123goth

[123goth]

The syndicated man

“Oh, I swear to God, if you don’t start spinning this goddamn instant, I’m gonna smash your glass in and make the toaster watch.” Gripping the edges of my microwave, tightly enough to feel its corners digging into my palms, I growled and gave it a hearty shake. This animalistic roar echoed off my kitchen’s green floors, and another mighty peal of thunder sounded outside.

A flash of lightning painted the room a strange shade of white-olive, the tile catching the glint, and all at once, I felt as though I were the god of storms, speaking my almighty willpower into the microwave that night.

The appliance whirred. It bent to me. And dully, the light came on. The timer blinked. And the leftover pizza began to twirl. And that was that. I sighed, deeply, slumping back against the countertop as the sky finally opened.

The patter of rain filled the building.

This routine could not have come from a sane man, I realized. Sane men did not anthropomorphize their microwaves. They did not threaten to kill their microwaves. They did not inflict psychological torture on their toasters.

Crash!

I jolted. It was that special time of night when the dude in the apartment above seemed to trip and knock everything over. Clank. Bang. Thud! Kaboom! I winced. Was he okay?

“Shut up!” My voice was hoarse. With a long-practiced motion, I pulled the broom from the nearby wall and gave the ceiling four good thumps. And then silence.

I caught my reflection in the oven door. There I stood, armed with a broom, with my shoulders hunched like the world’s worst action figure. I came with a super-hydraulic striped bathrobe, patchy facial hair, and a crooked lip, which healed badly after some guy clocked me in high school.

The microwave beeped. And leaning the broom against the wall, I tugged it open with a grunt to pull out the bubbling grease sponge I was going to eat that night.

I grimaced, knocking the microwave closed with my hip, flicking off the light, and dragging myself into the living room, where I dropped down on the sofa in front of the TV.

The sofa was old, covered in faded brown flowers, and in truth, the television was not much newer. I got them both at the same thrift store—although the attendant would not give me a deal. I wrote them a pretty nasty review that night.

But placing the plate on the cushion to my left, I scooped up the slice in one hand and shoved it into my mouth. My nostrils flared at the sour sensation on my tongue, my taste buds screaming: “No, no, not like this. Anything but this. Just drink actual poison or something.”

I dropped the pizza back onto the plate with a grunt. So much for dinner. I would starve to death.

Michael had been the cook. That night, two years ago, when I sunk into a chair at our kitchen table, my tie already undone, something was boiling on the stove. He had even arranged the alphabet magnets on the fridge to say cutesy shit like, ‘bake the world a better place.’

He did that a lot. I thought it was stupid and told him so, but he was good with words. And I wasn’t.

The little television on the counter was playing a Password rerun.

I should have said something that night. I should have said that whatever was boiling smelled great, or looked good, or that he had worked hard on it. But I didn’t.

“The prick finally did it, Mikey,” I mumbled instead. “He fired me.”

“Oh…oh, it’s okay! We’ll figure it out. You’re good at so many things. You’ll land on your feet.” And he draped two arms over my shoulders, squeezing them tight. But we did not figure it out, and I was not good at anything. And I realize now those were the only two times Michael had ever lied to me.

But screw him. And screw that job. And screw that fridge. And screw the fancy cheeses he kept in it. And screw how much rent that place was asking. And screw me for taking it out on him.

I sighed again. All I did these days was starve and sigh and fight with the microwave. And it was my damn fault. So, I would sit here and feel sorry for myself and mourn for the rest of my life.

Leaning forward, my bones creaking, I manually clicked on the television. Another flash of lightning sparked outside, and the screen came to life in a flurry of static and snow.

Click.

I moved through the channels, one hand on the dial and one on the antenna, twisting it left and right.

Click.

“Romance. The new fragrance….”

Click.

“Italia right in your microwave! New pizza from….”

Click.

“Welcome back to our 24-hour Buzzwords! marathon!”

I could barely see the picture through the fuzz, but the program was some game show from the 70s, complete with a mustached host in a plaid suit.

He dragged around a narrow, wired microphone and made his way through a bright studio, shimmering orange, utterly, sickeningly orange, while a young woman with a sparkling smile, the fabulous Carla, showed off a deluxe dinette set.

I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms as I slumped back into the cushion.

And all at once came another mighty crash of thunder, a rumbling noise punctuated by dude upstairs, who dropped another pot, perhaps as startled as I had been by the sound.

The rain reached a climax as if it might break the windows. Something bright darted across the darkened sky, an airplane maybe. I wonder if it had been struck by lightning. And I cried out as, with a mighty surge, the television screen flashed and sputtered out, fried. 

“Oh, Christ!” I growled, throwing back my head. The microwave did this, I decided. It had gotten all its little technology buddies to act out.

I slammed the thing with my palm, once, twice, three times, each responding with only a hollow thud. And when this scientific effort failed, I climbed to my feet and dropped to all-fours to crawl around the television’s rear. The frayed carpet dug into my knees as I tugged the extension cord from the wall.

Well, at least it wasn’t smoking, I mused, something of a crude smirk finding its way to my face. Because this was funny. In a sad tragicomic kind of way, this was funny.

Even now, I could find humor in how utterly pathetic I looked, crawling around on my knees with my boxers hanging out, all because I wanted to watch lesser-known game show reruns.

“Work or I’m gonna go back in that kitchen and throw your commander out the window, you hear me?” Leaning backward and sitting on my legs, I waved the cord deliberately before the television screen. And with that, I ducked back down and plugged it into the wall.

I blinked. And all I saw was light, a strange, fluorescent glow that consumed every inch of my vision.

Oh my God, I thought. I’m dead.

