War

Fighting in the battlefield of life

War - he had been fighting one for ages.

This was no ordinary war. It had no victors and no defeated. No champions, no heroes. He was the only one who lost- repeatedly. He was the sole victim, he his own vanquisher. For he was in conflict with his own mind and, at the moment, defeat loomed large on the horizon.

Tonight was unusually peaceful. He was familiar with this ofcourse, accustomed to feeling the calm before the storm. He was used to the storm by now, his mind had acclimatised to the rough weather it faced most days. The calm though always brought dread and uneasiness, because he thought it was trying to lull him into a false sense of security. He hated being given hope where there was none. He loathed the infrequent rays of sunshine that punctured the gloomy, rainy air. He felt he was being hoodwinked, that the world was trying to paint him a picture of everything being okay with itself only to rip it off from right in front of his face. Only to leave him sobbing again, and on his knees.

Helplessness- it reminded him of his very first fight.

She was gold, she was magic but tonight she was unnaturally cold. The ring was back in his arms.

She had given it back before. She wasn't ready then. He thought she would be ready this time. After all five years had passed and they weren't teenagers anymore. This time she slowly put it back in his left hand, clasped his fists around it, held both his hands in her own and said, “I love you, but I won't marry you. Someone else? Maybe one day, but never you.”

He didn’t ask her for a reason. He didn't need to know. He just got up and left. Helpless, broken and alone and so would begin the next chapter of his life.

The ring met filth and slime, instead of the gentle skin of a hand.

He wasn't prepared to face solitude. It was like he brought fists to a gunfight. The first days were bad. He didn't even resist. He took all the blows and let himself bleed. They say life flashes before your eyes when you end up facing death. His did. Maybe not his entire life, but black and white images of her played on repeat. All the laughing, all the days of laying in bed, all the planning for a life together; time was playing it all back. Multiple stabs on an already deep wound. It was playing back pictures of her because she was his life. Everything he ever fought for. Only his tears rolling onto his chin interrupted this continuous involuntary nostalgia. These moments he held so dear once had become memories, someone he held so close for so long a deserter. Now he was in an all out combat with himself and with life.

Somedays the blade almost pierced skin. It almost found the same places the syringes had left their marks on. Somedays water tasted like medicine and he forced himself to drink some. There were nights when he'd sleep and start to dream. Always the same dream:

He'd go to kiss her and she would take a step back, turn and walk towards the mirror. Once she reached it, she would put her hands around it and open her legs like she was inviting a lover. Then she would start kissing it. Somedays the mirror reflected more than just her face. There would be different people she'd be kissing, faces he couldn't even make out at times. Just dark shadows with her hand on where their cheeks would be, locked in a passionate embrace. He tried to move but he couldn't, he couldn't stop it from happening. He was stuck. Even subconsciously, she left him stranded.

At times he'd try to convince himself that everything was fair in love and war. But he always failed to justify what made it plausible for her to reject him. He failed to make sense of how seven years could mean so little to somebody. How she said, “Someone else? Maybe one day, but never you.” Was it because he was so undesirable? Was it because he didn't make enough money? Perhaps, he didn't make her laugh as much anymore. Maybe, it's because he refused to get the groceries the other day. He would scratch his head and try to remember every detail, pinpoint where his faults lied.

Sometimes his brain would project a person in his head, his alter ego. He would pop up and say, “Maybe it's not your fault, it's hers.” That person never made it any further in the battle raging on inside his head.

His brain was manipulating him and he was fighting a lost cause. He wanted to give up, he was ready to admit defeat.

But he could never just give up. Every time he made his way to the roof, or went to the shop to get as many sleeping pills as he could, his conscience would start making sense. He would abandon the idea, only to revisit it later.

She would call or leave a message most days. Another thing he dreaded just as much as the rare good days. He would hesitate but he always ended up answering. There were even no moral victories. Every conversation ended with her blaming him for everything. Tears, fresh cuts and empty bottles would follow this. But he always picked up whenever his phone flashed with her name on it. He had lost this battle too.

He had no allies in this battle either. Maybe except loneliness, it always kept him company. She ensured everyone knew who was to blame. She made sure no one would ever come to share his grief. He had never felt that band of brothers feeling. He was alone, army of one, and he was losing.

At one point he just knew that the conclusion was drawing near. He was close to the end of his tunnel and he saw no light. It was time to end things.

He had had enough. He couldn't face this life anymore. “Give in my child,” someone whispered inside his head. Was this the same conscience that told him to fight before? Had he given up too?

“Give up and end it. End your pathetic existence,” it went on, its voice low but audible. The words hushed but hurtful.

The pistol was perched right up against his Adam's apple.

“Pull the trigger. Bite the dust,” another serpentine jibe from his alter ego. It was growing impatient now.

He unchecked the safety cache and pulled the hammer back, his sweaty hands playing with the trigger.

“One swift motion. It's easy,” he thought. “All this struggle will end.”

He pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened, there was no bang. So he pulled again, then again, and again. Nothing, nothing at all. He looked around and saw a box next to him. It was perched against the holster the pistol came in and the polishing spray he was given. The bullets were inside it. He had forgotten to load the pistol, the cylinders were empty. Now he understood why nothing flashed before his eyes today, because life knew he wasn't really dying.

“Someone else? Maybe, but not you,” and fate smiled at him.