My boyfriend is dead, and I killed him.
The day he died, we were watching a football match at the local bar, when in a fit of celebration, some dude slapped my ass. I don’t know if I made him think it was okay to be violently jealous when other guys leered at me – because he got mad and punched the bum-slapping guy: the guy retaliated and killed him – he said it was a mistake, but boyfriend died anyway.
So he died fighting for me – ergo, I killed him.
All that was three years ago.
In the meantime, I lost myself. Loosing oneself is not about having to find yourself, or something breaking inside of you – you will always be in there, a diminished you. It is about the lights going out in a vital part of your heart, forcing you to live on a subsistence that means the proud, colourful part of you that used to puff out shrinks to an ugly, dour look-alike.
With me, it was forgetting to be happy, seeking refuge in chores –I, who used to hate cleaning and washing, who would rather pay some hapless kid to wash my filthy stuff than sit still enough to do it, became a regular Martha Stewart. Like a deflated balloon, I’d found a new normal.
But one day as I cleaned, I saw some old pictures of us –boyfriend and myself, at a gym park, doing the mountain-climbing course. Our heads were thrown back in laughter; the incandescent glow of happiness we reflected was stamped into the picture and shined out at me.
It was like looking at a mirror and seeing a clone of yourself in a better universe, staring back at you. I envied who I saw, I wanted to be her again. I shed no tears; I just knew the lights had to come back on.
I decided to find myself in parties, the society shows, the blow-outs. I met and mixed with fine-looking guys, expecting one of them to find me and show me the way back to joy, to me being remade.
But those boys were a pitiable lot – they had cold, limp proposals to offer me: I love you, you are so fine, seeing you makes me want to be a better man, will you go out with me. Despicable boys looking for a younger model of mommy.
Like an LSD addict being offered weed, I needed something stronger; I wanted one of them to grab me by my hair and shake me to attention, I needed him to scream into my ears – I want to fuck you like crazy, screw you so hard that all of heaven gets collectively aroused by merely watching us. I want to fuck you so good, the force of your orgasm will torpedo me into outer space! Now, get down on your knees and BEG.ME.TO.FUCK.YOU…BEG!!!
No one of those boys said these to me; weaklings. So I stopped the parties circuit.
I began going to church- and not any of this weak-dick, effete congregations. I went to a hard-core one, where they try their hardest to live like deportees from the 18th century who got mis-transported by a faulty time machine to the 21st century. They dress like their God is an anti-aesthete philistine who hates humans looking good ; they watch no TV or use much technology, they joyfully sing funereal songs in their services, they act like talking to the opposite sex is the most damnable sin possible.
They were warm people amongst themselves, kind hearted, their sermons were heart-rending but the wattage on it was just shy of redeeming a degenerate like me. Yet, it held promises of hope to me – because maybe, just maybe, some particularly fiery hell-and-brimstone preacher would crash through the darkness and repair that black hole of joy in my heart.
I fellowshipped with them, became one of them, till one of them became mine.
She sought me out, became a mentor-figure closer than any other member; she taught me their doctrines and let me collapse onto her. I watched her become fascinated with me and the loss and depravity I was trying to unload on her. I led her slowly into the darkness of me, made her like it and when she was distracted by it, I grabbed at her own heart and staked my claim on it.
Her heart was a surprise; in it, I saw tremors of the forbidden kind – a wave of affection that so excited me that for a short while, the lights in my heart came on before dying out again; I knew immediately why she had sought me out, how I was an exotic presence in her drab world. And I saw too, that she was my remedy.
I still remember the day she became fully mine, how we had just come back from the church, and were poking deprecating fun at ourselves and our co-believers. She was doing a very good imitation of an especially overzealous church brother, and had leaned in towards me the way the brother does when speaking. Her head came forward, but I had ceased to hear her jesting words, only her eyes –filled with the purest happiness and her fleshy, pinkish lips inches from mine got my attention. I wanted to share that happiness and I told her that, the only way my heart knew how to. I drew to her, planted my lips on hers, took hers into my mouth slowly, felt the breath catch in her throat, I nibbled and sucked on her lips in hesitating strokes, the wet, hot taste of her mouth flowed into mine, the tension balling in her throat burst out into mine, and what followed was a sensation of pure desire trickling from her to me; the tide of her wanting hit the back of my mouth and that moment, that small speckle of a minute, I felt the lights in my heart flickering on. I paused, parted our lips.
I saw the fear in her eyes, the shock of finding a fearsome strangeness in one’s body.
I stood up from the bed we sat on, walked to the door and slid on the locks – we were alone.
Turning back to her, I saw that there was an epic battle going on within her – the demons of this unspeakable passion were fighting the long-established angels of obedience, an obedience that told her she was doing wrong, that she was wrong.
But what mattered to me was that she was mine, my very own redemption.
I smiled at her, sniffed the air to savour the smell of victory in it. The lights in my heart were back on, full and bright. The electricity woozed around in my bloodstream, I was heady about her.
I walked back to her, lifted her up from the bed with one arm, the other hand drew her head to mine as I took the whole of her mouth in mine, ready to kiss her with all the energy I had.
My hand slid down to the below-the-knee pleated skirt she wore, found its zipper and unhooked it, while our mouths were still locked together. Then with my body, I gently nudged her back onto the bed: she went down on it and for a moment, our mouth disengaged. I straddled her, looked on her prone figure and knew with every certainty, that I really was back – Lost but found.
That Sunday, we fucked like scarred rabbits.
(An anti-story based loosely on a true life story in which a girl, who lost her boyfriend to a stray bullet from the guns of duelling cultists, seeks solace in debauched partying before becoming a ‘born-again’ Christian, then was expelled from the church after being accused of successfully seducing a high-ranking church brother)