I electrocuted myself, and I’m dead.

My feet were planted on the ground. I was standing. I had crawled around to plug the television into the wall, but somehow, I was now standing. And I could not remember getting up.

“Welcome back to Buzzwords!”

I blinked again, and at that moment. I realized the blinding light was not white at all, but utterly, sickeningly orange. And there I was, like a moron, standing at a podium with a smile plastered across my face.

In truth, I wanted to scowl or grimace or something, but I couldn’t. My muscles ignored me. And on their own, my hands came up to applaud.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m your host, Buddy Guy. And we have a great show for you tonight.”

The hell?

“Let’s meet our contestants and get the game underway.” Buddy smiled broadly and walked in my direction.

I found my mouth opening of its own accord.

“Hi, Buddy! My name is John Smith. I’m from Columbus, Ohio, and I want to say hello to my wife, Betty.” These words spilled from me as if rehearsed, without my input, as though I were a passenger in my head (or, as it turned out, someone else’s).

And the absolute worst was that I could not cringe. I could not roll my eyes. I could not grunt or groan at just how saccharine I sounded, nor at the fact that my name was John Smith.

“Welcome, John. Good to have you.” Buddy Guy moved past me like an automaton, introducing a waitress from New York and a wannabe actor, who lived with his beloved roommate William of five years in Los Angeles.

And if I had to choose someone to be from this panel, it probably would have been him, because then at least I would not have a wife named Betty.

But this could not be happening; it certainly was not happening. I was not miming the motions of John Smith from Ohio. It was not 1970-whatever. And so, I truly must have been dead.

This whole illusion was that thing, that thing where synapses fire because your brain is pissed about non-existence. And if I could turn my head, which I could not, I would have peered into the audience to look for departed relatives.

But John stared forward, and so did I.

“Tonight, our contestants are competing for a stunning new kitchen set. Tell them all about it, Jack.”

An announcer from offstage began singing the praises of the sparkling refrigerator, oven range, and microwave that appeared from behind a velvet curtain. The audience lightning-sparkedooo’d and ahh’d.

And by now, Carla had emerged to point at everything, but I barely saw her. Even from this vantage point, unable to move on my own, I could catch my reflection in the oven door.

John Smith was, well, a man, yes, but in a strange, overly generic way. He, and by extension, I, had an average build, brown hair, brown eyes, and a decidedly uncrooked lip, one nobody had ever socked in.

He was the sort of person you might see in a department store catalog, I thought, or in a stock photograph of an office: unassuming and smiley.

But I could not look long.

My head was turning as the unflappable Buddy Guy made his way once again in my direction.

“Let’s reveal our first puzzle,” the host smiled, and taking this cue, Carla pulled out a marker, as if from nowhere, and drew a crude approximation of a gallows on the refrigerator door.

Spinning in a little circle, red gown flashing, she then tugged open the microwave to allow a multicolored pile of alphabet magnets to spill forth from within.

It was just goddamn Hangman, I realized. And I didn’t even get to spin a wheel or anything.

“How about a letter, John?”

“V!” I cried against my will.

Oh great. John sucked at this game.

“Sorry. No ‘V’s.’”

And so, it went.

The waitress guessed a “Y,” and scored a few points. Fishing the letters from the microwave pile, Carla stuck the magnets to the fridge. The actor guessed a number in the form of a question.

I unironically said the phrase “Oh, gee!” when there were no “X’s.”

And at this rate, it took us two whole commercial breaks to get to the unimpressive:

Y_ _  M_D_  Y_ _ R  B _ D.  N_W  LI_  IN  I_

By now, the hanging man was missing only his feet.

This was hell, I thought. I had died, and I had gone to hell.

And I would be terrible at this word game forever, and that was my punishment for being mean to the dude in the apartment upstairs.

And writing that bad review of the thrift store.

And for Michael, who had only ever lied to me twice.

“I’d like to solve it, Buddy!” I grinned.

“Go ahead, John.”

“You made your bed. Now lie in it!”

There were buzzers and bells, and the audience cheered.

“That’s right, John. You made your bed. Now you’re lying in it.”

Buddy smiled at me, and for a moment, a crack appeared, something sharp and sinister behind his cheery expression. His lip twitched, and a flicking tongue, snakelike, nipped the lower part of his mustache.

“I deserve to lie in it, Buddy!”

And somehow, this was pretty goddamn funny. If I could, I would have laughed.

“Onto our next puzzle,” Buddy cut in as Carla knocked down all the letters, leaving them on the floor. She used her bare hand to smudge off the marker.

“Can I have a ‘Y,’ Buddy?”

Jesus Christ, John. How about an actual letter or something? Whatever happened to “A?”

I sighed internally. But to my surprise, Carla reached into the microwave and retrieved the red letter, placing it on the refrigerator door.  John did it. He got one. I felt excited for him.

I squeezed the podium. My hands were working, I realized, and so, overcome, I squeezed, just as tightly as I had the microwave that night, finding again the sensation of willpower.

But by now, Buddy was busy with the waitress and the actor, the former somehow earning a double penalty, which made Carla draw both a head and a body on the gallows.

But when play returned to me, I was able to speak up.

“What the hell is going on?”

The host narrowed his eyes, sniffing the air.

“Guess a letter, John.”

“I don’t know. An ‘A!’”

Sifting through the alphabet pile, Carla placed two magnet letters on the fridge, but she too was giving up her pretense. There was no pointing and smiling. She stared at me with a dour, annoyed expression, as if she could not believe my gall.

“It’s ‘Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here,’” I said.

Which was a cliché, but I was realizing now that if kitsch was going to be my hell, I could at the very least lean into it.

