The Inelegant Bride. (Part II)

They pitied her, they pitied her. And yet on the streets, they would shy away from calling her. Her obscenely fleshy frame which she covered in soul-less colors, the knife clutched firmly in her hand, the hair which she had never cut, a mass of black broomsticks, and those hollow eyes of a volcano black, put people off her. On social gatherings, when the ladies would sit together, at the dirty pinches of the frayed multicolored tent, the topic would inadvertently and surely touch the life of "Poor Swati". There would be audible sighs and sympathetic clucks. Someone would try to mutter, but instead in needle-like voice say a small verse, with the theatric closing of eyes, and clasping of fingers. The new brides would shake their majestic heads of hair in pity, the meek one would look pointedly down. Pregnancies, babies, philandering husbands, failed businesses, family feuds, cat fights and a visit by the local film star later, the murder of the Mathur's and the fate of their only, spoiled child, still was titillating sensation, the sobered embers of which were fueled to a tickling life, every now and then. 


15 years was a long time. But it stood frozen for Swati, the winsome 25 year old, who walked into the dead bodies of her beloved parents. A balmy afternoon, with the heat fluttering in a listless haze, while fondling happily the complying bodies of her dead parents. Her Mom's wheat colored face coated with sluggish blood, her Dad's eye unseeing and lolling in their sockets. They laid side by side, like two dummies, in clothes tinctured with drying blood, cold bodies in the copper heat. 
The people came to take her away wanting to wipe her tears. There were none. Soft voices, softer touches, the softest words. A kind lady  gently opened the fancy necklaces that looped on her neck, someone else greedily took off the gold bands on her fingers. There were five of them. Somewhere, someone, in a plaintive voice warbled about God's grace. The smell of the rose incense wafted around the house, gently  like the footsteps of a fleecy lamb.They fed, she did not protest. They nudged the spoon of daal into her tiny mouth, they dabbed her chin with the towel when water would dribble down it. They talked, she did not hear. She stood, frozen in time.


And then she made love to madness. The neighborhood would be woken up by her acidulous cries of unbearable pain. The night would be punctuated with her spams of wails, the venomous sobs and withering laments. The dawn would have her convulsing with heart pain, the day would hear her tempest of prayers, frenzy and feverish. The God's were ripped from the walls and hurled into garden with its long, octopus like grass tentacles. She laughed, her delirious laugh, seeing the wooden frames and their slaughtered inhabitants rotting in the rains, fading in the sun,even the stray spring flower not wanting to touch them.Her hair grew long and in copious amounts- her body clung to the comfort of fat, her eyes became more vacant. She muttered, she stalked. Her rants were soft like a pianissimo, and sometimes vicious like the wolves. She paced, she paced.  She was shackled to life but not to its obligations. She cared not to care for herself, for the society. And she went on, making love to her insanity, besotted to her madness. 




How could she get be married ? Who would marry her?

The pandit drawled again. 

"Bring the bride"
The pandit-he was an oily man.His verses were oiled and so was his hair and just like his face. He righteously chanted the hymns and the verses, while feeding the hungry pyre of orange, its milk of ghee. Every now and then, he would tinkle the bell, and toss the lilies floating in the bowl next to him unceremoniously in the humid air. There was a place, empty next to him. And he beckoned on to her.


She stood up. Everyone eyed her like a jackal, hungry for their morsel of gossip to whet their craving appetites. They watched her, place one unsteady foot shod in golden plastics after another. Her frame wobbled, she grunted. Like as if a spotlight was on her, everyone just stared as she took her steps on the dirty velvet of the carpet, slowly making way to the bamboo mat next to the pandit. She sat down on it, inelegant bride that she was, farting, as she let herself spread on the carpeted macadam. Her eyes black, yet shampooed to a hard glint by her frenzied excitement, her lips pursed, her body heaving, sweating, trembling. Swati- The mad bride. 


Everyone held their breath. For now they had to call the groom. There was a rustling of tacky silks, and the graze of nylon trousers, as people turned their head around, peeking squinting waiting for the HER groom to arrive.


