Mr Fragmented Genius – 2

Read the beginning here

He heads home. Parks his car carelessly with no regard for the owners of adjoining vehicles. It is the least of his troubles at the moment. He is sinking. He desperately seeks isolation;  a room all to himself . A place to do the things he needs to do in order to survive the impending attack.

He manages to unlock the door in the fourth attempt. His hands tremble and his body seems to be convulsing under the sheer intensity of his mind’s all- consuming restlessness. He heads straight to the bedroom.

He turns on the night- lamp. Just the night- lamp. Nothing more. Just enough light to kill the intensity of the darkness. Just enough to not make the room a black hole.

He quickly undresses and heads to the bathroom. He stands over the sink and stares at the mirror.

A distinct, unforgettable face stares back. A face that many would call attractive, handsome even. Distinct nose, strong, square-cut jaw. Full, defined. almost androgynous lips. Eyes deep in their sockets, airing a look of intelligence and intensity. Eyes that often twinkle with mischief and vitality. Of laughter and joie de vivre.

Eyes that can also appear haunted and empty. That sometimes are a window into the inner turmoil. Like how the proverbial warewolf transforms on a full- moon night….The eyes change as his head does…

Bile rises up his throat. He tries to hold it in. It’s a tug o’ war between him and and his innards. His insides win. He retches. Violently.

The vomiting is emotionally cathartic. On most days, it would suffice. The demons would go away. Not today though.

He sinks into the floor. Spent. Tired. His insides burning and his mouth sour. His teeth tingle. All the acidic disgorgement was making its mark. Eroding away bits of enamel every time. Eroding away bits of himself every time.

He needs to do more. He drags himself up and staggers into the kitchen. He searches for his favourite paring knife. He violently opens the drawers and leaves them open as he looks for it. He finds it in the sink. He had cut apples in the morning. He doesn’t even bother washing it.  It’s uncleanness makes it even more appealing.

He sits down on the kitchen floor and in the semi- darkness cuts himself. On his right inner thigh.  It’s a single, neat, long, one –stroke incision. He uses just the right amount of pressure to cut through the skin. He cuts people for a living, so he should know. If he wanted to, he could go really deep, and hit the femoral artery and make it a blood bath. No. That is not his intention. Not today at least.

The simple cut fires- up millions of pain receptors. Distracts his chaotic, stormy brain. Calms him enough to think straight again. He lets the blood trickle down onto the floor. He cannot see it but knows a small puddle would have formed. He visualizes the bright red pooling of blood and derives comfort. He knows there will be a mess to clean up next morning. But the next morning is at present nothing but a vague notion. The night looms large. The pain is a welcome distraction.

He sits there for a long time. Time is of no consequence. He has nowhere to be, or go tomorrow. He leans against a cabinet and voids his head of all thoughts. One by one, he extricates himself form their vicious claws. The feeling of dread and despair slows lifts. He feel lighter.

It was quick. It rarely leaves him this quickly. Most times, it drags on for days.

Finally, he musters enough energy to get into bed. He curls up under his blanket and closes his eyes. Praying.

Praying to the universe.

Praying to the God’s of sleep.

All he asks for, is sleep. Nothing more.

He does not wish for vivid, spectacular dreams or untold riches or beautiful possessions.

He does not wish for inexhaustible happiness or undying love.

He longs to sleep. And be rid of this feeling of utter desolateness. A feeling that has no reason for existence, except probably some fault in the workings of his mind.

Sleep is his only release. The only way this can pass, and allow him to live to fight another day.

The only other way to end this, would be to end his life. He has contemplated that far too many times….

His death that is…


Continue reading.



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