“Well, all right. Thank you for tuning in, ladies and gentlemen. After this important message, John will be moving to the bonus round,”

Buddy said to the camera. “Are we at commercial?”

No one responded. He marched over to me, twirling the microphone cord around his hand. I looked at it and realized it may very well have been the noose with which the poor loser might be strung up.

“You’re not playing by the rules, John,” he said nonchalantly, beginning to use the wire to bind my hands together, tighter and tighter, around my wrists, his grip surprisingly firm.

“Hey! Hey!” I retorted, trying to pull away.

“Don’t be a jerk. You’ll make this harder if you resist.”

“But that’s my problem. I’m here because I’m a jerk. You can’t damn people and expect them not to be jerks.”

“Do you think you deserve to be damned, John?” the host asked me. He cocked his head to one side.

“I think your show is stupid. But I’m finding that making fun of it and John’s wife Betty probably won’t help me win it.”

“You can’t win it, John. The outcome’s already set. This marathon’s just reruns. Your life is just rerun. The same thing over and over forever. Wake up. Eat. Sleep. And you lose every time. So why should this be different, hm?” Buddy dropped his voice low, but all at once, the studio lights flared, and he spun around to face the audience. “And we’re back!”

The soundstage went dark. The cheers stopped, and it was just me and Buddy, caught in a silent spotlight. Another lamp, mounted on a ceiling somewhere in the expanse of shadows above us, shined straight down, casting the refrigerator, the microwave, and the letters, in its fluorescent glow.

“It’s just us now, John. This is the bonus round. You get four letters. You have one chance to go up and complete the puzzle. And that’s it.”

_  F _ R _ _ _ _  M _  S _ _ _

I cast my gaze at Buddy, wavering a moment, before stepping uncertainly forward into the expanse. Although I could not see the floor beneath my feet, just deep darkness, I felt its steady weight as I moved to stare at the blanks.

An eternity passed as I stared. And maybe it had. At this moment, in this place, seconds and minutes and moments, they seemed to mean so little.

I forfeit my soul.

That was it. That was the joke.

I had already done it, I knew. I had become so wrapped in the misery of my own making that I had forfeited my very self to it. And willingly.

Choice. That was it, wasn’t it? I, willpower personified, exerting it in every wrong direction. And so, moving for the pile of letters, hands still bound, I pulled them out the microwave one at a time.

I stuck the magnets in place, whispering the words aloud as they appeared on the refrigerator. And only then, with a definitive nod, did I step back to see my handiwork.

I FORGIVE MYSELF

I awoke on the floor beneath the TV with a sudden, painful gasp.

The dude upstairs dropped something. I stared a good few seconds at the ceiling. And with that, I pressed back onto the carpet and laughed, a full hearty noise, the television set’s extension cord wrapped around my fingers.

Wrestling them free, I checked my reflection on Paula sparked the screen to be safe.

And taking a few more steadying breaths, I moved for my apartment door. I tugged it open to poke my head into the hallway, craning it up the stairwell to the sole unit above mine.

“Hey, pal? Do you need help up there?” 

#science fiction

[123goth]

Night Out

Her throat was dry. She could hear the tap dripping intermittently into the aluminum sink behind her. The way the quiet pitter-patter was unrhythmic and unpredictable sent a shiver down her spine. She buried her face into the couch. Dad said he was going to fix the pipes last weekend, but something came up. Maybe mom is sick, she thought. It didn’t matter anyway. Dad’s mind worked more like a river than a pond. Nothing stayed in view for long. Instead, everything moved along with the current. In one ear, leaking out the other.

Seconds seem to drip out of Katherine’s hands. She was waiting. Darcy was supposed to arrive soon, but that wasn’t her style. There was no reason for it either, but it always kept Katerine on her feet.

They had plans that night. A movie and dinner at a rooftop bar catering mostly to middle-aged couples desperately seeking respite from kids they loved but couldn’t always like. Katherine had wanted to go for a while. Vintage lights hung from thick cords around the deck. All the chairs were mismatched, some of the wickers, like they were stolen from an elderly woman’s backyard, others ornate dining chairs with delicate designs carved into the wood and purple velvet seats accented with tortoiseshell buttons.

It sat in the middle of the town square, overlooking a tall war monument protecting the roundabout that controlled everything. Once could not get anywhere without looking the Union soldier in the eyes. His face was gaunt, as though starvation from the war followed him. His cheekbones protruded, leaving the skin to drape loosely below. The small holes in the limestone left the statue with a strange aura of life, like each of his pores was delicately chiseled onto his face. She never learned his name.

Katherine lifted her head out of the linen cushions. Darcy should be here soon, but she was already 30 minutes late. They would miss the movie for sure. She could show up with a bundle of flowers. That happened once, years ago when they had first met. The summer night was ebbing slowly into the sky as the sun began to lay its head. She remembers the scene so vividly. The orange clouds mixed with the blush pink seeping from the delicate blue, teeter toddlers between a fading gray and a dying cornflower, the day’s last gift to the trees before falling below their view.

They didn’t have set plans that night, just dinner around seven, but Katherine was anxious. What if the food gets cold? She was always worried. Dinner sat on the stove, her on the couch. Staring at the light hanging from the ceiling, a myriad of disastrous situations danced before her eyes. Car crash. Pole fell on her while she was driving. Slipped and fell. Got lost. Abducted. Phone died. She doesn’t like you. She doesn’t like you. She doesn’t like you. “Enough of that,” Katherine said to herself. Her mind worked more like a whirlpool, spinning deeper and deeper into itself. Usually, a part of her sat above, throwing a lifesaver down before her head submerged fully. Slapping her knees, she stood and looked out the window. The stars, rubbing their tired eyes, were peering faintly out over the leaves.

