Parousia

"Is there anything that shocked you at that time?" asked the interviewer.

I was bemused at how insignificantly she raised that question, it was as passive as the fan on top of us which moaned stress-fully, on and on and on. The heat of the day was forcing my armpits to overflow and my muddy cotton shirt to stick onto them, this greatly exaggerated the unpleasant stature of my existence at that time. I thought about insignificance again, how my story mattered the least to her day-to-day affairs. How it eventually meant nothing but a secure dinner maybe, with her middle-class husband perhaps, who can't wait to hear her torrid tales of routine.

"I don't know" I said "Looking down, I felt my legs never belonged to me."

"Why is that so?" she persisted.

It seemed as though the fan was moaning after every word she spoke with even less a vigor.

"Perhaps it was only then I really began looking down."

"What does that signify?"

I looked up, the fan was choking.

Why do you want to know bitch, I thought of asking her on her face. That would be worth trying, the thought was in fact strangely exhilarating, maybe that would turn her emotionless image more demonstrative, maybe that would let her know I meant business.

"It signifies I am not someone who looks down often!" I said with a grunt.

"That is quite something I must say" she remarked without changing her appearance.

The fan stopped.

"May I ask you something?" I interfered as she was about to ask something even more nonchalant.

She looked disgruntled and nodded in the affirmative. A universe of emotions suddenly erupted inside of me, I could  no longer contain it. I felt words crawling like freshly pumped blood, through my heart, into numerous cells, empowering them in ways they never experienced before, making muscles in my cheek move, my voice box to clatter and to release air which turned to involuntary words, lost and never reclaimed,

"Miss" I felt the lost words hit my eardrums, "Does it cost you anything to fuck off from my place?"

And then silence fell on us. Heavily.

***

"Look, I know life has treated you in ways you don't want, but surely look at me. We've been living together for 7 years. Please Anand, please.."

I could scarcely make out what she was saying. There was paint on the floor, on the dinner table, on the plates, in fact, there was paint all over the dining room. Surely who must be insane to paint from their dining room? Her eyes looked blue.. no, maybe someone painted it blue.. How I hate the color blue.. Who invented blue?

"Who painted your eyes blue?" I shouted.

"What? They.. They look.. They look that way.. What's wrong Anand?" she replied stuttering.

"I hate blue!" I could feel my noise echoing through the hallway, hitting all the blue colored canvas, taking a tinge of blue from them all and hitting my ears again. It was horrifying, all the blue in the world.

Her face showed horror, I approached her cautiously as if not to upset her blue well. It may spill and spread all over the floor again, I thought, I must be careful. I took out my silver colored brush, dipped it in the darkest of red I found in my palette and slowly approached her. It should not spill, I kept on thinking and gently pushed the brush into her eyes, it turned red in an instant.

***

The fan continued to moan as I saw the interviewer step out. The hallway seemed lonely and the dinner table abandoned. The heat was incessant, it was raging. I tried to close the windows but it found ways to claw in. My blood continued to hit my temples, and a migraine was slowly boiling inside. I must find something cold, I kept murmuring.

I climbed up the terrace of my apartment into burning sunshine. It grew around me the more I stood, making my cotton shirt to hug me around like a naked lover. My face was dissolving, and my eyes were developing a sore. I had to move, movement always makes things better, I thought. I took the ladder, which laid unused for quite sometime, and made it stand upright on top of the cement tank which satisfied my thirsts. I felt my cotton shirt pressing against me now.

I climbed the first step.

I removed the first button.

I climbed the second.

I removed the second.

I climbed the third.

Fuck it, I'm going to tear this up. The tearing sound of cloth may have been burnt out by the Sun. I moved on.

The tank grew closer, I threw my torn shirt away into scorching sunlight and stood for a moment looking at the water. It smelled pungent, and there were all sorts of insects floating around. I closed my mouth and held my nose tight. I wanted to shout something, but as I began to do so I felt my feet hit something cold and whatever I might have shouted went muzzled by the surrounding water.

***

There was paint all over my legs, wherever I walked I left prints. I saw footprints on our television screen, I saw footprints on every single canvas that remained dead on our hallway, I saw footprints on vessels, plates and newspapers, I saw footprints on her face, her hips, her stomach and her breasts.

Everything around was cold, everything around was covered in paint. I felt my head ache as I tried to make sense. I began searching for meanings, for new colors that could paint my fantasies. I took the color palette and mixed every color I had, it showed off a reddish-orange. I sat and began covering everything I owned with this newly made glorious-colored paint.

In between I stopped and stared down at my legs. These legs, these prints, I thought, they don't belong to me.

***

The water around my body curbed the aches inside my head. I climbed down the terrace and walked into sunlight again, it felt less painful now. A passing breeze went onto cool me and my senses, I walked on. I should get something to wear, I thought.

There was a textile store nearby, I decided to let my body taste freedom until then. I walked into the store, half naked, all wet.

"I want a shirt!" I said  plainly to the bewildered salesman. "I'd take that blue one on the top"

As blue as her eyes, I smiled as I thought, I mean I don't even know if she may have a middle-class husband.