"Bring the groom", he intoned,in his not so melodious voice. A frisson of excitement in the crowd. The excitement was palpable, like a trembling wave threatening to break open and drench the people any moment. The mother put a hurried palm over her crying toddler, the men chewed their paan tensely. The teenage rebel quietly slung her arm through her mother's. The short ones unabashedly stood on their toes. The old matrons controlled their lashong tongues, the sole waiter serving the guests, paused with his tray of oil lathered goodies. Everyone waited with bathed breath. 
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Years later, Swati's marriage still remained, tucked into manifolds of every conversation. Everyone recounted the disbelief that coursed through them as the inelegant bride, pulled out the picture of a random man, cut out from the newspaper and placed it on the seat next to her. How she walked around the pyre holding the picture in his hand, head held erect. One time, two times, Seven times. Someone said, that was the picture of her mother's favorite singer. Nobody could see properly. The ink of the newspaper had started fading with age, the picture was spotted with unbecoming circles of purple. She placed her fat, fleshy thumb stained with the red and drew a long tikka on the paper. She took that paper and rubbed it on her forehead, and ran it along her hair. She stabbed the paper with a single flower, and herself slung a magnificent garland of orange blossoms. She placed the picture on the ground and then bowed down in front of. Kissed the ground. A play so elegant, a play so dark, its actress so wild, the audience so stunned. They recalled, how when the rituals were over, Swati never looked at any one of them, and walked, the picture clutched to her bosom, to her house, shut the door, to never look back. The mural of the gory murder was complete with the one last piece of the insane daughter. No one knew, no one knew. Why Swati got married, to whom Swati got married.




No one knew, about the times, she spent looking at that one picture of her mother that was stuck on the wall. Her mother in the wedding dress. No one knew, Swati's hours of staring at the picture, wanting to bring her mother back. That smiling face, those chubby arms washed with that sweet smelling cream. Her mother. No one knew, how she would sit on the ground, her hair falling around her, the rat slyly running past her, and look and stare at that picture pasted on the crumbly blue wall. They called her mad, she was not. She lived in another world, where she was not yet born, and her mother was still alive and blushing like a bride. She just wanted her mother back. She just wanted to walk every evening straight into her mother's embrace. Her frozen brain fathomed that a marriage could bring her back. Maybe those rituals had some magic? Maybe the windchime in her parent's bathroom would tinkle once again, as her mom would flippantly strike it, after her bath. Maybe her Mom would be found cooking a delightful mixture of spicy curry for her in the kitchen. Maybe, Maybe. But it did not, it did not.


No one saw Swati after that day. 

The Inelegant Bride. (Part I)

It came in a crude, coarse envelope, sealed..not with glue, but with the hurried lick of a tongue. The saliva had dried to leave pale streams of a salty black along the border. It was a red card. Red and tiny. With a funny loop of silver threads pinned on the corner. Somewhere from the middle, laughed letters written in epileptic strokes, using a cheap sparkle ink. Laughed and ridiculed in their shiny disco clothes of purple ink.

"I invite you to my marriage. Swati."

Everyone who lived on the street recieved it. From the Brahmins to the Baniyas. From the fair faced, to the dark skinned. From the man with his three huge dogs, to the widow opposite his house with her penchant for melancholy music. Tucked in their door knobs, thrashed in their mail boxes, slid under their doors. She never invited them, face to face. Did not drag along her mother like other brides, demurely draped in a dull salwar, politely refusing the sweets placed, gladly sipping the glass of cold drink, blushingly acknowleging the tease about the groom, staunchly ignoring the talks about the past. No. In the dying hums of the balmy night, she would sling across her disfigured frame, her postman satchel of handmade wedding cards, and walk house after house, lane after lane, stopping briefly before each humble abode, to fish out the pen from behind her wild bun and with laborious strokes write the house number on top of the envelope. 

Everyone went to her wedding.

They rescheduled doctor's appointment, the trip to the tailor. They canceled on dinner invitations, some politely refused offers to watch the latest movie.The mother's made sure that their children had finished their homework before 7 and were bathed and dressed by 8. The husbands gave up on their after office banter at the street chai- walla's while devoring gulab jamuns, pulpy with hot sticky syrup. The grandmother's talked in loud, uncouth tones, the teenagers licked up a lascivious portrait of rumors. Women met up on the streets huddled and whispering and stoking a warm, exciting fire of gossip, that fed their bored spirits. 

She sat there on her bridal throne.