Just as she sighed, the heaving type where sadness pools into and out of one’s lungs with the same breath, she heard a knock at the door. She was startled, a jolt of energy mixed with reupholstered fear made her fingers cold as she rushed to the door. Katherine found herself staring at Darcy, holding bunches of wildflowers. Giddy joy and a twinge of childlike apologetic guilt spread across her cheeks like blush on her olive skin.

Her outfit was eclectic and completely her own. Daisy yellow vinyl raincoat with accenting red sleeves with matching rain boots. They were covered with mud, Katherine would later find that she had waded through a creek to grab the flowers for her. She wore a sweater underneath. It must have been wool, but Katherine couldn’t tell. The thick knit turtleneck was a deep brown, coincidentally matching the mud on her shoes. She was messy and put together. A whirlwind and a light breeze. Summer air and heavy rainfall.

“These are for you.” She thrust the bouquet forward into Katherine’s chest. A ladybug was hanging onto one of the leaves. It flew off towards the light above them. “T-thank you,” Katherine mumbled, not meeting Darcy’s eyes, instead of locked in a trance at the meager gift she had received. There must have been something in the pollen, Katherine thinks, because at that moment, looking into Darcy’s brown eyes, spun with specks of green, she fell in love.

Remembering that night always brought that same smirk Darcy had to Katherine’s lips. She had been trying to be more like her, daring. Unapologetically herself. Wanting nothing from the world besides what she could find on the side of the road or hidden behind her ear.

A light-filled the living room from the driveway. Darcy’s old station wagon flew up next to the house. A flutter started somewhere in Katherine’s legs, moving quickly up to her chest. Heartbeats became so rapid, she couldn’t tell if her heart had stopped altogether or not. Suddenly, she couldn’t remember whether or not she had brushed her teeth. It’s too late to check. She did, she knew she did. A small part of her sat on her heart, calming her soul. Tonight could be the night. It could finally be tonight. She padded from the window to the entrance hall, tiptoeing like she was afraid to move any luck that had settled to the floor from countless days of blowing matches out with the same thought each time.

They had known each other for years now, but Katherine felt something special in the night. The birds had continued singing much longer than they usually did. The moon was just short of full, its eerily bright light illuminating the front yard. The back of the door seemed whiter, purer somehow. She wanted to wait, just to stare until Darcy’s signature knock would fill her ears, just before she would let herself in. “Kat. Kat, listen. Waiting is for the birds. I promise I’ll always knock before I walk in,” she pleaded with her once after Katherine suggested she open the door for her. But, she knew it was futile, and it didn’t bother her anyway. Darcy was a hurricane, and hurricanes don’t ask to go anywhere.

She heard steps on the stairs. Knock. Breathe. Knock. Breathe. Knock. Breathe. Doorknob. Breathe, Katherine.

The door swung open, and there she stood. She smelled like cinnamon and jasmine. It was something new every day. Sometimes small bottles of sandalwood jostled in her purse on early morning walks. Rose petals hidden behind her ears, lavender pouches in her pockets. She was wearing baggy jeans with stars that she had doodled all over her legs. Various colors and sizes of an imaginary galaxy covered her knees. An oversized jacket draped over her bony shoulders, a tight maroon top somehow was also falling off of her. The dinner was somewhat formal, although she didn’t fit the atmosphere much, Katherine knew it wouldn’t matter. Darcy transformed wherever she was. The sky would change colors for her, Katherine was almost sure of that.

“I have a surprise for you,” she said, that special smirk forming as she turned to grab what she had brought. “You’ll never guess what I found when I ran into the drug store on my way here.” She ducked behind the other closed door. There was a scuttle. Katherine’s chest felt heavy. “You remember Tyler, right?” A man appeared in front of Katherine.

  Fuck.

Something broke inside her for a moment. Brief and hopefully indistinguishable in her face. The girl sitting on her heart fell, clutching at her ribs in vain. There was nothing to do.

“Yes! Tyler, how are you? It’s been so long!” She spoke slightly through her teeth, hoping embarrassment and resentment weren’t leaking out her eyes instead of the tears she was holding back. She did know Tyler. They had gone to high school together years ago. She had fallen out of touch with him because she had wanted to. Blame it on the breeze, she reasoned to herself. Time moves and people move with it. It’s no one’s fault. You didn’t even see it happen. But there he stood. His lanky arms filled the space uncomfortably. Katherine felt a strange aura around him. Did he even want to be here? Darcy wanted him to. She held his hand as his eyes couldn’t seem to meet Katherine’s.

His voice was quiet. “Yeah. Hi. It’s been a while.” He didn’t know what he was getting roped into. It was obvious. He just wanted what most people who saw Darcy walking past wanted. Katherine wanted to think she was special, different from the rest, but maybe she wasn’t after all. She did want what he did, but she also wanted to hear about her dreams and what she thought of each blade of grass in the yard. To know her favorite shade of yellow and why certain days have darker blue skies than others. He wouldn’t want that. If he did, Katherine couldn’t be better. There was no fighting it.

“Let me grab my purse and fix my hair, then we can go. I’ll meet you guys in the car?” She spoke more like a command than a suggestion, turning for the bathroom before she had finished talking. She wanted to scream. Pull her hair out. Punch something. Why are you even angry? This wasn’t a date anyway. But she wanted it to be. This was going to be the night where she would look Darcy in the eyes and reach for her hand. Recite a poem about brown-haired girls with big lives and too little time on their hands. She would look her in the eyes and say everything that was collecting on a desk in the back of her mind.

