I AND MY WORDS

And I was brought back into action for inspecting another body. It feels strange sometimes that all I do is to tear up some already torn, mutilated or rotting bodies for a living. But that’s what people do; some kill for a living, some bury them. Me; I just inspect them to ascertain reasons of death. I was looking through this body, which was relatively neater than the others, when my second assistant came in to say that Maher had come in. I was perplexed; Maher had not met me for several months now. What could he possibly have to do with me now? I instructed him to ask Maher to wait, while I washed my hands at the sink, and moved out of the room that should also be called “The Museum of Death”. Maher was there, waiting for me besides the lonely window that was the only source of natural light for my room, and seemed a bit lost, when I entered in. “So,” I spoke directly, “what’s up? What brought you here?” He turned around to look at me. Those piercing eyes conveyed a sense of frustrat...

Am I crazy? Maybe. Can you call me lunatic? Probably. Can you say that I killed her? Most certainly. Does it matter to you why I killed her? It does, though you were in no way related to that woman. That scum was rightly killed. She was aware of her beauty, and was ruthless in taking advantage of it. The woman was a blot on how society should be. How can anybody use something advantageous about them to create havoc like that? What about the editor, you may ask. What wrong was he doing? I’ll tell you what wrong he was doing. But how can you understand what wrong he was doing. You people are the same ones who were complicit in his crime. You are the same people who were reading that salacious gossip that the newspaper “The Daily Star” was belting out. The trash was absolutely unacceptable; it was crass and vulgar, just like that woman (what was her name? Yeah, Dawn Jones) How could he have done that? I still remember that night and the rising waters, as me and Maher were struggling to st...

I am a journalist no doubt, but even I am losing track of what is happening here. There seems to be nothing but chaos today that is taking a grip of my life. What the hell is happening to me? I was standing right there, with the witness in front of me, when Maher had rushed in. All hell broke loose that moment when he agreed to the fact that he had been a witness to that ghastly act of the play of life that had unfolded that dreaded night. And yet, he is not in the condition to do so, for he is “too weak to be exerted upon”, as the doctors said that day. Maher, in the meantime, was giving a piece of his mind to his subordinates. “What the fucking hell were you doing huh? Sleeping on your asses? This git of a reporter manages to get to the bottom of the matter and identify a witness, and all you give me is that they did not want to talk. What am I supposed to do with you guys now, huh?” I looked at him. He was really pissed off with his subordinates, who, like swatted flies were strewn ...

I woke out of the deep slumber that time had pushed me into, only to gasp for life. “Doctor, doctor!” screamed a voice around me, as I continued to fight against an invisible force that was pulling me away from this world. Why had it not pulled me away earlier was all that rang in my mind like the church bells. “What’s the matter?” rushed in another voice, which like the first one was totally blurred for me, as my sight had been reduced to a blur, and life revealed its true opaque side to me. “He’s hyperventilating.” “Quick, put him on oxygen!” Suddenly, a pair of hands pulled up my head and made me wear a mask; and I could breathe again. The mist in my eyes began to clear up, and I could now see an army of white surrounding me, all looking at me as if I was a curio in an antiques shop. “Can you hear us?” asked a woman, apparently a nurse, as I followed her voice towards her face. I motioned towards her that I could, but somehow I did not have the voice in my mind being followed up by ...

As I left Maher’s office, I had some doubts about the case, but none about the man. The swine was an absolute no-nonsense guy, and always means business. That’s something, you know, that I appreciate in people, unlike most of us, who shiver at the mere idea of the truth and its gory details coming to the fore. Anyways, I’ll be honest with you. I, Sam Young, am not just any another reporter, who wants to make something big out of herself with a sensational story that garners the first page; no sir, I am sorry to disappoint you about that. I am fresh, and believe in my principles, though everyone around me scoffs them off, saying that this profession of ours does not have room for them. But I, dear readers, am determined to prove to them just how damn wrong they all are, and that they can go screw themselves up. The Daily Star interview was getting me a lot of attention, though I am not sure if the reason for this attention was a saucy photo of me that was put up on my editor’s behest. “...

Again, I was being pulled into the water, as I struggled with the bastard to save myself and get a grip of him at the same time. The fucking currents were so strong that it was nearly impossible for the either of us to keep hold of the rail that had broken down. And yet, he continued to pull at me, even as his own grip was loosening, screaming at me above the deafening current, “I’m going to hell, and you are coming with me.” And soon, he lost grip of me as well, and away he floated into the darkness in that flooded night… I woke up from the slumber that had enveloped me in this summer heat. It had quietly invited me into its laps, promising me comfort and warmth, and continued to do so, till someone had placed his hand on my shoulder. “Sorry I fell asleep,” I spoke, while rubbing my face to awaken myself. “So, what does the report say?” “It’s difficult to ascertain whether she was raped or not. However, some man is responsible for the murder. The autopsy woman thinks that the killer i...

I am dead now; but is it? I do not feel dead at all. I seem to be hanging somewhere between life and death; afterlife is something that still eludes me. And so I lay hanging around the place that I once called home; which is still home to me in more ways than one. I can still recall that night, when he had come in. I knew him, of course, and was gladly surprised to see him at that time of the night. “The more, the merrier,” I had privately thought. How foolish of me to even think like that! I still recall bitterly how he had slashed me up as if I were nothing more than a piece of meat. And there I was, struggling in vain to save myself. And he was watching in from outside, as I was being torn apart, being nothing more than the mute spectator like the moths that had fluttered around in my house that night. I was always told that when you see these moths which have the skull pattern formed on their backs, death is sure to visit your house; these moths are the horses that pull the chariot...