smile wouldn’t leave my head.

He wasn’t overly handsome, but he had my heart in his hands. I had a feeling he was a dork underneath all the leather, and I decided right there and then, that I was going to spend the rest of my life trying to find out if that was true.

I blesses the little furball I had just bought, as my future husband asked if I needed help finding my kitten. I gave him a bright smile and inside, I rejoiced that I had finally found love!

New Politics front-man David Boyd.  I don't think I've ever done anything as cheesy or teen-like as this!

New Politics front-man David Boyd. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything as cheesy or teen-like as this!

Sorry people, the above is a work of fiction and daydreams. I don’t have a significant other. And David Boyd (the current love of my life) does not live in my apartment building. In fact, he lives on the other side of the earth. I was in the mood to pwn you all. *Gives an evil smile*. I’m not always serious, sometimes I’m on a high from stalking my crush all day long. I AM a teenager after all!

 

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Angel

Luck has worked in my favor that a relevant daily prompt has arrived on just the day I had decided to post my story; the same story that I mentioned last week. This story is not about me or a chance I may have given to someone. It is fiction. A figment of my imagination where a woman has given a chance to a fragile man. Read and criticize. I will appreciate any and all feedback! This very short story is a first draft.

******

He had made me promise never to give up on him.

He was broken, and I was anything but that. His childhood was a nightmare. Mine was filled with overprotective parents, brothers and sisters. His wrists had scars. Mine had a bracelet my longtime best friend had given me. He had a history of drug abuse and rehab. I had a history of gold medals and achievement certificates. He was tattooed. I seldom let my hair out of its ever-present bun or ponytail. He smoked and before I came into his life, drank gallons of whiskey every month. I turned up my nose even at the smell of tobacco or alcohol. I was Yin. He was Yang.  And together we were each other’s equilibrium.

Still the job of balancing our relationship often fell to me. He would lapse into one of his dark moods, locking himself into the attic. He would be so quiet that only the wisps of cigarette smoke coming from under the door would tell me where he was. He would try to push me away. He would say poisonous words just to hurt me. He knew me enough to always taunt me where it hurt most.

And yet, he was my Angel. It was what I liked to call him. He had saved me from a mundane life of only working as an architect and listening to my mother rant about me being single on every Sunday brunch. He made fun of himself. Pointing out that his dark looks and darker demeanor was anything but angelic. And I would rebut by saying he was my Fallen Angel, thrown out by the Big Man for being too handsome. My silly compliment would be rewarded by a small smile. And that smile would be my achievement for the day.

My friends asked why I kept up with such a cynical, sadistic man, who couldn’t bear to see himself, happy. What they didn’t know was how every morning; he wakes me up with a small kiss on my forehead and a loving whisper in my ear, or how he battles his trust issues everyday and opens up to me nonetheless. How, because he could never say the words, he would leave me little notes telling me how much he cherished me. How he would sweetly apologize to me after one of his black moods. Those were parts of the enigma only I knew how to solve.

But today, today even I had reached my limits. I lay next to him, looking up at the off-white ceiling. With the thunder rumbling outside, the day had become even more dreary than usual. I felt a sob coming up my throat. All through our tumultuous relationship, I have never let myself cry over the words he says to me. But today I was hurt beyond measure. I was already raw with emotion, and he had ripped me apart even more.

Just a few hours ago, I had come back from a long stay at the hospital.

I had lost my child, our child.

When I had told him of the life we had made together, he had, as I had expected, locked himself up. But at the end of the day, he had come out and held me, and given me a slow wondrous smile. We spent the next two weeks in a bubble of happiness.

The bubble was burst in the worst way possible when I miscarried. The days I spent in the hospital, he never said a single word other than to ask me how I felt once or twice a day. Or to relay some instructions the doctor had given me. I knew he was hurt, I understood. How could I not when it was I whose body could not sustain the life God had blessed us with. I was distraught. I needed him. He was not there.

The day we came home, he blamed me and said to me that which I could never forget. Yet, I have vowed to forget. I will not rewrite his speech here or anywhere else for as long as I live.

But then when I lay there, his cold voice came back to me, and tears prickled behind my eyes. I turned my head to look at his silent profile. His perfect features, his neck that I loved to place kisses on, marred by an ugly scar that ran across it. I wondered, for the thousandth time, how he had survived. Determination. That was the only answer that came to me as I eyed his set jaw. Stubbornness. Will power. And as I waited for an apology that may never come, I decided that I was going to be stubborn as well and break a promise for the first time in my life.

Quietly, I turned and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. I looked back at my Angel one more time before I got up. I, like the stereotypical partner who walks out, was not going to pull out a suitcase from the closet and start filling it with a huff. Instead, I went to the door and with apparent resolve, opened it and stepped outside. As I gently closed the door, I heard the bed-springs creek.