She knotted her thick hair into a bun. It didn’t matter what she looked like anymore. She wiped off the meticulously applied lipstick, smearing it slightly across her cheek. She wanted to rub her makeup off. It didn’t matter. Tears rolled down her face. Suck it up. You don’t cry. Courage was mustered from somewhere in her that she didn’t know existed. With one glance in the mirror and a forced smile, she walked to the car.

The night passed fast.

They arrived. The waiter arrived. Dinner arrived. Other diners arrived. The noise arrived. The discomfort arrived.

It felt like Katherine was third-wheeling her plans. Darcy was always touching Tyler. Nothing inappropriate. A hand on the chest. A simple slap on the shoulder. Fingers accidentally tracing his hand as she reached for something. The conversation was tedious. Tyler monotonously droned on about a job Katherine didn’t care about. All she could stare at was his tooth gap and how his cheeks were too big for his face. His chin was sharp and too strong, she felt, for his big apple cheeks.

The night passed fast.

She was standing on her porch as she watched Darcy get into her car, Tyler by her side, his arm around her shoulder. She watched them get into the car. She watched them look at the other the way she always thought Darcy looked at her. He put his hand on the back of her neck and kissed her delicately. Katherine dissolved into a puddle.

  She’s not a prize. She’s never even told you if she likes girls anyway. That was true. She didn’t know if she did like girls, but that wasn’t ever something they talked about. “Labels are restricting. Who cares what I am when I don’t even fully know yet,” Darcy exclaimed one night. Her arms were always flung everywhere while she spoke like she was giving a speech no matter how small the audience was.

She sat on the couch while the tv played infomercials for the perfect nonstick pan. Nothing would ever stay on it. “No oil needed!” the enthusiastic host practically yelled into the camera. With the loud crash of overzealous salesmanship, Katherine’s eyes refocused. Darcy’s mind was like a riptide. Pulling people out to sea before they could realize how deep they were in. She was stuck out in the sea now, too far to find her way back to the shore she began on. Time moves quickly, but Katherine moves faster. It’s time to let go of the current. It was.

Sweet Darcy. She thought longingly at all the nights when the sky was too perfect not to reach out for her. All the opportunities she missed. Her exterior was too slick. Her walls are too high. Sweet Darcy. The sun has set. The light is gone. And as the birds finally fell asleep, she grappled with the position she found herself stuck in. I’m never going out with you again.

#romantic aesthetic

[123goth]

Dona paula

She is standing there at the Jetty. Looking at a distant ship, she hopes to be on one. So she could just run away from all the trouble this life had been giving her lately. Yes, she’s looking for an escape. And probably that’s the reason why she has come thousands of miles away from her hometown, hoping to leave her worries behind. But it seems like that didn’t help either. In a city full of strangers, she’s feeling vulnerable. Why won’t she? She’s never been anywhere alone after all. And this unplanned trip to Goa has never been on her bucket list. Of course, she wanted to come here, but not like this. Not as a loner who is looking for some peace of mind. But the turn of events that took place lately changed everything. And all of a sudden, she just wanted to get as far away from that place as possible and landed up here in Goa.

Yashasvi had recently completed her post-graduation in MBA. And in the weeks that followed, she found herself surrounded by sorrows and trepidations. Despite being 26 years old, Yashasvi had spent her entire life in Delhi. Never been out of town for more than a week. She doesn’t even remember when was the last time she partied or came back home late at night. One of the shortcomings of being an introvert she thought. And coming thousands of miles away from Delhi all alone was a bold move. But after all that she had seen, staying home was the last thing she wanted.

It’s her second day in Goa and after spending the previous night at a hotel in Panaji, she has come to Dona Paula, a famous tourist spot located in the suburbs of Panaji. But despite being in some beautiful places, she can’t get away from the past. It seemed to be following her like an owl wherever she went.

 She’s still not sure if her decision of coming to Goa was a good idea. She just needed an escape.

 Keeping her purse on the ledge, she checks her phone. No new messages. She was afraid that her mom and dad had figured out where she was. Of course, they won’t know she’s in Goa. And how would they? They had barely even talked to her in the last two weeks. The truth is, they were both so consumed, trying to deal with their f**ked up relationship that they partly forgot that they have a daughter too.

Yashasvi had left a note for them before leaving. She lied that she was going to stay in Noida for a few days at Neha’s flat. Neha was Yashasvi’s childhood friend and her parents knew her well. She knew that Neha was the only person her parents could trust and they won’t be worried about her, especially at this point. She had also written that she needed some time alone, and won’t be coming back until this Sunday and don’t try to call.

 Putting her phone back in the purse, she tried to calm her senses. As if trying to let go of the thoughts that have been tormenting her for as long as she can remember. For the first few minutes, it did help a little, but then it started coming back at her, with full force. As if the past is going to hunt her down no matter where she goes. Wearily, she decides to go back to her hotel room. Just as she was walking away, she saw a man in the black shirt walking backward in her direction. Accompanied by a girl, supposedly her wife or girlfriend, he was sort of teasing her and getting away from her. Still walking backward, he accidentally jolted and his back touched the ledge, pushing Yashasvi’s purse into the water.

It couldn’t have been worse for a girl who was probably going through the worst phase of her life. She got panicked as anyone else would in that situation. All her important things were in that bag. Her IDs, her credit card, her phone, her hotel room keys.

Crying for help, she couldn’t stop the tears rolling down her eyes. The guy in the black shirt kept apologizing for what he did. But that did nothing to placate Yashasvi who had just lost the most precious thing to a girl, her purse. A few other people gathered there to know what the matter was. People joined the conversation but none came forward to help her.

That’s when a tall bearded guy came materialized from the shadows and came forward to know what the matter was.

