Hasan Ameen Salahuddin
... it will be night once more, and there will either be that 'click' or that 'bang'. Well... the outcome of tomorrow's events will bear different meanings all together, depending on what comes tonight.
One thing remains certain though: she will be here with me tonight, as every other night. Just the question remains: whether or not she is with me physically or spiritually. Well... let's not fret about it; I am happy either ways.
But still - so as only to torture myself - I will remind myself in writing what the outcomes of this night has to offer me if the revolver does go 'click'. I will lay down the weapon and I will close this diary, and I will replace the pen in its spine. I will then lie down in bed, pull the sheets up to my chin, and close my tired eyes after the candle extinguishes itself on my desk. During this time I will have not a single thought on my mind. But as soon as darkness engulfs my sight, I will start dreaming of her. I will dream of what would happen if the gun went 'bang'. I would dream exactly how I would have spent the night with the woman I speak of. I would dream of how I held her the last night of our life together.
We lay naked in our bed that night. But neither had any physical urges towards the other. It was a night to while away with talk. It was a night for the souls to mate, without any desires for the flesh. The warmth from within each was enough to beat the cold trying to sear through the other. Her being there was all I could have asked for.
We went to sleep. She rested her head on my right arm, and I breathed life through her hair all night long. I had my left hand crossing over from her left hip, through her bosom, clutching her right shoulder, in fear that she would slip away from me. I let go of her in the morning, only because I held her in my sight then. I had no fear of losing her, as she was there. But, something horrible had happened. I woke up that morning; she never did.
I buried her that day with all my dreams, save one. The one of never letting her go. The one portraying our last night together.
After burying the woman - my life - I went and bought this diary, and this pen. On returning home, I
went straight to the basement. This room, actually my den, is devoid of any light, and any opening except for the door used for entering it. It has a wooden floor with a small trapdoor, big enough to accommodate a cube of ten inch in dimension. The bed, hiding this compartment, is situated halfway from either of the east or west walls. The desk is in the north-west corner, and the walls are all stacked with books in shelves. The only way a living being can find their way around in here would be if: that being has the senses of a bat, or only if that being lights up a candle.
It's strange how people react in different ways when they lose someone so close to the heart. Basically all breakdown. Some keep their dignity they refuse to cry. Others go into depression. It really depends on how the person perceives death. I guess I am not much different from the average person, except the fact that I have shown no emotion regarding my loss even though I have lost all urges to live.
Coming back, I have always been carefree towards everything that has happened to me, but I just couldn't bear the loss. Just so that I don't feel hypocritical, even though I am a hypocrite now, I devised a game to play with myself.
I was twenty, and there was a new trend in fashion. Everyone carried a weapon with them in those days. It wasn't long before my friends had to give theirs up to the law. After all, all of them were unlicensed. Somehow I got to keep mine hidden. And nearly three decades later, on that fateful night, I took it out of hiding. The box in the compartment under the bed in my den served a fine resting place for the Colt. It's an antique, but in working condition.
The game is simple. Every night I finish my entry in this diary, I take a bullet; after loading it in one of the six chambers of the revolver I spin it; while the chamber is still in motion, I cock the safety to off, and I point the nozzle to my right temple; I pull the trigger. Next, I am either punished with a 'click', or rewarded with a 'bang'.
The 'click': I close this diary, replace the pen into its spine and put the revolver on top of the table on the right side of my daily journal. I go to bed, pull the sheets up to my chin, and close my tired eyes when the candle on my desk extinguishes itself. I fall into slumber, dreaming the same array of events that took place in the night of 12th Dec '78. I will wake up in the 13th the next morning, and she will not be there. I will bury her - my life once again. I will buy this diary and pen once again. I will write this whole account once again, and repeat the whole process.
The 'bang': this page and the next will be splattered with my blood and brains. I will be reunited with my love. I will not need to bury her ever again.
Strange... the candle has almost extinguished itself now; just like the first night. Guess it's time now to take the revolver in my hands.
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