Love at first sight – The essence

Another usual Saturday night. I remember back when I used to be excited about Saturday nights. That was long ago. It seems like a lifetime ago when I was not yet a stranger to my past. As of now, I can’t seem to place my memories. Yet they are all in there, adrift. Homelessness takes its toll.

I could sense the excitement in the air. 100ft road, apparently. I didn’t know how I ended up there. It was probably my subconscious mind dragging me towards finding better days and easier ways. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been to a pub, yet here I was standing outside Hoppipola. The place was surprisingly familiar, the vibes, even more so. I probably spent a good amount of happy time here before all the shit happened.

Retrospection taught me never to trust myself. Yes, I had plenty of time to retrospect. That’s probably the only good that came out of the one year sentence. Everything else associated with prison life is just meant to degrade who you were. Ever since, life has just been shades of gray.

Turned and kept walking. Told myself that it was for the best. After a short while, three punches, and a brawl in the middle of the road with a drunken teenager, I found myself walking in through a door, which had Heineken written over it.

I’ve always made it a point to dress to impress. It didn’t matter if I didn’t eat for days. Appearances count for everything. Something about Morpheus and glasses was mentioned. Of course, the poor waiter would never have guessed that I walked in without a single buck on me. Thinking ahead was never my kinda thing. Improvisation got me this far, and I wasn’t gonna change lanes anytime soon.

Six pegs into Morpheus and chill and a group of college students walk in. I used to be in college. I never really liked it, but much like everyone else, I too, got it over with, without fucking up too much. The four college girls who walked in clearly wanted to get wasted. The one with the curly frizzy hair seemed out of place. My days in the streets, taught me how to read people. This one was tensed. Probably only her second or third time drinking.

Three more pegs and I found myself at their table. Old time improvisation kicked in, it seems. Everything was feeling natural and colorful once again, after many months. That feeling was my cue to get the fuck out of there before shit happened. Like many times before, I chose to ignore the urge that indicated the initiation of the cycling. Half an hour later, the one with the frizzy hair, was going home with me. If only I had someplace, to call home. Of course, she didn’t know that. She paid for my drinks, and there we were, back to the streets.

Once you live on the streets long enough, it becomes home. It was almost one in the morning now, and we were sitting on a broken bench in a deserted park. I had never asked her name. I told her I was Vincent – A name I hadn’t used in a very long while. She poured out everything and kept telling me that It was divine intervention that brought me to her. I played along. I was used to that by now. Playing along was the best I could do. I’ve never felt love, but I was pretty good at faking it, till I was bored.

Her head was resting on my shoulder, hand on my chest. She certainly seemed like the happiest girl I’ve ever seen. I felt power. I could induce so many changes in this girl, with so little effort. I must be God. But God doesn’t stop at happiness. I reached down into my socks and pulled out my sgian-dubh-esque knife. I could feel her body convulsing as warm liquid drenched my clothes.

23, I updated the digits in my mind. The digits that keep me going.


Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The Broken Monk is a designer undergoing meditation in Mumbai, India. He is rumoured to be capable of sleeping only once every two nights.

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