Short Story - The Clouds above the Mist: Chapter 3

In the end, knowingly and unknowingly, we end up doing the same things to others which we've endured ourselves. We see in others our past selves, our old, naïve versions. They remind us of what we once were, and how chaotic we had been. We hear them say the same words we used to speak to others, see them take the same actions, make the same mistakes, while creating and ruining their own little fantasies. We want to help them, we do. But we also know, certain matters are only learnt with the passage of time. No amount of effort or words can make them realize. We can only observe, and see them get hurt, and hope they learn from their mistakes just as we did.

Yet, we throw our own selves into this self-manifested loop and call it reality, justifying it with anything that pops up in our head. We call it our own karma, our own little paradox. Our own end and beginning. We become masters at destroying ourselves, over and over again, because we are addicted to the ecstasy and the burn. We get hooked to what we felt during a time, and want to feel it again and again. We choose the minute of pleasure, for the months of pain. A mere moment of laughter, for endless nights of relentless misery, poisoned again. And in our quest for this madness, we lose ourselves. We forget where we started from; forget where we are, who we were. We end up wondering if this is it. If this is what has been written for us by some higher power. The loop. The burn. The ecstasy. The cycle continues. Again and again. The burn keeps getting stronger. The ecstasy, an ebbing pain. Our inner sanity, gone.

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There is a black hole, and it keeps sucking me in, making sure I stay inside long enough to make me forget what was outside; or why I even fight against the perpetual nothingness it has doomed me to face until the end of my time.

I’ve felt this before. I feel it again. The calm before the storm. I breathe in the cold night air. It hurts my, dry, tar-infected lungs. The exhale is comforting, sickening. I lock my car, make sure I have my phone, smokes, lighter, gum, and wallet. It bothers me sometimes. Why do I have to check? Why do I have to be certain of these things before I go about business? Is it just OCD, or something else?

The familiar scene up ahead brings a twisted smile to my face. Loud dance music. The smell of marijuana in the air. The clinking of glasses. I see masks everywhere. Masks everyone has put on for the night, for their agendas; masks that give power to their own little demons.

The rich well dressed guy, grinning behind a glass of scotch, wondering how long he can be with the girl clinging on to him. The cute girl with the body of a woman, fake-laughing with her dolled-up friends, discussing some guy she’s dating, wondering if her conservative mother will find out about her pregnancy test kit she forgot in the washroom, debating whether she should tell the other guy she likes. Or the group of friends who can’t believe their luck at being invited to the party, on the verge of vomiting their guts out, because they just had their first ever vodka.

“Sir” I hear a strong voice call out. Beer man. Arms open, gives me a hug, with force that is more than necessary – smell of whisky coming off from him.

Basic introductions over. He takes me inside.

Beer man did a good job with the arrangements at least. The quality of music is commendable. A good mix of house, hip hop, dance, and desi tracks. Flickering strobe lights. Rooms packed with people sweating from the E they’ve popped for the night. A bar serving quality drinks. Sofas. A good ventilation system, to keep the air fresh. Perfect.

“Scotch, neat” I yell at the bartender and he hands me a glass.

“My friend, this is good right?” Beer man grins at me, his left arm around the back of my neck.

“This is actually awesome, you’ve surprised me buddy” I reply, looking at the crowd getting louder in the flickering blue and pink light.

“Bro, just point out if you like someone, anyone, and she will be in bed back in my guesthouse in the next fifteen minutes waiting for you; a luxury I only offer to my best friends” Beer man yells in my ear.

“Will let you know buddy, thanks” I lie, wondering If what I just heard was actually what he said.

I move around. Glass after glass from the bar. My vision blurs. Body heats up. Blood flows through my veins giving me new life. I start to dance my way inside the crowd, shaking my shoulders with the rhythm of the sound. This feels good. I smile, looking around. The beat reverberates inside my head, forcing me to move, to ease up. I forget time. I shake my head and start to enjoy.

I have my arms around a woman. Hands clasped behind the small of her back. She smells great. Or maybe that’s just my perfume. She looks up at me, smiling. She's beautiful. Gorgeous. Its as if she's looking inside of me. No. I can't have that. Can't do that. Yet, i can’t help but smile back. There’s something about her face that's different. I like it. I like it more than i should. She leans in close, and whispers in my ears – “Remember me?”.

My head is aching. I open my eyes. Its daylight, and i'm looking at the branches of a tree spread around the bark. Its chilly. I'm shirtless. I feel something cold against my hand. I prop myself up on my elbow and look at the revolver touching me. I look around, and see a woman lying on the ground, eyes closed, her head resting on my crumpled shirt, her own shirt unbuttoned, a bottle of liquor held between her thighs. My heart races. What did i do to her?

I hear a voice yell, "That's him by the tree - take him!"

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Source: Image 1 from Google. Image 2, my own, taken inside a ruin bar in Budapest.

If you liked this post, you can check out the rest of my posts and previous parts of this story at @writerbro.