I went down the stairs, grabbed my handbag and car keys. As I went out the front door, I heard footsteps thudding down the staircase inside. I stood with my hand on the doorknob. My resolve was weakening. But, I shook off the moment of weakness, squared my shoulders, turned and made my way to my red Jeep. I started the car, and without looking back, I drove off, leaving my Angel behind.

Despite my promise, I had given up on him, just like everyone else had.

*****

The pills had always been there. For depression, for insomnia, for anxiety, for this, for that. Ever since she had come into his life, he had seldom felt the need to take out one of the many bottles in the cabinet. She knew they were there, but she had never questioned him about them. She was like that, minding her own business. Until it came to someone trying to hurt the people she loved. She would attack then. Despite her calm appearance, she had a quick temper. It amused him. And at times, reprimanded him.

He looked at the bottle in his hands, and thought about the idiocy of the doctor who had prescribed them, knowing his history of suicide attempts. A smirk twisted his full lips into a menacing look. He laid on her side of the bed, on his back, looking up, just like she had been lying moments ago. He rolled the bottle between his hands.

He was a grown man, he was ashamed at what he was about to do. He imagined her eyes narrowing if she were to find him in this moment. She would snatch the bottle from his hands, and then place her hands on her waist. She would glare at him. A lecture would follow. Of his worth. Of how much he meant to her. Her eyes would soften then. She would pull him up. And then hold him. And say a hundred words of love.

It had happened before, when he had cut himself accidentally while he was shaving. She had entered the bathroom just as the first drop of blood had fallen. Her anger knew no limits; even that she didn’t notice the cut was on his finger, nowhere near any dangerous vein.

He prayed that his thoughts would come true. She would come back. He looked at the storm raging outside through the window. He prayed again. He prayed that she would be safe. He prayed she would drive carefully.

As he unscrewed the cap, his thoughts were of two warm brown eyes narrowed at him playfully…

*****

She thought of all the knives in the kitchen. Of all the scissors in the drawers. Of the razors; her pink ones, his blue ones. Of the cabinet full of drugs. And the licensed pistol she kept in the locker.

She slammed her foot hard on the brakes and sat with her hands clutching the wheel as all around her, rain poured down in torrents. She rested her head back and let the first few tears fall. Several minutes passed as she wept along with the sky.

She had made up her mind. She made a U-turn, and as she did, she called an ambulance to their residence.

*****

He had lined up the pills on the floor. A memory crossed his mind of when he was a teenager, lining up white powder in the same way as he lined up the pills. He thought of crushing the pills into powder, as a twisted tribute to his younger days.

Thoughts about her still plagued him. They said, and he himself had experienced, that when about to commit suicide, the mind goes blank. No thought remains of those who you are leaving behind. And yet his mind still would not stop conjuring up images of a pale face and a luscious body. Fat, she called herself. Sensual, he called her. She had issues of her own. But she was stronger than him.

His wandering mind came back to the present as he heard sirens in the night. He sat up alert. The sirens grew closer and closer until finally stopping just beneath his window.

And, as he threw his head back and let out a bark of laughter, he heard the familiar rumble of her Jeep followed by the loud slamming of a car door.

*****

“Wherever there is you, I will be there too”

Bang Goes The Country

Oh you pretty Chitty Bang Bang,
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
We love you.
And, in
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
What we’ll do.
Near, far, in our motor car
Oh what a happy time we’ll spend.
Bang Bang Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Our fine four fendered friend.
Bang Bang Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Our fine four fendered friend.
Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Oh you pretty Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
We love you.
And, in
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
What we’ll do.
Near, far, in our motor car
Oh what a happy time we’ll spend.
Bang Bang Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Our fine four fendered friend.
Bang Bang Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Our fine four fendered friend.
Your sleek as a thoroughbred.
Your seats are a feather bed.
You’ll turn everybody’s head today.
We’ll glide on our motor trip
With pride in our ownership
The envy of all we survey.
Oh Chitty You Chitty
Pretty Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
We love you.
And Chitty, in Chitty
Pretty Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang what we’ll do.
Near Chitty, far Chitty, in our motor car
Oh what a happy time we’ll spend.
Bang Bang Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Our fine four fendered friend.
Bang Bang Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Our fine four fendered friend.
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
Fine four fendered Chitty Chitty friend

My fine four-provinced friend. My love. Pakistan. Going CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG. There’s a bang here, there’s a bang there. Our enemies are eating us from the inside. Making us hollow. Killing our youth. Our officers. Our workers.

All over the world, people think that we are the enemy! But the world is our enemy. They don’t see what we, the people, are going through. Some have fattened up these so called religious extremists with their funds and their guns, and now their making us go up in flames.

I say if they (the Taliban) make us go bang bang, then we should make them hang hang!

