Of polythene and burns.

There lay an ashtray, full.
The most peculiar, being, this recently smoked cigarette that had been stubbed in an angle and was still standing tall in the ashtray.
The others on close scrutiny, looked brutally stubbed and the ash was brimming.
There was a damp strong smell of nicotine and burnt rizzlas.

There was an echo.
A human stir seemed to disturb the only motion in the room, the motion of air and aroma.
The stir, was more of a click.
A sharp, pitched click.
Precise.
It was him.
His leather boots, their buckles clicked as he lifted both his feet and placed them on the table.
Somehow there was adequate space to accommodate his legs on the table, amongst the piles of paper and plastic cups and the drawers of the old table, had empty cig packets, filled with ash and burnt out cigarettes.

This was a ploy of his subconscious mind.
The empty packs that is.
They were for the days, when the income was barren and it was best smoking the smoked damp old cigs.

The old telephone rang.
And as it did, the chipping off paint on the wall, threatened to fall over the floor, spread with sheets of polythene.
The smell of polythene almost hit any person who walked into the room.
The only problem being not many walked in.
Those who did, most certainly didn't walk out.

One reason not to smoke cigars, was his obsession with its larger flaming butts that might fall over the polythene and burn it.
He wasn't a cleanliness freak or worried about holes.
But he couldn't add a more pungent smell, of burning plastic into the room.
There were too many smells and enough to counter its putridity with the pungency of other choking aromas.
So he smoked cigs.
The other and more important reason being, him not being able to afford cigars.
He didn't care enough to, he thought to himself.

I mean he had a small wood cabin up in the woods.
Just around the bend, the steeper edge that people never explored because it was off the edge of the cliff.
It was hidden and he still had a view of the occasional normal life that he was supposed to keep a timely check, of.
He didn't murder or anything.
Not the whole I kill holidaying strangers because he was deprived and lonely.
Though he'd never been able to figure their loud chirps about the amazing weather.
It was always like this here.
Cold and windy.

The cool wind circled his ears.
A warm breath later, he inhaled.
Some clean air.
Bereft of the contempt and prejudices of people.
That mattered more to him.
Than the "ooo its such a chill I'm getting goosebumps" shrieks from brazen, drunken groups of happy tourists.
They didn't care he thought.
He drank too.
Every friday after he sold a few boats and bears carved using his knife collection, he did that through the week, on friday's he sold them to the small population of people who came walking from their houses in the higher altitudes to sell berries and spices and scents of wild flowers boiled and filtered manually.

They paid him enough for liquor and ciggs and he had a lot of money saved from his earnings.
He didn't remember much about how it sustained though.
But he was always good at calculation, he'd like to think.
He came back afterward walking in a dizzy as he opened the last bottle after huffing and puffing his way back that had now reduced to occasional quick coughs, because of experience.
No development, only change.
Whatever he thought as he glugged the last ounces of beer, he liked finishing all the rum outside of home and throwing the bottles.
He left beer for home.
Smart men drink beer.
He itched for just some more rum.
There was a bottle buried in the earth, it was way cooler underground.
The mud.
But it was below the polythene and the fat arabian rug, these were rare bottles, he had designed the house with an inbuilt fridge, these bottles had labels and tags and sometimes the bags had confetti and tiny paper hearts that had made him laugh like a maniac at the sad situation.
He stole all of most of these wares and antiques in his humble abode from occasional tourists whom he watched while he basked in the sun, against the strong tree bark or cutting some branches of em mighty giants.
The women groups usually fancied him, they occasionally waited and ogled at his mud stained body glistening in the chill of the summer sun piercing through it.
The families inquired and stopped to drink water and attend to nature's call.
They were around, about, the cabin was well concealed.
And when he said so, it was.
But he was here and there, everywhere.
Almost like a ravaged animal, but with instincts of a prey more than a predator.
It never hurt to be safe, he'd think, while he rolled some of the best marijuana which those make shift business people from the higher mountains got.
Sometimes they'd give him mushrooms in the monsoon.
He got out less then and it rained a lot.
So he was busy for the next few days.
Being sane was never so easy.
And in summers he was on detox.No alcohol and no grass or any herbal shit.

He made a trip to the higher mountains and lived with him or them.Those friendly fanatics who'd give anything to be there.
He showed off his stationery and boots and colorful laces tied to his bag.
Red, Green , Yellow, it was those childish whims.In town, back then, he tied his loose hair in these bands and laces.
He told them about stories that he'd heard from families that stopped by near the bend.
He never even thought of his wood din in fear of someone envying his comforts and inviting themselves.
He had the ability to be accepted, mould, escape and be excused all the whiles, he did grace them.

It was easier to tell those country cops that you're a cool business tycoon on an occasional trip to collect resources to procure betterment of mankind.
Latest mags and chick things from suitcases and two three books on autos were enough to ensure them I was indeed a special highly confidential person.
That too even they'd never found his spot.
He'd gone occasionally to find them following the women into their holiday.

He just looked and smoked and then once in a while went up and acknowledged himself.
They usually had original cigs and rizzlas and they were ready to trade for glossy magazines.

The women were most fascinated by him.

It was something about her.
She waited back one year on her yearly once trip, with her girlfriends.
This time she just got herself lost and she followed me.

