Seven years ago she hurt me. Her dumping me after our three and a half years relationship caused me emotional traumas. How could a person, after making countless promises, whispering millions of sweet-nothings, do such a thing? My whole existence became dreary drags that I had to suffer through. My self-esteem was deflated, dwindling to near nothing. All my dreams were shattered. My life was ruined.
After our final telephone conversation, I suffered the pain of separation in silence. Pieces of the telephone set strewn all over the floor, after I threw it against the wall in my initial rage of the news, were witness to my loss. They saw me crumpled like a piece of soiled serviette. No tears came. I was too shocked to cry. I sat on the floor; my back against the wall, staring into the nothingness which my life would be without her.
I pent the pain inside me for a long time. I tried my best to hide the fact from my family and friends. Being good people they were, most of them noticed that something had gone wrong for me. Perhaps my brooding, my senseless shying away from them, and the broken telephone set gave me away. A few of them approached to coax the reason out of me. However, I am a man with many excuses; I blamed the unfavourable weather, the poor performance of the stock market, and even my poor, innocent students at my school. I made a lot of things, a lot of people scapegoats to avoid detection. Eventually, the questioning ceased. Those good people around me, very likely suspected a worse cause as the reason for my evident transformation, understood that I wished to be left alone. Still, I suffered in silence.
After a three and a half year relationship, a lot of her stuffs were in my keeping; mementos from places we visited, photographs snapped at those locations, books we loved to read together, a jacket and clothing items left behind from her long gone visits, and of course those intimate letters from her. Perhaps out of my attempt to breathe life into the dead ember of our union I kept those things where they were; on the window sill, draped over the lazy chair, scattered on my study desk, in the cupboard, and under my pillow. Perhaps she would return to me and finding those items as when they were left would help us proceed as if the break-up never happened.
I contemplated going over to her place and having things out with her. It never took place. The distance was too great. She was living three states away and with her parents. In my need to assuage my pain, I thought of sending goons over to bang her around a bit, break her leg, hang her. They never occurred. I am a law-abiding citizen and whatever was the reason she did what she did, it wasn’t excuse enough to maim her.
I needed a way to vent all that was bottled-up inside. There were people around me who cared about me and needed my reciprocating the attention. I had pushed them aside while mulling over my loss. I made up my mind. I would have my revenge and do away with her forever. My revenge would take the form of removing all evidence of her existence. Erasing her from my memory would be justice enough for her evil deed. Wiping her off the plane of reality would serve me a new lease of life. I loved her too much to be physically abusive.
Eight months after the fact, I put aside all her things. I arranged the photographs in an album, wrapped the dolls and small trinkets with tissue papers, washed, dried and neatly folded her jackets and dresses, wiped dust off the book covers and read and re-read her letter. I put all her things inside a cardboard carton.
I brought the box to my backyard. As I poured a liter of diesel liberally over and inside it, images of what could have been between the two of us swirled in my mind eyes. Striking a match reminded me of the candles on her birthday cake we celebrated together at this very spot and countless other intimate moments we shared. Touching the flame to the diesel soaked box of memories, I said a silent prayer, wishing safe journeys for us, former companions, on our now separate paths of life.
Note: Another sappy stuff from my university days. A piece of creative writing it is, but fictional it is not! Enjoy!
