Everything is normal under the sun. World would better end with fire he thought. It was four days since the weather took a windfall. Sun took refuge behind the dark clouds, winds cleared the roads and sent people packing stuff off like bunnies. Looking out from his desk, drizzle blurred his lens; worry seized his forehead; and tears clouded his eyes. He closed the window shut, and turned towards his empty room. A wire cot lay by the side of the table. There was also a dresser, a beautiful wooden craved mantle held a blackened mirror. He couldn’t bare the site of it, he slowly walked out of the room. In the adjacent little crammed room were, two wooden chairs, battered to suit the old walls of the house. There was a television set which he barely watched. He slowly looked into the kitchen, dragged himself there. It was just the same way things were four days before; it smelt stale food. He didn’t bother to clean them, yet. Strong winds made the doors and windows come shut all at once. The light from the lamp was crackling to keep itself strong against the winds. Glasses shielded her.

He looked at the light, hoping that he would find some glass to shield himself. He knew things were never going to get back to normal, in fact they were past normal, they were past craziness, they were not happening, they forze, according to him. He then wanted to come to terms with reality; he put his hands into his pocket, found a crumpled piece of paper. He refused to believe it existed. He slowly opened it. The words were blotched. The scribbles read

‘Dad. You were kind enough to take me back in. The world however isn’t.

Love, Brinda’

From no where, they took her virginity; later the trains took her breath; fire finally gulped the lust that ended everything. She was mere ash at his hands. Coldness he felt within froze him into living death for eternity.


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