Our fine four fendered province-d friend.
You’re sleeks strong as a thoroughbred.
Your seats  grounds are a feather bed.
You’ll turn everybody’s head dead today.
We’ll glide on our motor trip mother ship
With pride in our ownership
The envy of all we survey.
Oh Chitty You Chitty
Pretty Chitty Bang Bang
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
We love you.

The Reality Of A Dark Imagination

Fire breathing dragons. Tears of blood. Dark hair. Golden talons. Cold gazes. Eerie graveyards. A broody man with hooded eyelids and sinister blue eyes. He is exquisite. Dangerously beautiful.

A story is forming in my head. An epic tale. Of adventure. Of romance.

Monsters lurking in shadows. Screams echoing through dismal forests, resonating far and wide in the silent night. In this world, it is always night. Black. Even the moon fears showing its face to the evil lurking beneath.

Snow spattered with dark-red blood. A raven-haired beauty lying nearby. She wears a white vintage gown. Her wrists seep blood that flows through the lace cuffs of her dress and eventually covers the pristine marble gravestone beside her.

Yes, a new chapter. A new sketch.

Why is it that at times my mind conjures up the most negative scenarios?

There are days when all the light and all the goodness is sucked out to leave behind the dark and dreary shadows that threaten to engulf me in their arms like a vacuum.

A black hole.

There is a black hole in my head.

Most days it lies dormant. Peaceful. I think up stories, plots and drawings that are pure and happy and light-hearted.

And then there are those times when every thing is on fire. Every creature bleeds. Every human cries. Hearts break. Old wounds re-open. Time stops.

I am immortal. Living in a sinister world where every person rips apart my heart and soul over and over again. And yet, I do not die. I can not die.

They laugh.

Their eyes sparkle portentously. Their auras reek of perverseness.

They stand around me in a circle. Taunting. Teasing. Mocking.

Behind them a snow-covered forest is in flames. Trees tumble to the ground, turning into ash. A gazelle with water in her eyes runs from the wreckage of her home. Birds fly up in a dark cloud and screech, lamenting the loss of the sacred trees that once used to shelter them.

They sharpen their knives.

“Enough” I say.

I whimper, fallen, on the cold, hard ground. I cover my eyes with my arm. No longer wanting to look at the twisted faces of those I once trusted. Those I once revered. Those I once loved.

“Stop” I yell.

Their jeers keep ringing in my ears.

I black out.

And then, I emerge from my black hole unscathed. A new creature. A phoenix rising from the ashes. Wiser than before. Stronger. More wary of the darkness that lurks inside every person.

I hold my head high. My back straight.

I look into my tormentor’s eyes and say defiantly:

“I am happy”.

Maybe that is part of my imagination.

What is real? What is fake?

Am I darkness? Am I light?

Or am I the ring of light that shrouds a shadow?

And when did this apparent story of fiction, turn into my own soliloquy?

Puppy Love

Infatuation, rejection, heartbreak. Rinse and repeat, rinse, repeat. A sweet-smelling shampoo that makes you smell good and softens your hair to perfection. But when it gets in your eyes, it stings like an agitated bumblebee.

Still, the younger generation of Pakistan is prone to fall in love, at least once, if not multiple times. It usually starts in grade 8 or 9, where a pretty and confident girl is usually the love of two or three boys. Then these boys fight for the lady’s hand, while the lady, usually likes a whole other beau. So the three naive boys feel rejected and heartbroken and their over dramatic lives are at an end.

Eighty percent of the time, the girl, who likes the rich and handsome boy, in turn gets rejected by Mr. Hot Shot and the vicious cycle continues. Finally, at the end of high school, either a guy has a steady girlfriend, or he has completely sworn off love. If you ask me, I would say the latter are better off.

Introverted, observant people like me, who are born cynics, sit back and enjoy the live, never-ending and free drama these young-uns provide. As Queen Bee (yes I was the local Regina George of my high school until junior year, when I gave up the title to be the behind-the-scenes Mafia boss), I have set up many people. These were my tiny snivelling guinea pigs and it was a joy to observe them with their serenading and wooing and covert glances under the eyelashes.

Alas, not one of my cute little guinea pig couples survived the test of time and over-protective brothers.

So my little darlings, now is not the time to fall in love, try to accumulate a few brain cells first; lest you decide to jump off the cliff of love without a parachute.

Quote

The Matrix Quote

“It is remarkable how similar the pattern of love is to the pattern of insanity.”

Says Merovingian “The Frenchman”, the computer-program villain in the Matrix Revolutions. Althought I’m not a fan of the Matrix film franchise, this little speech Merovingian gives to Trinity, instantly caught my eye, or shall I say, my ears.

Merovingian sneers at the leather-clad Trinity when she implies that she is ready to die for saviour-of-all Neo, stating that she is insane for doing so.

Is dying, the ultimate sacrifice, for a loved one a show of dedication, or simple foolishness?