Thursday, February 14, 2013

The Wings Of A Butterfly..



Note: 
The writer does not intend to advocate, endorse or glorify necrophilia, euthanasia, substance abuse or love in any form.

Dear Diary,

I saw a butterfly fluttering its wings as I sat by the window. Though on the surface it looked unruffled, all it did was masquerade an unspoken anarchy. Am I like the butterfly? Am I pretending to be happy even when I am not? Am I masking my real self to be someone I am not?

Dear Diary,

We had a fight again. For some reason, he is stuck. His brush, he says, isn't freely flowing as he would have liked it to. He is angry not at me, but at himself and his helplessness. I am trying to understanding him.

Dear Diary,

I collated a large number of words today. Finally my literary drought has ended and words now are superfluous. I am happy. 

Dear Diary,

I was trying to read passages from my story to him, he listened for a long time, offering me insights and even telling me where I was flawed. But as I neared the end of the story, he stood up and blamed me, telling me that I was insensitive to his needs. He asked me how was I so content when he was throbbing with feelings of inadequacy. 

Dear Diary,

He came upto me and apologized. I cannot bear not speaking to him. It is too much for me. He let go of his ego and said that he wouldn't repeat it. We spoke about our dreams and all the wonderful things we would soon be able to have in the house. This new phase is exciting. We had sex and a nice dinner. We slept in each other's arms. But he seems to have become more distant to me. Earlier we used to make love. Now, it is a mere charade. 

Dear Diary,

I have never felt happier in my life. Though I regret dropping out of medical school, I finally seem to have found answers to my questions. I met a publisher today who showed a great deal of excitement when I showed him my manuscript. 

Dear Diary,

Sorry that I have been unable to write much here. I have been keeping very busy editing voluminous pages of  passages and singling out the best ones. It isn't as easy as I thought it would be. He on the other hand hasn't slept for the past two days and rarely speaks. I don't want to smother or bother him. I am letting him be. 

Dear Diary,

Today as I was editing the lines from my book, I found a startling similarity to my childhood. I designed the antagonist based on my mother's persona. I have no standing problems with her, but still, somehow, subconsciously I ended up doing so.

Dear Diary,

I learnt of an insect called the mayfly. It apparently has a lifespan of about 30 mintues! Just that. Can you imagine? I am naming my book 'The Mayfly' as it gives the existential dialogue of my protagonist who is  a dying man, who in his last moments realizes the importance of his life. We think ourselves to be great, which we are not. Our lives are just fleeting moments in terms of the Universe. We are all but cosmic dust. 

I feel bad for him, he has been drinking all day and doesn't want to speak to me. I wish I could do something about it.

Dear Diary,

Today for the first time after many days we got stoned. Me and him., we spoke a lot after that. He asked me about my classes in medical school and asked me to describe in detail the operations that I had attended and performed. He told me it gave him the exact inspiration he needed to finally paint and get back. We made love too. It was exhilarating. 

Dear Diary,

We stoned together again. He asked me about another experience in the operation theater, where I described to him about a patient whose simple lumbar puncture procedure had been messed up by the operating team of doctors, an artificial intravenous CSF had to be instilled and an operation to support the patient had to be redone. As I was narrating, he came up with a beautiful painting about a man inside a limbo who in a curious case of Stockholm syndrome got comfortable inside the vortex and refused to come out. 

Whatever be it, I am finally happy that his stroke of genius has found him. He even got his old humor back. 

Dear Diary,

He asked me to get recorded videos of operations, especially autopsies. I contacted my friend who had a cardboard box full of them and I moved them over to my place. I feel a strange nothingness as we sit and watch the videos of scalpel cutting through skin and the crafty expertise of doctors suturing the exposed areas. 

Dear Diary,

Yesterday, I snorted coke after many days. The rush that it gave was ineffable and my head has been groggy ever since. I sat dazed at the plasma screen that showed a complex cardio-thoracic surgery where a valve block had to be dissolved. While I stared in disbelief and paranoia, he continued painting a metaphorical painting. The Artery, he calls it. It is about a man who being distraught is compelled to look inside and he finds that something is blocking his life. A parasitic twin's angst perhaps? 

Dear Diary,

His paintings are brilliant these days. The problem is, I can sense a bit too much of violence in them. But, then, creativity and everyday life are two impossible ends of a spectrum. I am sure he is mature enough to understand where to draw the line. 

Dear Diary,

After several rounds of whiskey, I blacked out. He woke me and we smoked up. In my stupor I saw an intensely inappropriate video of a ruptured fetus which caused the mother to recede into a comatose. After the video, he went back to painting and he came up with his most brilliant work ever. 

Dear Diary,

My publisher tells me that the book after several corrections and several reviews is ready to be published. Now, strangely I feel that my book isn't that important afterall. He is coming up with a series of paintings for an art gallery. My book has been overclouded in the melee of it.

Dear Diary,

I was telling him about the first time I held a scalpel and make an incision into a dead body. He listened with undivided attention as I recollected my disgust during the first time of seeing a dead body of a patient- all alone who had died of a brain-stroke. He implored me to go into the details as I felt an overwhelming sense of queasiness. The after-shock made me vomit all that I had for lunch yesterday. 

