2

Earlier that day

⌛

HE SITS BACK AND STARES.

At the lights arrayed across the ceiling. 

At the marble vase enclosing a vibrant variety of blooms, resting on top of a glass showcase. 

At the reflection of a man in the standing mirror, shoulders slumped, eyes haggard, brows narrowed at the centre, nose scrunched, fingers tapping aggressively on his knee, feet tapping asynchronously.

He blinks at the reflection, pretending to not notice the prominent frown on his face.

Nothing is off about the air around him today.

How?

The eeriness that silence subtly imbibes and sloshes on, dances— tipsy and semi-conscious— and hangs low by the slit between the window panes. The man draws the curtains away and a glint of light rushes into the room, stealth and slow. 

He knows. 

He is very well aware of the literal fact that it had only been so many minutes that he could count on his fingers, since he had let himself fall in and out of his sleep. 

Sleep avoids the sorts of him like an overly cautious person would a contagious virus. This man was no different. Only a notch high on the scale. That’s what he made himself to believe. Like the many other things that followed the same suite. 

Nights that flew by since the advent of the season were all spent gazing at the sky, thoughtlessly, bubbling at the base of a glass bottle of hysteria. He allowed the underwhelming midnight  breeze to sink in, chill down his spin and freeze his mind. That way, it felt. 

And oh, did this man want the feel. 

A feel. 

Just to feel.

A sense of panic rises somewhere in his chest.

Drawing sharp, uneven breaths that render him to a state of perplexity, he walks over, half dazed, to the air conditioner and switches it on. He stands near the vent and waits for cold air to ooze through his skin. The cool surges through his veins, failing to capture the essence of the breezy chill that the midnight air imparts.

In a matter of seconds, he shivers with a wild intensity. He slaps the switch off and sits down with a thump on his chair. The air from the fan settles down swiftly on his shoulders and he begins to quiver again. He walks over, albeit rather annoyingly,  and switches that thing off as well. 

Every single object that sits in the room stares shamelessly at him and mocks his audacity to simply exist in that moment. He is alarmingly agitated. 

He thinks and thinks and thinks. He gets tired of thinking. 

Unnecessary, insignificant and matterless problems stack on top of each other and weigh down, causing an overpowered explosion in his mind.

He picks up his phone to call someone. Anyone. 

Countless names overwrite each other as he scrolls the bar on the name list, spinning a mental roulette on who to reach out to. People’s faces flash and their supposed unjudging voices echo at the back of his head. Suddenly, all of them merge together and blur radially.

He waits and waits and waits. He gets tired of waiting. 

Patience gives up on him. 

He opens the night stand drawer and pulls out a headache relief roll-on tube. He rubs the coolant from one temple to the other in full circles, repeating the same process for two more rounds. Placing the roll-on back into the drawer, he gets up and starts to stretch to ease out the tension in his muscles. After that, he puts his corded earphones on and plays 90s pop music to full volume. 

He listens and listens and listens. He gets tired of listening.

Hysteria, bottled up and shaken for too long, gives in to the pressure; it slithers and coils around his neck and teases his muscles with abrupt tugs. 

Once the music starts to feel irritable, his ears itch, and the final straw falls through. Rage crawls down his face. The vehemence scorches his cheeks. 

A sharp breath in; eight long, forced counts follow and an exaggerated sigh escapes the confinement of his indecision. The man pulls out a towel and heads towards the washroom, avoiding looking at the time. 

Morning hints at an arrival when he steps out into his room, drenched from head to toe. How can it be dawn already?

He lets go of the thought. 

Ziven Yuzven stopped keeping track of time since that day. 

Once in a while, the stubborn hands of the non existent concept made to aid functionality took the liberty to drive him crazy.  But he would rebound again and give his best shot at sanity. 

One such is today.

Quickly murmuring a few words to calm his nerves, he walks into the walk-in closet and grabs his running co-ords along with a pair of monochrome sneakers. He gets dressed into the dark blue set and combs his hair slick. Moving over to the nook, he sits down and ties up the kicks, bracing himself for a jog in the neighbourhood. He ditches the earphones onto the side table as the idea of listening to music somehow comes across as revolting. 

Realising a troubled sigh for the umpteenth time, he opens the windows and leaps out, landing with a smooth balance of his hands and legs. He pulls over the hood of his top and places his hands inside the front pockets. 

Half a mile into his rountined morning run and he finds himself sweating profusely, more due to mental exhaustion rather than physical. He finds an isolated street bench and takes a seat there. 