“What happened here?” he asked in a foreign accent.” Are you alright mam?”

The guy was a foreigner. With a pale white complexion, he looked like an American.

“My purse, it fell and I..,” she mumbled. Tears forming beneath her eyes, she found it hard to speak.

“It’s okay. I’ve got this,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m a professional diver. Just tell me where it fell, show me the spot. “

Clueless about what was going to happen next, she pointed toward the water surface where the purse had fallen.

It couldn’t have been worse for a girl who was probably going through the worst phase of her life. She got panicked as anyone else would in that situation. All her important things were in that bag. Her IDs, her credit card, her phone, her hotel room keys.

Crying for help, she couldn’t stop the tears rolling down her eyes. The guy in the black shirt kept apologizing for what he did. But that did nothing to placate Yashasvi who had just lost the most precious thing to a girl, her purse. A few other people gathered there to know what the matter was. People joined the conversation but none came forward to help her.

That’s when a tall bearded guy came materialized from the shadows and came forward to know what the matter was.

“What happened here?” he asked in a foreign accent.” Are you alright mam?”

The guy was a foreigner. With a pale white complexion, he looked like an American.

“My purse, it fell and I..,” she mumbled. Tears forming beneath her eyes, she found it hard to speak.

“It’s okay. I’ve got this,” he said. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m a professional diver. Just tell me where it fell, show me the spot. “

Clueless about what was going to happen next, she pointed toward the water surface where the purse had fallen.

What’s that?” she wanted to ask but instead, she just smiled.

“Yashasvi,” she shook hands with him.

“Yass..vi,” he stuttered. Yashhvi, right?

“It’s Yash-as-vi,” she made it easy for him to understand.

“Alright, Yashhsvi,” he said. “Yeah, am I right?” he smiled.

“Yeah, that’s better,” she laughed.

“It was nice meeting you Yashhsvi,” he said. Want me to help with the purse?

“No, it’s fine,” she said. But thank you so much for your help. I’ll be okay.

“Yeah, alright,” he said. Just be careful next time with the purse, he smiled and left.

Despite the hysteria, she was going through, the incident brought a fleeting smile on her face. Although it lasted only for a few seconds. When she opened her purse, everything inside was messed up. Her phone was dead and everything inside was all wet. Luckily, she wasn’t carrying that much cash. She wasn’t even sure if her credit and debit cards were going to work, not in this condition at least. She knew she had to dry them first. But she didn’t even have the money she needed to go back to her hotel which was in Panaji. She needed help who would understand her situation? The last thing she wanted was to get into more trouble than she already had.

As she turned, she saw the bearded American guy was still there, standing at some distance, admiring the infamous statue of Dona Paula. That being the last resort, she decided to ask him for help one more time.      

“Hi,...Josh,” she said.

“Oh, hey Yashhsvi,” he smiled. Everything alright? Do you need some help?

“Yes..yes actually,” she stuttered. I don’t know how to say this, I’ve already given you enough trouble and I…

“Ahh, what trouble? It’s nothing,” he said. I’m a professional diver, I told you. It’s what I do for a living. Tell me how can I help.  

“It turns out that all the cash I was carrying in my purse has been washed away,” she said. And I’m not sure if my cards are going to work either. I need to go to my hotel, it’s in Panaji but with all this, I doubt if I’m ever going to get there.

“Oh, it’s alright,” he said. Don’t worry, I’ll get you a cab to your hotel and I’ll pay for it.

“No. no, you don’t have to do that, really,” she said. Just take me to the nearby ATM and help me put these cards to use. I’ll withdraw some cash and I’ll be fine with the rest.  

“You sure?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” she replied. Absolutely.

“Alright, just let me take one picture first,” he fished out his cellphone and raised it in front of the Dona Paula statue with the camera on, to capture it.

“Do you mind if I ask something,” she said.

“Yeah, please go ahead,” he said.

“Do you like this statue?” she said.

She looked at the statue again and didn’t find it intriguing. A stone statue of a man and a woman, the woman looking straight into the ocean and the man pointing his hand to the left toward the jetty. Not intriguing at all.

“Nah, not really,” he said. It’s just the legend that excites me.

“Legend? With this statue?”

“Well, it’s more of a myth actually,” he said. Would you like to hear it?

“Of course,” she said. Please tell me.

“Alright, here it goes,” he said.

So the lady you see there is Paula. She was the daughter of a Portuguese Viceroy. Paula and her family arrived here in Goa in the early 1640s. She was only 17 years old when she came here. Initially, Paula wasn’t happy with this place. She missed her home, she missed her people, and most of all, she missed the friends that she left behind. Paula felt lonely, she had no one to talk to, no friends to play or spend time with.

In the weeks that followed, she met the Portuguese governor-general who lived in this village called Oddavell. The two fell in love and started meeting secretly here at the Jetty. Although the governor was her father’s age, love blossomed between the two and soon, the governor expressed his desire to marry her. Paula was so happy. She was already dreaming of her future with him, as his beloved wife. There was just one problem. The governor was already married and he fathered two children. However, he assured Paula that he’ll take care of everything.

One day, the governor’s wife got to know about his affair with Paula. Frightened of losing her husband, she conspired to cast Paula away from their lives, once and for all. On a fine evening like this, when Paula was waiting for the governor, his wife sent her men to abduct her and take her to a nearby cathedral. Her men did the same and brought Paula to the cathedral where the governor’s wife was waiting for her. Her cruel intentions were to kill Paula but before that, she thought that Paula should be punished first for the adultery she had committed. On her orders, poor Paula was tortured and beaten for hours. In the end, she was stripped naked and murdered. Her body was tossed into the ocean at this exact spot. It is said that when she was dumped into the water, all she was wearing was a pearl necklace.

