Date: 23.07.2008
Time: 9:10 p.m.
Bruises are meant to be laughed at. Perhaps, run fingers over, or fingered at perversely to prick them into bleeding, but never to be caressed gently with the intention of caring for them, until they were healed. At least, that was what she’d grown up believing. Of course she’d beat up anyone who told her otherwise, and if it were a boy, she’d be especially mocking, and taunt the poor soul, accompanying her piercing words with wiggling eyebrows and rude finger gestures.
It had never occurred to her in all her fifteen years that there was such a thing called softness. Be tough. It was what kept her falling prey to the cliques surrounding her everywhere. She turned a tough hide on all the failings around her, as though trying her best to distance herself from a disease-dripped dressing of an adjacent inmate at a hospital she was unwillingly forced to live in. She began to shun herself the moment she noticed herself wrapped up in the very bandages she abhorred on her fellow human beings.
But then, bruises were always something she’d enjoy. It was a sort of pleasure to test her limits with pain, and the prolonged throbbing of her body every time she ensured an injury to herself. It made her cry out with joy – a feeling that was cloaked with a slight sense of guilt, as there were moments when she believed that she went against the very laws of nature, which told the living to recoil from what caused pain. She didn’t understand how anyone could turn away from the exhilaration of a wound, the rush that accompanied the sensation of agonising pain which could take control of her senses as easily as a gifted thespian holds an audience in awe.
It took effort, she told herself, to get to the point that she’d feel it, for she’d found out early in life that it took her longer to have physical sensations seep beyond her skin into the nerves that let her know that she lived. One day, when one of her peers had extended a hand to help her to her feet after a fall from a high wall, she’d scowled angrily, shaken the bewildered hand off and stalked off into the distance, her scraped knees bleeding, her limbs pulsating with painful bruises she’d worked so hard to get, and her pride wounded at being thought of as an object of pity – as a person who needed ‘help’.
And so, while she was lying on the crowded street, bleeding out before pedestrians shocked speechless by the sight of her mangled body, she felt the happiest she had been since she was born. She knew she wouldn’t die from it… that had never been her intention. It had been a stroke of luck to have been at that very spot in the first place. However, the thrill that choked her and made her deaf to the sounds of sirens blaring away as they made their growing closeness known and giving hope to those un-empathetic passers-by who wished to rob her of her pleasure, escalated her ecstasy to epic proportions. She revelled in her increased heartbeat, her shallow attempts as gasping for air, the tantalising splintered bone that stayed connected to her by a mere fraction of an inch, the searing pain in her abdomen as her body struggled to cope with displaced viscera and the mounting tension swelling within her as she tried to imagine the sight of herself.
The only thing that kept her from laughing out loud was having the wind knocked out of her by the impact that left her motionless on the street. The sound of the ambulance morphed into a high-pitched wail when she finally blacked out.
End: 9:50 p.m.
Time: 9:10 p.m.
Bruises are meant to be laughed at. Perhaps, run fingers over, or fingered at perversely to prick them into bleeding, but never to be caressed gently with the intention of caring for them, until they were healed. At least, that was what she’d grown up believing. Of course she’d beat up anyone who told her otherwise, and if it were a boy, she’d be especially mocking, and taunt the poor soul, accompanying her piercing words with wiggling eyebrows and rude finger gestures.
It had never occurred to her in all her fifteen years that there was such a thing called softness. Be tough. It was what kept her falling prey to the cliques surrounding her everywhere. She turned a tough hide on all the failings around her, as though trying her best to distance herself from a disease-dripped dressing of an adjacent inmate at a hospital she was unwillingly forced to live in. She began to shun herself the moment she noticed herself wrapped up in the very bandages she abhorred on her fellow human beings.
But then, bruises were always something she’d enjoy. It was a sort of pleasure to test her limits with pain, and the prolonged throbbing of her body every time she ensured an injury to herself. It made her cry out with joy – a feeling that was cloaked with a slight sense of guilt, as there were moments when she believed that she went against the very laws of nature, which told the living to recoil from what caused pain. She didn’t understand how anyone could turn away from the exhilaration of a wound, the rush that accompanied the sensation of agonising pain which could take control of her senses as easily as a gifted thespian holds an audience in awe.
It took effort, she told herself, to get to the point that she’d feel it, for she’d found out early in life that it took her longer to have physical sensations seep beyond her skin into the nerves that let her know that she lived. One day, when one of her peers had extended a hand to help her to her feet after a fall from a high wall, she’d scowled angrily, shaken the bewildered hand off and stalked off into the distance, her scraped knees bleeding, her limbs pulsating with painful bruises she’d worked so hard to get, and her pride wounded at being thought of as an object of pity – as a person who needed ‘help’.
And so, while she was lying on the crowded street, bleeding out before pedestrians shocked speechless by the sight of her mangled body, she felt the happiest she had been since she was born. She knew she wouldn’t die from it… that had never been her intention. It had been a stroke of luck to have been at that very spot in the first place. However, the thrill that choked her and made her deaf to the sounds of sirens blaring away as they made their growing closeness known and giving hope to those un-empathetic passers-by who wished to rob her of her pleasure, escalated her ecstasy to epic proportions. She revelled in her increased heartbeat, her shallow attempts as gasping for air, the tantalising splintered bone that stayed connected to her by a mere fraction of an inch, the searing pain in her abdomen as her body struggled to cope with displaced viscera and the mounting tension swelling within her as she tried to imagine the sight of herself.
The only thing that kept her from laughing out loud was having the wind knocked out of her by the impact that left her motionless on the street. The sound of the ambulance morphed into a high-pitched wail when she finally blacked out.
End: 9:50 p.m.
8 comments:
"No thing called softness"..something like i'll break in bits but never compromise on my beliefs and principles.
Is it fiction or is it you talking to yourself?..hmm, the story was different,much like a portrait..based on beliefs i felt.
oh haan..its good to see that the penguins are back ;)
What prompted their return?
Well, if you check the label at the end of the post it'll say 'Story', so fiction it is!
And as for it being based on principles, I'll have to say that I usually write on/about things I know or believe in, unless of course you count certain unusual circumstances (silly examination essays, for instance where it is imperative that I write something :P). I guess that's it is one way I ensure that it's my work. :)
Oh and I'm the ruler of the penguins in my army, not necessarily one myself. xP
disturbing.period.
I would've said
"Lovely. Period"
Not "disturbing": It isn't disturbing. Not as much as a very shallow comment. The post is very well written with a fluid control over the momentum, and the idea that appeals to me so much.
May I write a piece that uses the same skeleton? {It might take a long time, though!}
BDC: Hmm, I suppose it is not an often written of theme. To each her own.
Kaz: Thank you! I was hoping I'd get a comment on how the story was developed as well. I haven't written prose-ish fiction in ages. :P
And I'd be honoured if you wrote based on this. :) {Hurry! :P}
Beautifully put. Very modernist...
:P
Mastery and escape.
I loved it!
hi ss,
i am a frend of asmita's and she made me read your blog. i must tell you dat u really inspire me as i am into creative writing myself.... keep it up.. hope that soon enough i will get the chance to see you as well..
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