Red Blue Gray: Day 14

What a horrid dream I had last night. There’s this tantrik with big matted beard on face and peak of bun of his head. His eyes were closed and he had the voice like that of brontide. And he was chanting like spring breeze sounded when it pass through the leaves. And he was sitting on my chest bending his knees. There was a tinge of toxicity in the tone. And he had this cat—the one-eyed tom cat sitting beside him. Though in the dream he was not one eyed but two eyes—big beady one in the moss-green colour. I should be scared of him but I was not. I liked it. Once an astrologer said I will die while listening to prayer. So I think the moment is here. Now I have all day to think about death. In the night I can come back to writing in the night in the light of the moon. But, I want to dream.

Isn’t it surprising that writing in the moon light is easy. Never thought writing in the darkness is easy. It is easy it seems someone making me scribbling. When I write it just seems the blood is flowing through my veins and the words I am writing getting their strength from that stream. Thought is mine but the strength to write is of someone else…

[The writings here went blurred and scattered. Most of the pages are damaged and the writing in the pencil smudged and gargled up.]

Faeces. Blood. Puss. Leeches. I have all these to entertain me. This prison thinks they can keep me in check. But what if I said I had got the call. The call from the onus. He just came up to me and look into my eyes and said what I had done make me the perfect choice to be in his army. Though, he did not visit me in person. He visits through it. The one eyed cat. He is now licking at my broken toe where the blood had clogged up. He likes the taste of the blood. I should let him enjoy his drink. Let’s not disturb him.

When I pushed myself inside her tearing her innerwear she screamed. She begged for forgiveness. But I want to defoliate her from her virginity. I pushed and pushed till the blood came out from her. She lied there; grasping for air. I hold her throat and pushed my fingers on her throat. She opened her eyes, bursting out. I cut her body and fried a few pieces of it in the blood of her with mustard oil. And boiled few of her pieces to the melting. With the hooch I have them. What a taste I cannot define in the earthly words. It was the best meat I have. I started my journey there. Every fortnight on new moon night when the darkness is in its fine blue form, I defoliate a virgin and feast on them with the hooch. (Cont’d)

By Sangbad

A poet, an author, a reviewer--in one word I'm a literaturist (means one who is trying almost everything that Literature is made of). My books are available at Amazon. I'm a Bengali, born and raised in Kolkata, West Bengal.

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