Dressed in a red sari. Red, the color of fresh blood. It was not new, it was not old. It was cheap and the sequins winked in a leery way as the lights fell on them. The fake diamonds and the fake emeralds and the hilariously fake rubies that studded the entire length of the six yards giggled like teenagers giggling in their shrill voices. The plastic gold that clung to her stout neck and her long fleshy earlobes shone like flashlights on a cart. Sweat and powder mixed together to form rivulets of grey all along her neck and dripping down it in a sickening way. Her blouse stuck to her swollen breasts hardly containing them, while clumps of flesh fell loose from the sides. Her bra peeked brazenly from the bottom of the blouse,the colors of last holi still staining the cotton white. She had tried to hide her stomach with her sari, but the bloated mound with its ugly navel was still discernible. Her arms were flabby, and every time she would raise her hand to fob the flies that had come to feast on her salty sweat, the flesh would dance and wiggle in a vulgar way while the harlequin bangles on either wrist shrieked. 

Her makeup- she referred and read laboriously, the makeup tips in the Sunday newspaper. The eyes were almost colored black, and the heat had made the kohl runny and now, pools of black lay underneath her eyes. She had painted an eyelids, the scintillating shade of a peacock blue. The lips were daubed with a violent pink, the cracks on the flesh oozing a little bit of dried blood. The dark facial hair on her upper lips which she had tried to conceal with some extra powder still showed-thin manly strands. Her cheeks which looked like she had stuffed her mouth with an obscene amount of food, were carefully painted in circles of rouge. Her hair was parted in the middle, straggly strands that she had plastered and then puffed into a bun like the latest bridal magazine said. But the makeup was cheap, it cracked all over the face, the sweat turning everything violet. She looked like the Made-In-China toy that the hawkers sold on the street.

She sat on her bridal throne, amidst the unwilling  red roses and wilting white lilies. Feverish and aware. From the entrance to her platform, she had ordered a red carpet to be laid, which was now littered with crushed napkins, sauf, and torn petals.  Her seat was cushioned and she sat erect, while her puffed up bun kept touching the vines of lily falling from the artificial bower. Aside her, were the few gaudy presents and in her golden handbag were the envelopes of money which her guests had given. Her bulbous eyes, the whites the color of wine, were alert and greedy, as she continuously looked at the entrance and at the size of the presents that her guests had bought. 

"Call the bride, it is time for her marriage", the pandit droned.

The guests who had been fed, and the kids who had licked their ice cream cones suddenly set alert. "Finally, we get to see the groom! ", For who would have thought Swati could get married?! She was the mad single lady of 39, whose parents murder had addled her brains at 25. She spent her time reciting macabre poetry in a loud, carrying voice, enacting every though written. She was seldom seen on the streets, except the few times when she had  to go to the market, and even then, she would carry a small knife in her hand while the wind blew her wild mane of hair in a frenzy. She fed the dark nights with her blood curling wails and feverish laments. Her howls were piercing, cold and slimy. Her garden with its growth of luscious vines and tall grass like the nails of a witch, was strewn with pictures of different God's wit their faces ripped open viciously. The Shiva had a bleeding eye, The Ganesh was torn along his forehead, Jesus lay mutilated. All on the street knew that that every Sunday at 4pm, she would stand on the same place, with the same numb look, and stare at that carpet of grass that had once since the stabbed bodies of her Mom and Dad, years back, the green caressed with the warm blood, the face turning blue, the eyes vacant in their sockets, the skin cold. She talked to none, she did not know how to smile. Once lissome, she had turned into a grossly fat woman around whom madness swirled like a malaise. 

So how, how could Swati get a groom and get married?! 

The house.

The house was broken. In spirit, in structure. No one lived there.It stood, tall and decomposed and dead, on the side of the flashy new urban residence painted in the brightest of pastels.


The terrace was of a dying black, with a stain of parasitic moss that had spread like a pool of water. The vines hung like poisonous snakes. Untamed bushes grew from the broken corners, the leaves looked treacherous. The plaster had peeled off- crusty flakes creaked open from the walls-like a man whose face dripped with pustules of ugly, squeamish pus. A brick blushed red and healthy somewhere, it seemed like a valiant attempt to be a part of the present time. The window had no curtains, except the straggly strands of decayed ivy. Dying and an infected yellowish green. The grills were probably painted white, but over the years, the dust licked the white to a salty grey. The house had the halo of the haunted, as if a peek into windows would reveal the palette's of the yesteryear's. Maybe an old man, with his crop of hoary hair, and a face flushed with flesh, tucked into the corner. A shiny box of steel with the assortment of paan and other breath mint by the side of his mat. Or maybe a young bride, smothered with gold and wrapped in a fiery red, the bangles chiming the sweetest tinkle as she fluffs the bed for her old husband. Maybe girls with long pleated cotton frocks and neatly braided hair. Maybe a boy with socks pulled up to his knees, his hair oiled with jasmine and parted strictly to the sides. An earthen pot, a steel tumbler. Maybe, Maybe.