Soon after her death, numerous villagers claimed to have seen her spirit wandering at the Jetty, waiting for the governor like she used to do while she was alive. As a tribute to her eternal love for the governor, the local villagers built this statue and named this village after her. Three centuries later, even today, if you ask the local villagers who live nearby, they’ll tell countless stories about Paula’s spirit materializing from the waters. It is believed that on a full moon night, Paula can be seen emerging from the ocean, wearing nothing but a pearl necklace.

Yashasvi was dumbfounded. She was so lost in the story that she just heard that she could barely move. It was as if she lived the entire story. For a moment, she compared her pain with that of Paula. It was nothing compared to what the poor girl had to endure.

“Are you alright miss?” Josh waved his hand in front of her eyes to bring her back from her daydream.

“Na..nothing,” she said. I’m okay. Kinda just lost in the story. God, it’s so painful. What happened with the governor after Paula’s death? Didn’t he do anything to avenge her death?

“Nobody knows,” Josh said. As I told you, it’s just a myth. There’s no evidence to prove it though.

“Hard to believe it’s untrue, the way you recited the story,” she said.

“I take it as a compliment,” he laughed.

“And why do we call this place Dona Paula?” she asked. Was it her full name?

“Well, according to Portuguese customs, Dona is the title given to a married woman,” he said. Marrying the governor was her only desire that wasn’t fulfilled while she was alive. So after her death, the villagers decided to venerate her with the salutation, Dona as an attempt to consummate her unfulfilled desire. Therefore, they named this village Dona Paula and erected this sculpture to honor her everlasting love.  

“Wow! I’m speechless,” she said.

“I know, the story of Dona Paula does that to everyone,” he said.

“You want me to click your picture here,” he offered.

“No no, I’m okay,” she said.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” he said. Let me take one for myself. It will remind me of the girl who’s whose purse I saved here in India.

“Well, then,” she laughed and posed in front of the statue.

“Nice,” Josh said as he clicked her picture. Come on, let’s get you some cash first.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to ask,” she said as they walked across the Jetty to find the nearby ATM. Where are you from?

“I’m from Germany, basically,” he said. I used to live in Hamburg. But I haven’t been there in the last five years.

“Oh, but why?” she asked.

“Can’t tell you that,” he said. I just don’t feel like going back anymore. I don’t have a compelling reason, after all. Besides, I like it the way I keep it. Exploring new places, meeting new people, living on the edge.

“Yeah, I can see that,” she smiled. So you’ve been in India for all this time?

“Not really, I only came here last month,” he said. Before that, I was in Southeast Asia.

“And you’re a diver, right?” she asked?

“Yup, a diving instructor,” he said. I’ve been into all sorts of water sports. Scuba diving, kayaking, rafting, surfing, skimboarding, and now flyboarding.

“Wow! I haven’t tried any of them,” she said. Except for rafting, I did it once while I was in Rishikesh.

“Tell me more about your life,” she said. Where did you live in Southeast Asia?

“A lot of places,” he said. It started with Manila in the Philippines and then Thailand, Vietnam, Singapore, and Malaysia. Before coming to Goa, I was working for Flyboard Malaysia. I’ve been living in Malaysia for the last two years.

“Your life must be amazing,” she said. I wish I could live like that.

“It’s not as amazing as it looks,” he laughed. Tell me about you. Where are you from and have you come here alone?

“With my friends actually,” she lied. They’re at the hotel. I’m from Delhi by the way, came here with my office colleagues.

“Cool,” he said. So how did you end up coming here alone?

“Fought with my friends,” she said, making that up. A stupid silly argument.

“Ahh, gotcha. I thought so,” he said. Do you want to call them up? You can use my phone.

“What? No no, not really,” she said. I’m still angry at them.

“Really,” he laughed. You shouldn’t be. Whatever happened, happened, right?

“Ummm, you’re right,” she said. It’s just that, I just can’t…..

“Alright, so here it goes. I lied to you about my friends,” she said. I came here alone. Nothing was going right in my life, it was so fucked up. I could barely sleep at night and was overthinking a lot. I just needed an escape, you know? And so I spontaneously took a decision, booked my tickets, and landed up here in Goa.

“Umm, that’s pretty honest of you,” he said. Don’t worry, it’s a part of life. Everything’s gonna be alright, trust me. And if it’s not alright, then it’s not the end.

“Thanks, it’s so nice of you,” she said. Hey wait, I know this quote. It’s what John Lennon said, right?

“Ahh, you know him,” he exclaimed. Wow.   

“My dad used to be a fan of The Beatles,” she said. I’ve been brought up listening to Strawberry Fields and the White album.

“Amazing,” he smiled. My grandfather once attended their gig when they were performing in Hamburg back in 1960. He’s even got a picture with them.

“Nice, I wish I could have seen them performing live at least once in my life,” she said.

“So do I,” Josh said. Ahh, I can see the ATM over there. Come on, let’s go.

Luckily, the card worked and she took enough cash to last for a few days. She was leaving for Delhi in two days and didn’t want to get into more trouble.    

“Alright, so I guess you’re good to go now,” he said.

She knew she could deal with the rest of her mess by herself. But for some strange reason, she didn’t want to go. She didn’t want to leave this guy just yet, never to see him again. Although she believed that all men are perverts. They’re all interested in the same thing. At first, they pretend that they love you. They treat you like a princess, make you believe that they care. While all they care about is to somehow take you to their bedroom. And then, they get bored of you and they need someone else to do the same. At least, this is what life had taught her. Her boyfriend took minutes to destroy their six years of relationship because he found someone else. Yes, it was painful, excruciating for the first few weeks, but she could live with that. But something that tore her into pieces was her father doing the same thing to her mother.