It was a bad day she had chosen.
She waited till he had gone in, sauntered through the windows opening the drapes to let the last of evening light come in as she watched him take off this pair to get into a lighter pair of clothes.
And she said she came in because of the light, the burning lanterns, she was cold outside.
He looked at her intently, he was amused and merely shocked to say anything more than welcome her, acting appeased by the only other hint of human existence on this patch of land ever since him.
He'd not known anger in a long time.

He'd been pleased but he soon wanted her out.
But he had a hunch it wasn't going to be that easy.

She talked excitedly like a small bird.

He remembered Sylvester swatting tweety with a big thin netted raquet.

Suddenly he took a another puff of the customary does of herbal leaves.
Nicotine was passe.

As he woke up he saw a knife and a few shroom tops sliced on the table.
And a beer bottle was empty on the floor.

Now he remembered.

It was crazy.
His throat was dry and nose was cold he habitually reached for his lighter as he shook his head as if shaking off all that ever existed.

She insisted, he refused.
Then there was a tiny physical tiff.
Stupid wild cat.
He had smacked her across the face after he'd deluded her to stop beating her fists against him to respond positively to her overtures of love as he kissed her passionately, holding his fingers firmly in a band across her neck.
And then a twist.

He glugged the last of beer.
She had acetone in her bag as he rummaged to make sure she wasn't a minister's fanatic punk daughter.
He had mixed it with beer froth.
And he convinced himself she was maniacal.
Who the hell followed a man who wasn't even leading you by sweet talk?
Women now a days, he thought.
As he had wrapped her body in polythene as he strangled her while he pressed her thigh.
She fainted.
Stupid Women.
He touched her curly soft locks and was lost in the aroma of a woman.
he ashed the polythene and he tried lighting it out before he decided he needed another swig.
And as soon as he recovered from acetone and beer he looked hazily at her and saw her hair burn with the polythene, he had watched the fire burn.
He was always in awe of fires.
He always appreciated the destruction in it.
Now he did the same.
But it was too late and he had witnessed what he could have avoided.

He took a few more swigs.
He just wanted a peaceful life.

He walked quickly to her.
Stabbed her in the stomach twice and spat at her legs.
Then he inhaled another breath of smoke.

She had ruined his peace.

He slept on his bed annoyed.
The last few swigs before he rolled some marijuana on honey blunts.
He was accustomed to initiate the defiance of gravity as he rolled while lying down and puffed away the stale one.

And this time he woke up, he did know.
He could make out.
He saw her body lying burnt in polythene and neatly beside the body was a stack of belongings, valuable even.

He wondered about not recollecting any instances nor did he identify with the brutal instincts that could have been associated with this act.

And now he was sitting cross legged on his arm chair.

He made a quick introspection.
He was not schizo he was sure.
But there couldn't have been a zombie walking into his cabin.
He recollected the woman entering and then a the smell of flesh.

The same flesh, the flesh of a woman.
That he had left behind with his earlier identity in the city for life.
He saw her.
Her jaw line was burnt and looked smeared.
It didn't make him queasy or sick.
It just flooded him with love.

He dry laughed at the irony.

But he went on and touched her skin.
He let himself drown in its tingling.
He was washed over by her compassion toward him.
He was a curious bitch, he couldn't deny.
But she was the only one, who ever made it.
To this.
Even the cops had never been here.

He sniffed her hair and then quickly poured a glass of wine from the bottle that was in her bag.
He discovered the sudden tide of love.
That had drained into the whirlpool of his stoicism.
It suddenly rose like a black sea serpent and washed him away.

He stared at her and his gaze could not but admire her sharp but round features.

He paced the floor as he drained more wine.

And then he knew what was to be done.

Those many years ago, when he left the city to find life, he'd not known he'd do this.
He was excited at his wicked idea.
He almost felt like the american psycho who was passionate but ruthless in love.

He went to his arm chair and folded his legs over his desk.
He burnt the weed in his pipe.
Today called for pungency, not indulgence.
He'd choke himself to trip.

What a trip, he though, of life.

He smoked some more from his pipe.
The burning embers looked like shooting stars.
His life was the sky he told himself.
He was the Sky.

As his gaze was blurry and he could make out her silhouette on the floor.
He laughed at life.
He looked up at the roof, hoping to as if mock the sky.

And suddenly he flicked the pipe.
With the ease of practice.
Onto the floor.
And there, it was quicker than the fire.
The polythene whizzed into tiny spurts of fire and as if immediately to intensify the happenings it oozed and smelled.

He took quick satiated whiffs.
The room caught fire.
He almost wanted to cringe at the thought of burning alive.
But he could walk out, if he wanted to.
He had nothing to live on and beside this woman symbolized love.
Of all that was left.

And he sat himself dizzy as he watched everything burn.

Slowly as the log cabin threatened to give way.
He got up and walked straight out.

So much for love of a woman.
And he walked out the cabin, leaving his only most recollected impressions of life behind.

He walked straight into the bend.
The fog was too thick to tell.

And he walked like he had to reach a destination.
He walked.

The only difference being he'd walked off the cliff and now he had this smile of notorious victory as he let himself be compelled by gravity and all that there was that frustrated the living day lights out of him.

He fell, his last and final fall.
He chose to.