I was sunk in the snow. It was knee deep. Cold. Just like it was when the first time I made love with the man I have now forgotten completely. It was stagnant. Just like the first time I bled. Absolutely quiet. Just like the first time I was high on weed. Blurred. When the dew drops used to traverse all along the glass window, making maps which always seemed like iron bars to me. It was like that long lost illusion that the world will end. And I loved the streets. They cracked at the first snowfall. No one really filled them back.
They were mere things. Full stop. Like the little gravels on the street which ripe at the first sunray of morning. I lived in a wooden house. Yes. I set it on fire. Not because I forgot the man I made love with, in it. But for the simple reason that I could not bear the noise the wood made every time I got smashed into it. It had a small balcony- my room. When we were young, we sat there, sipped on wine. I could only see the street from there- my first love. I remember the man saying, “You cannot walk there. It’s too broken and cracked. There is not one place to put your feet on. I will get you a wagon.” I smashed the wine bottle on his head then. He smashed me into the wooden walls, again. Remember the first time I bled? It was stagnant. It froze. Dried. And chipped off. The man gave me a pink corset. He liked the cougar look. I poured acid on it. He smashed me again. He then tried giving me a diamond in a chain. It fell in the fire place just before the first night. Remember the first time I made love? It was cold. Very cold. Though I always liked when fire talked to me, that night the transition was silent; it was put off. Never giving up, he then gifted me glass bangles. No, I didn’t break them. I kept them safely until he died. He was happy for that. I was not always evil, after all. Sometimes, I loved him too. Alas! I cannot recollect his face now. He once gave me a bag full of pastel colour sheets and asked me to fill them with words. I made little rolls of them. Remember the first time I was high on weed? It was absolutely quiet. He entrapped my skin ruthlessly. I burnt his neck with the butt of the ignited weed roll. The man was never a quitter. He tried again. This time he gave me a pair of glasses. We were growing old. He asked me to wear them while he took me out. I melted them with the same fire. He punished me by making me stand beside the glass window early morning. Remember the dew drops? It was like I was behind iron bars running wild over the screen in front of me. It was blurred.
Then one fine evening, I stood right beside the street. He came and pulled me towards him. He whispered, “I love you so much. Can’t you see it in my eyes? You hurt me every time. I want to be with you even then. You never speak. You are mute. Cold. Quiet. Stagnant. A blurred image. Why don’t you love me?” I still kept looking at the street. Its cracks fascinated me. The gravels seemed to be calling me; they seemed to say that they wanted me to walk with them and bear the sunlight with them. The man kept repeating the same questions. I looked at him. I looked at the street.
The fire was enormous. It was all over the woods. I could hear the voice. I could smell the ash. The glass bangles were with me, broken. Remember I had kept them till he died? Till he died! I did not want to hear the noise the wooden walls made when I was smashed into them. I did not want to clean the blood stains. I loved the fire. It talked to me. It knew the colour of my eyes. It knew the freckles on my skin. Then there was the street. I travelled, in the direction of the gravels. Found myself amidst the cracks. Then emerged little illusions from the cracks; that the world was going to end. Why? Because I was sunk knee deep in snow. And the last thing I did was give the street a kiss.