Butterflies

There will come one day, when the pain between my legs will go away. One day, this numbness will recede. Butterflies will flutter their wings and the smoke of unsolicited desires will clear out. New lovers will kiss through the night. I will be you, and you will be me. One day.

—

There are nights and often days when he visits me at my place. I have never been to his but he always says mine is better. He lives next door and I have heard people – children, women, old men – laugh and talk and play. Once I asked him to introduce me to them. As I had expected, he denied. I did not know what happened to them as I never heard a voice other than his again through the walls. 2010 is the year he tells me. That would make me twenty-one years old. I do not completely believe him but I like being twenty-one, and so I am happy. I do not count the days; Days are ephemeral. I count memories. Memories of watching films on the television, memories of him bringing new pieces of clothing, memories of me shouting at him (Haah. I like those ones.), memories of crying, of feeling suffocated and ringing the bell. He had rushed like a maniac to my place with a cylinder and a face mask when it happened the first time. It had felt heavenly, breathing whatever was inside that cylinder. So, he had left three cylinders at my place. I count cylinders. And I count the number of times he.

—

You can never know when you are making a memory. The uninhibited fortitude of human sufferance are bestowed upon the mortal beings in streaks of violent lightning. Like the thunder accompanying its brightness, I seep through the crevice of hope in pursuit of the calmness beyond. When was the last time you walked barefoot on wet grass?

—

I remember returning from my school when I last saw the daylight. I used to tell my mom that I preferred dark, gloomy, cloudy weather over a sunny one, any day. Now I long for one ray. When the first time he had sex with me, I was in agony. There was blood, there were tears, there was an unbearable pain. He told me it was normal. Every girl has to go through it. I remained silent till the next time he came. He brought flowers and a cup of ice-cream for me. One day would have passed. Or it could have been ten. And it pained again. And all this time I wondered if he was also in pain. Because as soon as he finished, he just rushed out. Was his pain a moral one? And I like lying naked. The cold, muffled air touches my bare skin under the dim yellow light. Yellow. My favorite color. And red. In fact, red wasn’t even in my top ten favorite colors till he saw it in the right place but at the wrong time. At right times, he prefers it, my red blood. I know this because once he tied me up with a rope and made few cuts on my legs with a kitchen knife. And then he had sex with me again, with red all over us. But this other time, the blood came out without any signal and spoiled my skirt. It had disturbed him to an extent that he just left without even touching me. Next day, or five days later, when guns were being shot over my head, and somewhere a poor baby was born, and a rich one too, when a bus made its way through a serpentine road, and a coffee spilled over a book, when someone made music in a secluded room, and when a flower finally bloomed, she arrived.

—

What will drive away the pain? Why does it never end? Can it not go away just for one day? Just one day?

—

• He is fucking raping you. Don’t you get it?
• I get it. But I don’t know what I should do.
• You’ve been here for eight goddamn years! How?

I shrugged. Not because I didn’t want to answer her. But because I did not know the answer. How have I been here for eight goddamn years? I don’t know. Did I have a choice? I don’t think so.

• I don’t think so! I did not have a choice and I do not have a choice still.
• And now there are two of us.

So, he came the same night and asked me to tie her up. I did. I still had the blood-soaked skirt on me. He made me watch it. She shouted, cried, kicked, and he kept on doing it. Kept on doing it. And finally stopped. And went out. She laid on the floor for a while before asking me to untie her. She was tender to touch. And her skin glowed in the dim yellow light. I told her that and she laughed. She laughed and I laughed and we laughed through the night before it ended. How did I know it was day again? Because she had a watch on her hand which showed the date and it had changed a while ago. Not that I cared but it is okay, once in a while, to know what date it was.

—

It became a pattern. He would rape me when she was on her periods and vice-versa. And on the other non-bloody days, he decided on his whim which one to pick up. His liking for blood had stopped for never again were my thighs cut, or hers. And whenever he did it to one of us, he made the other watch him. What stopped us from hurting him or killing him, I do not know. There were two of us, and still we couldn’t do anything. I asked her this once and she said

• I will kill that bastard. I will kill him.

But she never killed him.

—

I woke up one day and saw her sitting beside me, watching me, staring at me, all smiling. I took a deep breath and

• What?
• It’s thirteenth. It’s your birthday.
• Mine is thirteenth July. Is it July?
• I lost the count of the month.
• So, you decided to wish on the first thirteenth that came after I told you about it?

She shrugged. I was happy and so was she. She was genuinely happy. And it made me happy. Till that day, I had never been kissed. Till that day, I had never been loved. Till that day, I had never known what it meant to make love. So, we kissed, and loved, and made love. We did it whenever we wished. Without any pain. I wanted her to touch me. I longed for her breath. On my neck. Once when we had just finished, a butterfly flew across the room and fluttered its wings before disappearing. And I lay bare on her legs.

• Have you ever been to Himalayas?
• No.
• Do you want to?
• Not really. I want to go to Venice, though.
• Why Venice?
• Just like that. It seems like a nice place to be with you.

She ran her fingers through my hair.

On the same day (or night), when candles were being lit and someone was writing a book, when a drug addict was stealing from his dad’s wallet and a beggar was counting his day’s earnings, when our tongues were wiping each other off, and our skin were melting together, he came in with a knife.

—

• Just like that. It seems like a nice place to be with you.

She ran her fingers through my hair. Just like that.

• What will you do when this finally ends?
• I will lift you up and make you listen to my favorite song.
• Which one?
• ‘Heroes’ by David Bowie.
• I haven’t heard it.
• All the more reason.

—

There will come a day when I will be you and you will be me. When that day comes, we shall free the butterflies.