Shame

She cringed as the turning of the key in her door made a seemingly deafening sound. Then again, everything sounded deafening at 3.00 A.M. in a quiet neighbourhood. Holding her heels in her hand, she padded softly into her room, after shutting the door behind her.
She stood in front of the mirror. All she could see was her silhouette. Her hair, framing her delicately made-up face.
A simple T-shirt and jeans was all she had worn to the party that night. She wondered why she had even gone in the first place. She didn’t know anyone, except for the host, of course. Boredom was the only reason that came to mind.
True to convention, she found herself a convenient little corner, dark enough to ward off the guys who used pick-up lines from 15 years ago, but with enough light to accentuate her best features. Of ALL the men who approached her that night, only one piqued her interest. Vikram- a video editor by profession, who loved rock music, world cinema, large pegs of Old Monk and walks on the beach. Perfect.
He asked her to dance, and smoothly slid his hand around her waist as they moved in unison, keeping time with the medium-paced tempo of the music. He didn’t ask her too many questions about her life, nor did he offer many details about his own.
In an uncharacteristic moment, she laid her head on his chest and draped her arms around his neck. She smiled a secret smile to herself as she felt his arms tighten around her. God, she had missed this.
He gently tilted her face upwards. She saw kindness, tenderness (perhaps even love?) in his eyes. Her body stiffened against him.
Taking a long, deep breath, she firmly said, “I have to leave”.
“Alright”.
Why hadn’t he questioned her? Did he see how she had withdrawn from him? In a split second, had he seen through to her very core?
“Do you want me to drop you home?”
Pause.
A million thoughts ran through her head. And they all lead to one answer.
_________________________________________________________________________________
She cringed as the turning of the key in her door made a seemingly deafening sound. Then again, everything sounded deafening at 3.00 A.M. in a quiet neighbourhood. Holding her heels in her hand, she padded softly into her room, after shutting the door behind her.
She stood in front of the mirror. All she could see was her silhouette. Her hair, framing her delicately made-up face.
_________________________________________________________________________________

She took off her T-shirt and jeans. Placing her heels on the floor, she reached out to put on a dim light. Anything brighter would goad that freak across the road to gape at her again.
She placed her hands on her waist, and struck a pose. Running her fingers through her hair, she began to play around with a number of different styles.
Stood on her tiptoes, arched her back, threw her head back and pouted.
Threw her shoulders back, tilted her head. Gave the mirror her ‘come-hither’ look.
Narrowed her eyes, parted her lips ever so slightly. Turned sideways with a coquettish flick of her hair.
There was no doubt about it. She was one hell of a looker.
_________________________________________________________________________________

Turning her back to the full length mirror, she gave herself a good once-over. Then, with a sort of childlike innocence, she let her head drop forward onto her chest.
Wiggled her toes a little bit.
Unfastened her bra, and slid her underwear off her legs.
Sliding to the floor, she thought of Vikram.
Of course she hadn’t let him drop her home. It would lead to attachment. Maybe things would go well. Maybe they would start dating. Maybe it would lead to a serious relationship. (A long-term commitment?). No. She couldn’t handle that.
He would walk away, just after she had given him her heart, her soul. Her very being.
Just like her mother had. Leaving her all alone, when she had needed her most. When she was confused about why that boy had held her hand, why she was growing hair in places she wasn’t supposed to.
She’d never gotten close to anyone after that. There was no point, anyway. Since her mother had left, she’d been up against a wall, and saw no way of breaking it down.
So…
“No, Vikram. I don’t want you to drop me home. Why don’t you give me your number? I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She curled up on the floor. Just like a little baby. Hands between her legs, she felt the tears welling up inside of her. No. No. NO.
She wasn’t going to let herself cry.
But it was too late. Her chest began to heave. Laboured, racking sobs rent through her body, forcing her to take breaths which were deeper and longer. She suddenly felt suffocated by years of wrong decisions and miscalculated steps.
Her body began to convulse uncontrollably. Shoulders trembling, fingers clawing through her hair. She began beating the floor with her hands, willing herself to stop. But, she couldn’t. She was stuck in a vortex of her own bottled-up emotions.
_________________________________________________________________________________

Finally, she lay still, looking up at the ceiling. Her breathing slowly stabilized. She felt at peace, quite unexpectedly. Maybe all the magazines were right when they said ‘everyone needs a good cry from time to time’.
It all hit her again, like a wave.
She was so SICK of everything she called a life.
She got up from the floor and walked to the bathroom.