Dear Diary,

We discuss a lot about medicine these days. He never asked me about it earlier. Now all we speak about is that. He seems to be interested in all that I learnt from the day one. Now that I am growing uninhibited telling it to him, he has developed a bizarre interest in the diseased and the deceased. 

Dear Diary,

He asked me what a mortuary looks like. I tried to explain to him about the insufferable pungent odor of formaldehyde and the subzero coldness. Still I was unable to convey it to him, how it actually was.

Dear Diary,

We tripped on LSD. It isn't a big deal. The pop-culture populism has insinuated an unbelievable interest in the drug, but it is just like a good quality weed. The hallucinations were pretty poor and I had no trouble whatsoever getting down from the trance.

Dear Diary,

Whiskey, weed and a line of coke later, he asked me if I could take him to the mortuary. He told me that as his theme was the death and the diseased, he wanted to experience the coldness first hand. I told him it wasn't possible. But, he knows that I know few people in forensics who could give me an illegitimate access to the morgue. 

Dear Diary,

I have finally given to his incessant pestering. We are going to the hospital and behind the forensics department, at two in the night, me and him will enter the mortuary.

Dear Diary,

It was exactly like the first time I walked inside. The strange smell hit me as the place reeked of death. He was satisfied and on the way home, he kissed me like he had never kissed me before.  

Dear Diary,

I am sorry again to be very sporadic in my visits to you. I have no one to turn to I know, and I can only hope you won't judge. My book has finally seen the light of the day as the publisher promised to release it in a month's time.

Dear Diary,

His big art exhibition is coming up. I am as excited as he is. We have been sneaking into the mortuary several times. We even saw the mangled body of an accident victim as he lay lifeless on the cold steel surgeon's table. 

When we were leaving the place, he held my hand and kissed me. His eyes twinkled as I saw love for me in them. 

Dear Diary,

We made love. In the mortuary. I tried my level best to refrain him from doing so, but I love him too much to say anything against him. 

Dear Diary,

We made love in the mortuary again. A dead body was on the other side as he jubilantly helped me to the best orgasm of my life. You may be wondering how I cannot feel a thing, but I simply don't. All I care about is his happiness. And then, I'd do anything for him.

Dear Diary,

He went ahead and touched a female dead body against my will. He said that it allowed him to get an insidious experience about understanding the beauty of death. I complied.

Dear Diary,

We have been graduating a lot from normal alcohol to cocktails of analgesics and anti-depressants. As a doctor, I know of its adverse affects. Most of these can cause severe withdrawal symptoms persisting for even years after cessation of its use. 

Dear Diary, 

He asked me to wait for him in the car while he went inside the mortuary. He was almost caught by the security personnel. He is turning into a necrophiliac.

Dear Diary,

The big day of his art exhibition comes along. He looked dapper in a tuxedo and I picked up an evening gown to match his grandeur.

Dear Diary,

Much to his dismay, the exhibition didn't go well. Critics panned him for being too worthless and vulgar. His calmness on the drive back home scared me. I don't know what to say. 

Dear Diary,

Today, my book released and I have been receiving good reviews from literary aficionados and bookshops. Something is finally going good in our lives.

Dear Diary,

He has taken to mixing Benzodiazepines in his whiskey and goes for days without speaking. I don't want to bask in the glory of my book at all, I can't bear to see him unhappy. 

Dear Diary,

His gallery owners gave him a chance to rework the paintings and come with a more melancholic display. 

Dear Diary,

Again. Today. Again. He asked me if he would accompany him. I thought he was taking me to the mortuary. But, we sat talking to a homeless guy on the street and then he injected a potent anesthetic into the poor guy's veins. Ensuring no one was watching, the man was plonked into our car's trunk and then, he started cutting the guy with the scalpel. He came upstairs and started painting. 

Please don't ask me why am I supporting him. Am I emotionally dependent? Am I insecure? All I know is I love him too much. Love is irrational, dear diary. You of all the people should know that.

Dear Diary,

He has been doing this a lot regularly. He often goes out in the night and then spends endless hours in the garage  In the morning, the whole place is clean again. 

Dear Diary,

There are reports in the police about missing people. I don't even the guts to ask him. I am an accomplice in his crime, I know. But I am more than just an accomplice in his life. I have chosen this path. I can't give up on him.

Dear Diary,

Things are going overboard. His gallery opened again. His phone has been ringing ever since. The critics call his work a fusion of postmodern angst of life and death. I have never seen him happier.

Dear Diary,

We celebrated it with a heady IV Heroin. I know it is dangerous, but I have no choice. He controls my life. I feel exasperated to even write.

Dear Diary,

I am weaning off the heroin. I have sudden chills and cravings at night.

Dear Diary,

I may be writing a lot lesser to you.

Dear Diary,

I am feel paranoia. I can see dead bodies in the mortuary. Hallucinations? I think not.

Dear Diary, 

I can't go on. I am going insane.

Dear Diary,
...

Dear Diary,

It took me days to feel normal again. He hasn't stopped his killing spree. He is doing it for the heck of it. I can't believe I loved him once. 

Dear Diary,

Today is Valentine's day. I have decided to put an end to all this. I do know what I have to do. 

Thank you for always being there.

Dear Diary,

I realize I am just like the butterfly. My wings have been clipped. 

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