“Oh, yeah, so I guess I gotta go now,” she said.

As she turned, she felt something pulling her toward this stranger. He was a foreigner, a stranger. And even though they’ve only talked for like 15 minutes, she felt a strong connection that she never had felt with anyone else.

“Hey, we..wait,” he yelled and Yashasvi turned around.

“Yasshhvi, I have a friend of mine who works at the Paradise Cruise which happens to be in Panaji,” he said. Last week he invited me on board for a gig but I didn’t get the chance to go.

“Would you like to come?” he asked. It’ll be fun. After that, I’d drop you at your hotel myself.

“Wha, what? I don’t know,” she said. Are you sure about that?

“Yeah, absolutely,” he said. It’ll be fun. But I leave it up to you. If you don’t want to go, that’s fine.

She only needed a split second to respond.

“Yes, no, I mean yes,” she stuttered.

“I’d love to go,” she finally said.

*-*-

(To be continued…..)

#thriller #suspence

[123goth]

Your move

Listen: I would scream if I had a mouth. I have a story. So that is what I will use.

You have seen him before. He might as well live in your periphery. He is tall and seems to carry his weight in his chest and shoulders. He has a narrow waist and legs that taper down to small leather shoes. 

Not that you've noticed any of this before. You've been distracted, haven't you? If I told you this same man walked by your home every day, paused to peer into your window, you wouldn't want to believe me. But you couldn't say for certain that I'm wrong.

I'm not wrong. 

He might be very close right now. He might even be in your house. After all, there are so many excellent hiding places, aren't there? The back of a closet, behind the shower curtain, inside a cabinet…

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I promised you a story. And perhaps we still have time for it.

Understand: This man is not from your time. Spare me your disbelief. There are things beyond your comprehension. You are too old to think you know the universe.

Twenty years from now, this man lives on the coast with his five-year-old daughter. Their house, a patchwork creation of driftwood and corrugated metal, clings to the side of a rocky cliff. When the tide crashes in, the salt spray splashes against the windows. The sky is the color of steel, and the water is foam-flecked black. 

Everything is cold, harsh, and wet—except for inside the house. Warm yellow light spills out from a window, and a steady finger of smoke curls up from a slanted chimney.

Inside, the man reads to his daughter. He sits in a faded orange armchair by the fire, and she lays on her stomach in front of him, alternating her focus on the flames and the pages turning in her father's hands. 

"When you finish this story, can you read another?" 

He makes a show of looking at half the book that's remaining and then looking back at her. "Already tired of this one?"

She shakes her head. "No, I just don't want this one to be over. I don't want them to ever end."

He smiles and agrees, even though he knows she'll be asleep long before he'll have to pick out a new book. He knows how she feels. He doesn't want any of this to be over. He wants to hold onto every second, close his fingers around them and keep them safe, keep them from marching on.

And it is at that moment that everything goes white—a blast of blinding light that disintegrates the scene into dust—and then fades.

He is wedged into the cliff's face when the man comes to, soaked, hanging a few feet above the waves. Above him, the remains of his house: a couple of stumpy wooden beams and one amputated orange limb of his armchair. Below him, inky black ocean.

His daughter is gone. He will search for her for a long, long time. 

What he finally finds is not what he is looking for. He discovers a way to go back. But innovation is never as neat as any of us would like. He can only travel back a set number of years, way before his daughter is born.

So before he goes back, he does his homework. He researches. He spends hours in the archives of war museums, flipping through files, searching for someone new.

Searching for you.

And then he makes the leap, jumps back a few decades, emerges the same if a little nauseous for a spell, into a world transformed. The colors seem brighter here, the smiles wider, flashing ferociously, the eyes emptier and hungrier.

But of course, that's what he would see. He, an interloper. Here, a brave old world.

On his third day back, he finds you, speaks to you. He asks you for the time. His hands are trembling; his eyes never leave yours. Do you remember? It was a year or so ago. 

Your paths keep crossing, but he gets more cautious, becomes a flickering shadow, in and out of the corners of your life. Waiting. Watching.

So where is he now? Soon you might know better than me. 

He is tightening his resolve now, like a noose. 

Listen: You killed this man’s daughter. Not yet, not now. Twenty years in the future. Will it make you feel better if I say it was for a “cause”? Or for the “greater good”? It’s true. At least it’s true that you’ll tell yourself that when the time comes.

I understand you are not a killer. Neither is this man with wide shoulders and tiny shoes who may be in your house right now. But the years change us. Stories change us. You will be protecting your family, your friends, when you send bombs across the sea. And he thinks, by killing you, he’ll be avenging the memory of his daughter.

Maybe you still don’t believe me. But think: Is there a limit to what you would do for love? Is any price too high to pay? You will have an answer for thPaulaat soon, in the trying years ahead, whether you can face it now or not.

You two are very similar. Do you find that interesting? Relevant? Perhaps not. You both love words and tales and the drama, mystery, and madness of being alive. 

See: His story is partly your story, too. 

But no more of this. I fear it may be too late, and I’ve done all I can. Please, listen. 

Not to me.

A sound. Can you hear it? It’s inside your home. Maybe the creak of a door or a soft muffled step on the carpet. Or a shallow inhales of breath that’s not yours...

He is there, right now. Do not run. Do not call for help.

Remember the story. He doesn’t want this one to end, not like this—and not deep down, not where it counts. Do you? 

The shadow in the corner. It’s not a shadow.

Okay. Your move.

#mystery #short story