I am, aren't I?

A Story by ozu

A short stream of consciousness confessional of sorts. A writer friend asked for a piece of writing from my part, and I am not confident in my writing ability. Please don't sugarcoat your opinions :)

Seeming to listen intently, as you speak to me, my mind is churning a hundred different ways to hurt you, jolt you, or maybe even to take your life. How should I do it? Stick a fork in your eye? Lunge forward and bite off your ear? Twist and break off a finger? Plunge that small knife through your exposed pale throat?

Or maybe I will just lean in and give a peck on your lips.

Are you shocked by the sheer audacity of mine? Are you disgusted by that act? Or maybe, you feel a wave of unadulterated fear. Fear so strong that you can’t even start to comprehend how someone as meek and harmless as me, could ever do such a despicable thing. Your confused and paranoid mind is still reeling away. Every time you try to process what just unfolded, you shrivel away further. Weirdly enough, it hurts, doesn’t it?

Time starts to move slowly. You hear people shouting at me for this egregious action. A few asking you if you were okay. You nod yes, but the sound of chaos around you is slowly being drowned out by white noise and nausea.

‘Why me? Why in front of all those people?’ you think while trying to sleep that night. Still feeling restless and helpless, vulnerable and paranoid.

You want to confront me. But what will you say? What would you ask? Do you even have the courage to face me after such a traumatic event? After finally mustering up enough guts days later, you ask me over the phone, “why did you do that?”

In a monotonous voice, I look at your eyes and say, “I just wanted to know how people will react. That is all.”

That is all.

That is all…

That is all?

Maybe the words being devoid of any palpable emotion was harder for you to register than the unspeakable turn of events committed by yours truly.

You feel sick.

Disgust.

Anger.

Rage.

Your muscles start to twitch, to inflict violence on my grey flesh. But as tears roll away from your sleep-deprived eyes to ice-cold cheeks, anger resigns to something even worse �" pity, pity for yourself. Pity, the one thing you never thought you would ever feel for yourself in a situation like this.

Bitterly you realise the fact that it did not matter who was in your place. You did not matter.

As the ever-present existential dread take hold of your mind, you start to disassociate yourself from your body. You can see yourself being forcefully kissed by me in slow motion, but only this time you are standing above us. You see the horrified look on your face. You are looking at yourself like god would - unconcerned, dissociated and maybe even… inhumanely.

You can no longer recall my face, as I dragged my cold lifeless lips over yours that fateful day. And suddenly you are wondering about things no one should wonder about in your place.

“If I never sat down beside you, this would never have happened. Maybe someone else would have gone through the things I did. Am I a horrible person to wish my misfortune on someone else? Am I?”

Bitterly you tell yourself, “I am, aren’t I?”