Anyway, here's the first chapter of my "story". I do remember that I infact didn't have a story. I just got inspired and started writing. I wonder if I continued writing now, what it would lead to? See there's a wide range of things I could be doing now, yet HOW i manage to spend days without accomplishing things, I don't know. I think, partly, it's my parents and their presence. I don't know what I mean by that, but it's my gut feelings. Whatever. Here goes Chapter 1:
I am always the last person, to hang from his last feeble thread of tolerance. Today, I hung again. Challenging the tensile strength. Which was fun. And like always… TWANG. And the sting tore.
Oops. Here we go again…
I sat on the floor, engulfed by a battalion of words of discontent and juvenile frustration. I waited patiently. I seemed to do that often these days. Either wait patiently, or pacify him, or speak the truth. Usually, I start by speaking the truth, then wait patiently, and then pacify. This was my job. And the side-effects of it were beginning to become more prominent, ever since I befriended this rather old, yet verbally active, man. A 68 year old man.
And I’m not bored yet. This man was infinitesimally interesting. But I wasn’t bored. Not just because my job didn’t allow me to be bored. I don’t exactly know why I wasn’t bored yet. But, I wasn’t. Ouf. And I’ve accepted it.
Obviously, things wouldn’t change. Just get worse. And that’s the fun part of it. And I’ve wasted infinite years of my life waiting for something fun to happen. The fun came since I got the job. It came in freakishly horrifying ways. Entertained me, and left me blunt, stupid…and not so much dumbstruck.
However, nothing fun was about to happen now. This was more than just a daily routine of venting. The “cleansing ceremony” as all my other peers call it. This man had advanced in the performance of unbottling his heavy feelings quite well. He learnt it, from his previous melodramatic, hypochondriac ancestors. And even at the age of 68, he was astonishingly good at it.
But today was different.
And unlike other days, I was meant to stop this ritual of harsh abusing, even though I triggered it.
After all, it’s not always easy to tell the recipient of a “thorough rage-management-therapy” (especially if he’s your client) that his only daughter was murdered by his best friend from kindergarten.