I can only wonder. I will never know the story of the house on the street.

Can we be together for the weekend? I hate waking up alone on a Sunday morning.

Can we be together, for the weekend ?

I hate waking up alone on a Sunday morning.






Its a vacation, that day. I want to do it my way.

I want to wake up, in your strong arms. I want to watch you sleep and sigh, turn around, while I sneak out.

I know I will drown myself in the sweetness of a long bath, I tip-toe out of the room, I leave wet,sloppy trails.

I tinker in the kitchen, a gentle din of metal and steel.

I make you your break-fast of the strongest tea, and the healthiest egg.

I make you the fluffy, honey pancakes with blueberry jam smeared lustily on them.


I wake your Sunday face of restful smiles, with the most wettest kis


We wear white, I tie a little pink bow.

We cushion up on that clumsy,cozy sofa. Trough out the day. Hearts beating one way.

From the strong yellow brew of the morning, to the crepuscular rays of twilight.

Till it eclipses to the mellowness of the night. Black as ebony, warm as honey.

Teasing, exploring, loving.

Loving.





So can, we be together, for just this weekend?

I hate having to sleep drunk on a Saturday night.

I hate having to wake up, a solitary figure, still flushed from her scary dreams.

I hate having to tread around, for the gentle slap of my slippers on the floor, makes such a thundering sound!

Like as if, loneliness has an indelicate sound to it. Almost a noise.

Like reminding me, that you are so far away.

I wont have your fingers gently entwined with me, for a long long time, till that one fateful day.




No, this is not a sad song.

No, this is not, a weeping myna warble.

Its just my want, and my wish.

Of Childhood and being Daddy's little girl.

Pleasant happy sight of a family of four frolicking in the park, outside my hostel. A little twinge of sadness for having grown-up, and a sweet happiness at the innocence of children.

I missed Daddy like crazy, when I saw the father, lift his tiny daughter up in his arms, and smothering her with kisses. And when he swung her round and around her,and I could see her face breaking into breath-taking delight. The older daughter was pulling at her Mum's white suit, gesticulating towards a stray, beggarly puppy. All of them, were barefoot on the green grass, I could see their flashy footwear flung carelessly along the stone border of the lawn.


Sometimes, I wish I was a little girl all over again, in a cute, flouncy pinafore and a hankie pinned in a triangle to my front. Scooby Doo school bag, and a red water bottle slung across my neck. My coveted possession was my Donald Duck finger ring and the scariest thing that could happen was getting lost in the super market. And the MOSTEST important thing was to brush your teeth twice daily, and never have too many chocolates, for the gummy yummy brown might make our teeth go bad. " I will tell to Miss",chant by that kid with huge, black eyes, used to give you frightful jitters.

Oh how I wish, I could right now cuddle to my Dad, enormous blankets, covering us in a snowy mass, and s the blue-blue patched mosquito net above us. 

Of my own little concrete cocoon of bliss ( My room).

I love my room. 

Its my alcove, its me.


I love the paper butterflies,that I have stuck to the wall, their wings folded,as if ready to fly. The walls are blue,matte finish. The tube light, hurling shards of its glittery,plastic light at it, makes them glisten- an uneven wave of spongy,shiny softness on the brick creation. 

Once,these packets,dangling from an old,dying wire in a shop caught my attention. A merry hotchpotch of colors, swathed in translucent plastic.On closer inspection, they were stickers of butterflies and honeybees- oh so quaint! The colors were so jolly!Like,fat lil droplets falling back noisily, after splashing on the black,graphic border.  I bought them by a dozen, and spent one,extremely ecstatic afternoon sticking them all over the walls. The same shop once had these packets of neon colored hearts-colors so jubilantly bright, that I was once again found, happily sticking them over my bed, one glorious afternoon. I tell you, it was so ticklish- that feeling, when I pulled each one out of their plastic houses; that sticky-wicky gummy "sssssshrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr" of adhesive, and with princess-like flourish, stuck them in random, mad fashion all over.

So now I have a blue wall with red-pink-yellow syrupy dots blinking winking at me, every day every night. I love it!