_________________________________________________________________________________

He shifted uncomfortably in his bed.
He’d heard her, of course. But what was he supposed to do?
She’s only push him back, screaming that he didn’t understand.
How could he, when she wouldn’t let him?
She had probably finally gone to sleep.
He got up and walked to the bathroom.

_________________________________________________________________________________

His entire countenance spoke of a man frozen in a scream.

_________________________________________________________________________________

She got up from the edge of the bathtub and calmly replaced the blade in his razor.

“Relax, I would have never had the guts to do it anyway.”

_________________________________________________________________________________

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~ by cranialrumblings on June 3, 2009.

21 Responses to “Shame”

  1. “Anything brighter would goad that freak across the road to gape at her again.”
    😛

    You shouldn’t expect comments. You KNOW people are going to go like “Omg Anisha you’re like really brilliant” and everything.

    SERIOUSLY. LOVED IT. As always.
    I love the way you’ve written it.
    Amazing.
    X

  2. … 0_o

    i love this piece. and yet it freaks the insides of me out. i wuv oo.

  3. I can see a unique style of writing that formed over the last few posts. kudos! 🙂 Mwah!

  4. I read something u wrote AFTER a lonnng time……

    the descriptive emotions weren’t that creative to me….while reading it there was a point when I said to myself…this is Cliched!

    or maybe its just me!!

  5. Razors.Blades.Bathtubs. Screams. They never seem to leave the room

  6. Razors.Blades.Bathtubs. Screams.Last minute backing out from the Final Cut. Regrets. They never seem to leave the room.

  7. Honestly, I would’ve been pretty miffed if your lead character had committed suicide… AGAIN! Other than that, the language, I enjoyed, the setting I enjoyed, and thank god, that she would never have the guts to do it anyway…
    On a side note, this Anisha Sharma brand of writing is beginning to grow on me… As always, a film reel plays in my head… These would make wonderful short films…

  8. you modified the original a bit, didn’t you?
    i like this. very very emo.
    i laaab you.

  9. its…dark.

  10. very M&B, very Navjot Sidhu .. I don’t like .. 😦

  11. I’m sorry not to reply to anyone else’s comment, but what is M & B, Mandar?
    And Navjot Sidhu?????
    HOW?

    😐

    *Trauma*

  12. M&B = Mills and Boon, Navjot Sidhu = overtly descriptive.

  13. LOVED the descriptions.. sounded so very real.. a lil too real infact.. i can picture me in her place as she’s crying on the floor…movie reel for sure…
    @mandar-I LIKE the descriptions so 😛

  14. as always i like the ending… and the style is particularly nice… u should eventually start collecting these.. i think u may have enough for a short story book.. im nt asking u to publish.. im saying start thinking bigger.. ur a writing machine..

  15. everyone who is telling u to put these lil bits u write together is totally right.

    lovely. really!

  16. Yeah, I think the descriptive style is what defines you, Annie. I really liked the vivid details of her actions in the apartment, and the sudden switch to his point of view.

    Nice one.

  17. Excellent as always. *Bows to the master*…………”Mmm…Old Monk” 🙂

  18. @ aakriti city .. I tried picturing you beating the floor! 😀

  19. Amazing piece! 🙂

  20. @mandar.. he would’ve definitely heard me if i was beating the floor 😛
    but seriously, no comparisons to navjot sidhu please.. he’s so superfluous!!! even his laughter is way more than necessary, know what i mean??

  21. @ akriti .. yes, I get .. but only after I read it the second time round .. the first time it did sound a lill too vivid .. and why would you want to beat the floor when he is around? 😛 n sorry abt the city thing, I am a broker, and I am lazy! 😀

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