Queer



She hates him.

His very presence.

His sight.

The way he stares at her.

Each day. Each minute. Each second.

As if to force him upon her. To remind her every second of his undeniable presence. She wishes to do the same.

But she can’t. And she doesn’t want to figure out why.

She says she has better things to do. She busies herself. She gets lost in her work. She drowns herself in complete nonsense. But she can’t let go off the image.

His image. His eyes. His piercing stare that penetrates right into her body. Her soul. Her corrupt soul.

She tries to hate him. Day in. Day out. She cannot admit that she has failed. She doesn’t even know if she wants to.

But she’s trying. Trying hard. To hate him. To avoid him. To not look at him. To not think about him. To ignore him. Did it not seem easy once?

She is still trying…

And he?

He is desperately seeking solace in the web of lies he has so carefully constructed.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing. And, that, ironically, gives him some hope. Some solace (fake though it may be).

He wants to escape. Nay. He needs to escape. He is getting caught in his own web. What can he do? Where can he go?

She is dominating his life. His mind. Heck! His thoughts. He wants to deny that. He wants to escape that. He wants to be alone. Paradoxically, alone with her.

Why? Why her? Why her now? It’s too late. Too late.

The more he thinks, the less he knows. And yet he cannot deny the truth.

The truth. The truth only he was aware of. And now, she knows it too. She wasn’t supposed to…but she does. She knows it all.

He wants to pull her arm, grab her body and kill her with his words.

He knows that his words are his best weapon. His only weapon. He is confident of their enormous power. But he suspects she already knows them. How can she not know? She knew it all along. She was simply pretending ignorance, he insists.

But she can’t beat him. She can never beat him.

If her soul is corrupt, his thoughts are corrupt too. If she can fake ignorance, he can do better.

There are other ways to kill her, he says.

Everyday he thinks of ways to slay her. There are too many ways and too less time.

Should he slit her throat? Stab her at the back? Strangle her with a pillow? Or just stare her to death?

He’s often tried the latter. Been almost successful too.  But she doesn’t die. She refuses to. Or perhaps, she carefully plans not to.

But why does he want to kill her? Does he even need a reason?

It’s not a question of want anymore. It’s a necessity. A requirement. 

She’ll die tonight. He knows she will. And he knows exactly how.

With that, he placed the gun on his forehead and pulled the trigger. 

Concluded
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