I have this one happy corner in my room. On my suitcase, draped in a bed-sheet, the color of a squishy,healthy tomato, sits the cutest stool on earth. Pink felt cover, with hearts yawning and oozing all over it. My princess hairband and my bangle of silver,tinkling coins stands on it . Princess hairband of fading silver encircles a smiling teddy hugging a cup made of velvet fur. I heart chocolates is needled across its mossy face.  Next to him, in a basket woven of amber straw with a handle draped in brilliant blue ribbon, sits a tiny dog, wearing cocky sunglasses in red. Satin strands of green and blue are weeping all over it. 


On the wall above, I stuck this Nun bag, so cheery pink in color. And other tid-bits of paper, for their canary colors. And those smart stirrers from HRC. A yellow chimney of scrap paper, squirrels it way up, right to the top. Thats my technicolor wall. A happy confusing riot of paint.

The favoritest thing in my room is my kitschy paper chandelier. I hung it, from ribbon on my window-a funny, pumpkiny color. Oh-oh-oh, its so pretty! A lantern made of blue.The palest,prettiest, demure blue. Ribbed all over. I stuck green butterflies all over its paper body. And dangling from its heart, are a series of butterflies, sown together, with little bells in between them, which make the most divine sound, when the wind playfully nudges the lantern. Oh Twisha! Thank you so much for making it for me! My winsome winsome chandelier.


4 years inside these walls, I loathe to leave!

Of Music. And what it does to you.

Music, is like silk.There is a pounding in my head. Sometimes tortuously slow and sometimes painfully fast. My blood is quivering and so is my soul. Quivering like a globule of water, glimpsed in slow motion- transparent and tremulous.Lyrics, so stunning.Where every sentence breaks, every word truncates, every syllable is torn asunder, and every vowel finally trickles like a serpent all around you. Till you feel pregnant, with the tiny fetus of a sound, somewhere embedded into you. Which feeds on the satin charm of the night, the roar of your emotions, and grows. Grows, burgeons, magnifies, throbs, swells, quavers. And then, it explodes, a fury of passion, a downpour of sentiments.. Almost, an orgasm. Like a coil  of rope, woven of buried feelings, and whispering thoughts, let unloose on you, and it falls down, in one fluid motion, the ends,dangling and gently tickling your feet. Ah, Music.


On my playlist now:
1. Sun and Moon- Above and Beyond.
2. Rain- Markus Schulz.

3. Nothing but You- Paul Van Dyk.


Good Morning and Good Night :)

Of Time. Of Life.

No more, do I seek to give advise to people tormented. Souls lacerated by dying love, minds poisoned by hate, bodies convulsing in harrowing inner pain.  For, no matter how eloquent my discourse, how tender my touch, and how rational my thoughts.. this heart, oh this heart!

Its time, its the fat lady Time who trundles along life, hand in hand with you. Its only, she who can make you okay. With every day, the hurt will fade, albeit just a tiny, minisicule bit. With every day, the storm of questions, will find one lonely answer, who will walk out forlornly, hesitant, out of its closet and face you. With every steady tick of the clock, things will get better. For the mind will start taking control, and not the heart.

I can tell you, it will one day, be okay. You can read an ornamental adage about how its better to laugh now, since you will laugh about it later, anyways. One day, over a cup of coffee in a quaint little cafe,  a curtain of old memories will drop, silkily in front of you. And looking at the slightly faded, fluid memories, all you will do is smile a bit, laugh a bit. But not now, never now.

Its how we are, how we are built. I can scream at you, I can force you, I can point out harsh truths to you. But until, you really wish to see it, you will not.You will still mourn a happiness that has now left you, not willing to believe that there exists something better.

Your body will live. Like a trained acrobat, it will do its daily routine, for every action has been tattooed in it. But your heart will remain drooping and wilted, till you seek to water it once again, till you have the courage to let go, and look ahead, be kind enough to let your heart l live, to breathe.

Its time, its all about time.

Time makes it easier for us to look back, then to look ahead. Looking back now, at the way, I had once crucified myself with unhappiness, I cannot recall the actual pangs and actual sudden coiling of the intestines, or how my heart fluttered like a bird about to be slaughtered.  The way my body spasmed. I cannot recall those feelings, for they existed for those moments of time. I am better now, healing, living, happy. But, that time, I did not believe that I could ever be whole again. That life could ever be sorted. That things will always be a tiring mess. But here I am, cartwheeling in time, a little better every day.

So, all I can say is, if nothing else, have faith in Time. For better or worse, these things, shall pass.  The pain wont be felt, it will be vaguely remembered. The heart wont be just living, but will actually be alive.

I also believe, that we are special, not because of our talents, its because of our experiences that we gather.

