Janie’s got a gun

There are explosions waiting to happen in her head. Like the lies that she has fed herself. They are tumours that infest and like a virulent endemic assault her.

She is foolish to even think it matters to the world. All just big words that sound nice. But mean nothing. Sometimes she wonders what is the whole point in living. She has experienced, felt, seen, thought as much as she could. She knows what happens further; what she feels again; what she thinks; what she sees; what she finds now will just be a replay of things that have occurred before.

All the anger, love, remorse that she had to feel has been felt. All the people she had to meet have been met. All the successes, failures have been celebrated. There is nothing new that the world can offer her.

Why is it the suicide is considered an act of cowardly desperation? Isn’t there something heroic about putting a gun on your head and pressing the trigger? Who can do it? Not the faint-hearted. There is a romance in being your own killer.

Karma, they say will throw you back in this world. And who are they to say that? Have they died and returned to tell us about it? No. All conjectures. All hypothetical scenarios.

The silence. Black. Like the grip of death itself. The water dripping. Loud. Almost like a scream in the night. She remains lying. Long time ago, she would have been sleeping peacefully. Now she stares at the window. Chases the outline of the leaves and the branches, the sinister shapes they make on it.

She is losing herself to the world. Losing to the dejection of what life can bring. The disappointment. That is what she feels most. The people in her life have disappointed her. The mother with her crazy ideas of what is right and wrong. The father with his ridicule of her at her weakest moment. The sister who did not even bid goodbye. The friends who just drifted away. She had one hope. He too let her down.

Maybe, it is all her fault. She expects out of people what she would offer them. She forgot to ask if courage, bravado, love was distributed in equal measure. People are bound to disappoint. Isn’t that the lesson she had learnt a few years back? She thought she could be wrong. Give someone one more chance. Stupid idea. Now she knows.

She turns to her right. She turns to her wrongs. No respite. No relenting. The knives are getting sharper. The nausea of deceit is overpowering. She wants to breathe that clean air, just once. There is nothing but stench that greets her.

Some time in the night, she falls off to sleep. Knowing that tomorrow is another loan that she is giving herself. Believing that she can change it all and make it appear happy and like it was before. Realizing with her last conscious thought that it is not tomorrow that she will pull the trigger.