Ziven Yuzven never really gave up.

But he did give in.

The man intensely felt drained out of every vital force that would push him to carry forward. But much as the intensity that pulled him into the null bore strength, his will defied all with sheer use of technique.

It was just his brain playing games with him. Every waking moment, he felt a surge of emotions grip at his nerves with tearing vigour, that would twist and swivel, parching him off with no source to quench this unease.

And this pattern repeated. 

Endlessly.

Today. Tomorrow. The day after that and the day following the day. The will to move around in circles never lost a beat to moving off the track.

Socialising became an abomination. The more people he met, the more unpredictable it got. He felt bored of it all, but he didn’t really feel motivated to stand off against this boredom. There were many excuses and at the same time, none of them.

The only bliss he felt was: detaching himself from reality. Getting lost was safer than being held hostage. At least, losing that way would mean, not worrying about what ifs and what nots. Succumbing to the chills of worthlessness is not so bad in itself. Having something to put the blame on to lighten even an ounce of weight is refreshing. The idea isn’t even so bad in itself.

Today, when he goes back to where he has to be, he will not—as he has promised himself countless other times— act the way he did yesterday. But, oh, will he do it all over again, even after countless self warnings and the realisation that it all shall amount to nothing. 

Sometimes he wished he could be one of those comic chads or movie prima donnas that the naive little children gleefully boasted about. No doubt possessing all sorts of flabbergast powers to sneak into memories, to share, steal, copy techniques or to use telekinesis would be the greatest asset that he could ask for- especially now.

Oh Ziven! It won't go easy on you.

The quiet of the dawn falls into his sight, gradually registering across his ears. This morning promises no hope of the sun. 

The sky flaunts a pot belly of slate white overlapping with deep carbon grey, murky clouds.  

A glint of spark cuts through the light obsidian dyed chalky, nimbus clouds, which appears as an amateur sculpture moulded from foam and slime rubbed on a thermocol. 

There is no heat, but every waft seems to graze over his skin with a burning sensation.

Where am I? 

What am I doing here?

Am I even here?

“You? You're waiting to escape, while time gives up on you and eventually moves on.”

He blinks his eyes. Twice. And again. 

He can feel his breath turning haphazard, rubbing roughly against his lungs, twisting his stomach into inconsiderate knots. Concerned he might lose thought, he tries to remember the regular rhythm of breathing. 

Breathe in. 

Does the belly constrict or inflate? 

Breathe out. 

How was it supposed to be again? 

He plans to lap around in full eclipses until he can no more. So he does that. Until, finally tiredness slithers through his feet and climbs up to his back, brazenly weighing down his shoulders.

A sharp stingy sensation on his nape attunes him to blend in with the cacophony of reality. When he looks up he finds himself standing at the entrance of the giant mansion that he calls home. 

Whe- Where was I just now?

His stomach knots. Squatting down, he fishes his phone from his left pocket. He looks down at his phone to register the time.

8:29 AM

His pupils grow large at the sight and he forgets to breathe. It happened again. What’s going on? What the heck is actually going on? 

The guards stationed at either side of the gate  eye him with concern, exchanging glances and nods.

“Sir, are you alright?” One of them approaches him carefully and hunkers down to his level.

Plastering a fake smile on his face, he meets his eyes and releases a deep breath. “Absolutely. Why not?” He manages to display a warm, welcoming look, with no signs of the perplexity brewing inside of him. 

“Well you, I mean—“

“I just had a pumped up morni—err—evening walk. You know, adrenaline rush and all.” He laughs with a wink and gets up. The guard follows his suit with an ‘I see’  look. He extends his hands out of reflex, in case the lad next to him would need some support.

Ziven nods at the man and walks inside. Opening the front door, he steps into the living room with his hand tightly gripped around his phone. He books for the staircase, stopping abruptly at the mention of his name.

“Venzie,“ He turns around to face his older brother leaning against the baluster with his hands crossed across his chest. “Free to talk?” He raises a brow, the statement more of an importation than a question. 

“Yup, what’s up?” Ziven shrugs his shoulders and raises his brows quizzically. His brother points his thumb at the sitting area at the corner of the room, facing the garden and walks ahead. “Follow me.”

They settle down on adjacent couches. Ziven crosses his right leg over his left knee and shifts towards behind supporting his back, arms placed freely on both sides.

