Sitting in a pool of blood. Smoking a broken cigarette, ashes falling on it and disturbing the beauty of the most natural kid of red. The truest of all reds, not maroon, not bright or orange-ish. It is real and a blessing of nature. Blood in my hands and forehead. Some on my knees and completely drenching my feet and legs. on hair, where it all splattered, settles like water droplets do in rain. When after a walk in hard rain you hide under a shelter, the water remains on your body and hair. The blood is moving and settling on my skin and body just like that. Not unnatural, thoroughly pure. Unadulterated.
But whose blood is it? Mine or the woman in front of me with long nails. Is it the blood from broken fingernails or deep wounds from a long, very long fight. Whatever was it that put me here, whatever is it that I refuse to move and clean it all. Wash it away, adulterate it with streams of water. Is it mine? Or of the corpse lying right in front of me, looking exactly like me. With the same fuzzy hair and heavy bottom. With a similar waist and breasts, exactly like me. Only her eyes are open in loss and death. Mine are open and staring at debris of a similar being.
I question for few more minutes as I finish my cigarette. The stains on it are of both nicotine and blood clots from my fingers. Stubbing it on the wet thick pool, I take a deep breath and try to push myself up. To stand, on my feet which hurt terribly. Like they have ran too long and too far, like they were in a strong and justified fight. First try, I fall right back into the puddle, and my face which was not so stained gets completely colored. A sly and disgusted smile, as it starts dripping off my chin. My legs are hurting more than I realized. I gather some strength to get up again. Wait for sometime and stare again at that mirror like corpse. I fear it might stand up before I do. But dead people don't walk and don't speak, I assure myself. Feeling surprised at the lack of even a small fragment of fear, I look around. It doesn't look like my room or any other place I could identify. Why would it. Such acts are not committed at homes or in places you inhabit. A long breath and I put my both hands on the floor. And the blood gets printed on them like alta, painted like dancers paint their hands before performances. It makes me smile again. One hard push.
Back on my feet I look around again. Think if I want to wash up. I will wash up. My hands are drenched in the blood of my own being. But which being? Where did she come from? Why did she have to die? Who exactly killed her? Since my memory begins from the very moment I lit the cigarette, how do I know what had happened to this woman like me? 'Like me', I ponder at this further. Was she really like me? If she was, why was she killed? And why do I have not a single fragment of fear or sense of loss looking at her? Was it me? How did she live, I know she did put up a strong a fight, I can see the bruises all over her. Walking past the corpse, these question race through my mind. And this loneliness, alone, like a new born woman, I feel a sense of freedom. Freedom to live a life which will not have damages like she probably did. I will be free from the marks that her skin has, not the wounds from this day, but before, like from a long battle-like life. I am free of them. All I have is her blood on me. Like a new born child has of its mother. I need to wash it off and gasp my first fresh air.
Staring at the bathroom mirror, I see my body completely. A full image, and I identify, see my hands and my face. It looks better after being cleaned up. But the only reflection I saw of myself before this was in the pool of blood. This is different. I like this one, I like her, the woman staring back at me. Leaving the corpse there, in my wet (but from water this time) clothes, I step out. Out of the room. And it opens to this virile and dry road. A path leading somewhere. But I step back in again, I feel like I have been born from this corpse, and like an infant needs to be around their mother, I need to stay with her too. But what will she feed me? I think again, what does she have to offer? A name probably, but I don't want her name. A life? But she is dead.
I keep staring at her perplexed and torn between emotions of elation and confusion. A feeling of disenchantment and renewal. A hope of a beginning and questions about the end. Standing there, not in the pool of blood, but right next to the corpse. I take out a cigarette pack from her pocket, and light another one. If I smoke, probably she did too. But whoever and however she was. She is dead and wounded now. The burden and freedom lies on me. What do I do? Do I stay, or do I leave? And this now diminishing sense of freedom, what I am to with it, if I don't even know what to do with her. Bury her somewhere quiet or keep this figure of memories with me?
But whose blood is it? Mine or the woman in front of me with long nails. Is it the blood from broken fingernails or deep wounds from a long, very long fight. Whatever was it that put me here, whatever is it that I refuse to move and clean it all. Wash it away, adulterate it with streams of water. Is it mine? Or of the corpse lying right in front of me, looking exactly like me. With the same fuzzy hair and heavy bottom. With a similar waist and breasts, exactly like me. Only her eyes are open in loss and death. Mine are open and staring at debris of a similar being.
I question for few more minutes as I finish my cigarette. The stains on it are of both nicotine and blood clots from my fingers. Stubbing it on the wet thick pool, I take a deep breath and try to push myself up. To stand, on my feet which hurt terribly. Like they have ran too long and too far, like they were in a strong and justified fight. First try, I fall right back into the puddle, and my face which was not so stained gets completely colored. A sly and disgusted smile, as it starts dripping off my chin. My legs are hurting more than I realized. I gather some strength to get up again. Wait for sometime and stare again at that mirror like corpse. I fear it might stand up before I do. But dead people don't walk and don't speak, I assure myself. Feeling surprised at the lack of even a small fragment of fear, I look around. It doesn't look like my room or any other place I could identify. Why would it. Such acts are not committed at homes or in places you inhabit. A long breath and I put my both hands on the floor. And the blood gets printed on them like alta, painted like dancers paint their hands before performances. It makes me smile again. One hard push.
Back on my feet I look around again. Think if I want to wash up. I will wash up. My hands are drenched in the blood of my own being. But which being? Where did she come from? Why did she have to die? Who exactly killed her? Since my memory begins from the very moment I lit the cigarette, how do I know what had happened to this woman like me? 'Like me', I ponder at this further. Was she really like me? If she was, why was she killed? And why do I have not a single fragment of fear or sense of loss looking at her? Was it me? How did she live, I know she did put up a strong a fight, I can see the bruises all over her. Walking past the corpse, these question race through my mind. And this loneliness, alone, like a new born woman, I feel a sense of freedom. Freedom to live a life which will not have damages like she probably did. I will be free from the marks that her skin has, not the wounds from this day, but before, like from a long battle-like life. I am free of them. All I have is her blood on me. Like a new born child has of its mother. I need to wash it off and gasp my first fresh air.
Staring at the bathroom mirror, I see my body completely. A full image, and I identify, see my hands and my face. It looks better after being cleaned up. But the only reflection I saw of myself before this was in the pool of blood. This is different. I like this one, I like her, the woman staring back at me. Leaving the corpse there, in my wet (but from water this time) clothes, I step out. Out of the room. And it opens to this virile and dry road. A path leading somewhere. But I step back in again, I feel like I have been born from this corpse, and like an infant needs to be around their mother, I need to stay with her too. But what will she feed me? I think again, what does she have to offer? A name probably, but I don't want her name. A life? But she is dead.
I keep staring at her perplexed and torn between emotions of elation and confusion. A feeling of disenchantment and renewal. A hope of a beginning and questions about the end. Standing there, not in the pool of blood, but right next to the corpse. I take out a cigarette pack from her pocket, and light another one. If I smoke, probably she did too. But whoever and however she was. She is dead and wounded now. The burden and freedom lies on me. What do I do? Do I stay, or do I leave? And this now diminishing sense of freedom, what I am to with it, if I don't even know what to do with her. Bury her somewhere quiet or keep this figure of memories with me?
