This, kid, is what you call dismantling. Breaking it down, piece by piece, until you have little shreds, little pieces waiting to fly about in the cold, desolate, empty room, as the chilled air of the conditioner blows, ever so steadily, vanishing away the beads of sweat formed on your back, seeping onto your undershirt, showing a bit on your costly Armani. You feel it, but you put it at the back of your head.

You have bigger concerns at hand.

You wonder, wonder about ‘if?’ If not for one small decision on your part, one impulsive action, and this domino effect could have been stalled. But it was to happen sooner or later, wasn’t it?  

You feel the tight tug of your trousers at your Hermeś belt, as you are crouched down onto your knees, kneeling, praying that somehow you could go back into time to fix your mistake, to prevent your loss. But, no. The universe will not have it. You did your deed. Now it was the time to reap of your sown actions.

You are still, so much that there is no sound except of the air conditioner humming softly, having no idea of the disaster, of the avalanche that has been destroying you and everything you have.

But then you rise to your feet, decided, and determined. You fix up your pants, you slip on your suit hanging at the head of your chair, you fix up your look. You look around for a glass of water, nowhere to be found, except tiny shards of glass haphazardly strewn on the floor carpet. It is stained, and you rack your brain to recollect when you sweeped your desk with one stroke of your hand. The intercom wire is hanging, just like it deserved to. Why? It had done the job of delivering you your fate.

But then, there you see something snapping. You wonder what it is. You try to see clearly, you cannot. Why? Nobody knows.

But then you rise up again and vow to strike back with such a force it would shatter everything and everyone who tried to bring you down and laugh at you. You become the master of the universe, and you feel the energy rippling through you, in your blood, coursing through your body. And with the loudest cry, you wake up and look down at yourself.

Are you dead? Are you alive? Maybe both. You don’t know. You feel reborn. You feel like you died some time ago only to take birth again. Stronger, this time.

You are reborn, and you have to live better. You aren’t planning on wasting this one, like you did previously by hanging yourself with your mother’s sari. You will not commit suicide for a girl. For infatuation. You will rise and shine and be the best the world has ever seen, and you will make your crying father wipe his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

You will live. 


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