For a beautiful baby.

Her eyes, oh her eyes! Diaphanous pools of white with pupils melted grey, kisses of emerald gurgling around them. Her skin looks like pink butter. Like as if,a tiny-toed elf had chomped in a luscious strawberry and the decided to blow minty streams of raspberry under her skin. Tiny twirls,that floated above to fuse together to form a glorious flush of pink. Oh and please look at her lips! A rosebud, tiny. A rosebud of shy crimson, supple and arched in a faint happy smile.The same elf must have flitted across glimmering fields of emerald grass and stumbling upon a shy, red bloom in the forest of green, must have picked it up and fashioned it for her lips. Her nose was like a button. I so want to touch her, feel the powdery softness of her skin. Sigh. And look at the darling's hair! Clipped and tied up in a cute ribbon of yellow, tiny black strands fashioned into bonsai palm tree. That picture of her, frozen in time, alive and shimmering in innocence. If only, if only, she was mine! 

Of a dream recalled yet unwritten.

She woke up, with a start. Her skin was cool, like the grey rocks,that sit on the wet ochre sands and let the frivolous waters wash over them. But the dreams had stired her placid blood into a furious, savage rage, that gushed wildly throughout her twenties body, screaming to come out, infuriated that it couldnt and gnawing like a piranha at the yellow epidermal that contained it. Her heart was pulsing wildy, needling a painful tatoo on her chest."STOP. STOP HEART, STOP!". Stupid heart, meek lamb by day, a tigress at night. What was the dream all about, that her heart was so being so primitive and carnal? Puzzled, annoyed and a little frantic, she tried to recollect and piece together her dream before her body tuned to total consciousness and shredded the last lingering effects of it.

The night before. 

Yes, the night. She remembered the crafty night of the yesterday, it had seemed like a butter-fingered artist's painting. Corpulent drops of black all over the canvas-Plop,Plop,Plop. Some hastily painted thumbprints of yellow and white added as an after-thought. She remembered coming into her room tired with the daily diatribe of emotions. She rememberd changing into her blue-pink boxers, she rememberd switching on the laptop. She remembered selecting Cold-Play, she remembered  pulling out the black plastic packet from her pink  bag. She remembered switching of her lights to soak her room, only with the purple that was streaming through her open window. She remembered sitting down on her bed, cross legged, pouring a little bit of that vitrolic liquid in her steel glass. Green Apple Vodka, the bottle read. For safety's sake, she let a little bit of Sprite splink in too. 

The first taste, she remembered. Like licking metal.Or corroded iron. Nauseatingly sweet. The scrunching up of her little r eyes, the puckering of her little nose.  ColdPlay picked up on the frenzy, as if on cue. Their beats were pure, and it prickled your nose,  a portrait of planes out of symmetry, a disturbingly pretty picture.She remembered starting to hum those haunting lyrics that had started  rushing around in little black strings of air around her head, meshing and fusing. She remembered wanting to fly, even though there was a minisicule rivulet down one cheek. After that things got vague, the reminiscing became difficult. Falling on the floor, throwing the phone, wanting to bang her head to smithereens, amplified hate, amplified heartache. Clothes sliding off, sleep, waking up,sleep. But, the dream, she could not bring back her dream! 

"Forget,Bloody dream, bloody heart". She looked around, meekly, surreiptiously, eyes seeking the vestiges of the night.  She looked like a drunk lady who spends an amorous night at an exotic stranger's bed and wakes up to a terrifying conscience, puzzling memories and an ordinary, not so glamorous self.The sulphurous smell of alcohol still hung around her room, like a bored bumblee bee. The  glass lay like a martyr on her tiled floor, the sunlight spilled like butter through her sturdy bottle of Vodka.One of her paper butterflies lay balefully on the ground, did she rip that poor thing from the wall ? Eeukh,and her tongue felt like sandpaper- a fertile pink land for sowing maybe those abrasive pine cones? Another passionate night of alcohol. Another lousy day of yet another hangover. She thrashed around for her bottle of mineral water, her body thirsty. Gulp. Gulp. GULP. Her feet dug in lazily into her blankets, legs stretched, toes outstretched, till the she could feel the curious tingling on her left toe. She tossed her pillow on the side, 

She rubbed her eyes, her fingers, gently removing her the caked up discharge at the corners. Her eyes sweeped arcs across her blue painted room,resting finally at the table on the corner. And then she remembered, her dream. It wasnt a dream at all, it was a living, hammering nightmare.