He looks at a sturdy built figure leaning casually against the opposite couch. The soft velvet of the seat melts to the person’s form. Fingers intertwined together, facing their front, taping at each other in irregular intervals.

“How's everything?” The older man juts his chin towards his younger brother.

“Semi-fine. Heartbreak.” He draws his hands together to make a heart shape and withdraws it with a jerk. “Do you think you’ll live through it, Zayden bhaiya?” He closes his eyes and shrugs dramatically. 

Zayden’s eyes narrow down in slits and he camouflages an amused chuckle with a nonchalant scoff. “I’ll be fine.” He shifts his position and looks out into the garden from the corner of his eyes before shifting his focus back on Ziven, who stares back at him, lost in a train of thoughts. Silence hangs in the room. Zayden is well aware that the younger lad knows the main agenda of this sudden sit and talk session. 

 Zayden Yuzven is a busy man. Without an ounce of exaggeration. He doesn't really pop up suddenly, out of nowhere if not for something that requires his utmost attention. 

He draws a stoic expression on his face, a cue to the guy in front of him, to be ready for a  confrontation. “Are you still onboard with that mission?” His voice comes dry, coated in all seriousness.

“I am.” Ziven’s tone matches the intensity of that of his brother. He sits up straight and meets his brother’s eyes across the centre table.

“It’s not worth it.” Zayden lays bare.

“You don’t know anything, do you?.” He cock an annoyed brow. “Then how are you sure?”

“I have my ways to be sure. Trust me. Not that I doubt you man. I know you. Which is why I want you to stop wasting your time on something which is not worth it.”  

“What’s that supposed to mean now?” Ziven runs a hand over his face and feels heat rise up to his forehead. 

“You know what. I’m just a self absorbed, delusional, unhinged piece of jerk.” He scoffs. “Oh, and while we’re at it, add effing dunce to it. At the end, it would all mean the same anyway wouldn’t it? Anything you say is not going to turn me against my decision. So, stop trying to brainwash me. That won’t work.”

“Woah, hold on, wait up, machine gun.” 

Noticing the sudden moment and aggressive change in his brother’s behaviour, Zayden shifts in alarm. Golden eyes, warm and gleaming, observe the creases on his forehead, as he notices the younger man staring back at him, suddenly appearing dumbfounded and flummoxed. A light blink and the charming mimicry of the sun hide behind the curtain of the man’s eyelids. He releases a sigh. “Did you zone out again?” He scoffs and flicks Ziven’s forehead with his index finger.

Ziven snaps back.

Did I think that out loud?

“Eh?” He gawks at the man in front of him. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Which is the answer to?” He tilts his head and stitches his brows together, crosses his arms to the side and leans back on the chair with his feet stretched out relaxed on the adjacent seat.

“Whatever I just said.” He nods. More to himself, than his brother.

“Right then, seeing as you are, I think it’s best if we drop this conversation for now. You can take up your time to think it through.” He gets up, kicks the air and stretches his arms up and down, as though he is being instructed by a PE guide. 

“My answer will remain the same.” Ziven drops, eyes fixed to the ground.

Zayden sighs and proceeds to leave. He doesn't want Ziven to be a part of whatever he is pushing himself into. Connecting the dots into the places they appear, one by one, he already has a hunch about his brother’s present condition. If only he could bring himself to confront him about that day, his doubts would all ebb away into the sea of certainty. 

Ziven helps himself to the living area. Walking feels like a punishment when the little cuts on his heel rub against the coarse rubber of his slippers.  

The sun lights blocked by the shaded window panes manage to filter through the edges and stretch over an inclined pathway over which the dusty air particles slide in union. Of late, he has been observing a lot of details. Very deep, precise details of the mundane life which he otherwise gladly ignored under the pretension of being preoccupied. He mummers something to himself and stares at the creamy marble tiles, tipped on the floor unequally. By an inch at most. 

It irritates him. 

Somehow a lot of unwanted assumptions crowd over his head out of nowhere. Swiftly, the muddled noise of his thoughts catch him off guard and  block any entrance to clarity, until black dots inscribed in iridescent spheres tumble down stealthily and land atop each other.

A magnified face, struck with shades of horror, perches over him. It is when he notices the bulge in those eyes, when he realises he’s been lying face up on the carpet, his fingers fisted flat by his sides, as his right leg crosses over the left one. 

He must’ve collapsed. Again. 

Even so, how could I not feel the one emotion that was home to him?

Pain.

Why does the concept feel alien to him now?