Death on an Afternoon: Part 1

Being stuck in heavy traffic for several hours is agonizing. Having your molar extracted without an anesthesia is excruciating. But having coffee alone, on a cold Saturday afternoon and being surrounded by a thick mob of cheery people, happy friends and schmaltzy couples, is just painful; pure, unadulterated pain.

One balmy afternoon… Since I have just recovered from a psychosomatic illness, I decided not to go to work, and phoned in sick. Also, I didn’t go to school in the morning. I just stayed in the comforts of my own cave, reading the whole day. Besides, it rained an hour ago and I don’t want to wet the seams of my newly-purchased pants.

So there I was, cuddling under the sheets, reading my Hosseini book, while music from MTV filled the background. And while I lost myself in 1980
Afghanistan, boredom clobbered me in the head. I waved it off like an obnoxious fly; it bounced off the walls and boomeranged towards me again.

Alright, I said, heaving a sigh of defeat. Besides, I’ve wasted almost the entire day chasing kites with Amir and Hassan. Maybe it’s time for me to crawl out from my cave, and let the world behold the biggest loser there is — me.

I dragged my bored-stiff carcass inside this small, white-tiled, four walled box they call the bathroom. Sluggishly, I washed my deflated-balloon-like face and limply ran the toothbrush across my teeth. I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to smile. But the reflection didn’t budge. Smile, I said, smile! Show me those goddam pearly whites! To no avail.

After what seemed like a century and a half desperately coaxing the skeletal guy in the mirror, I emerged from the bathroom; chopstick-legs dragging underneath me. I undressed and re-dressed, grabbed my jacket and cellphone and slipped on my running shoes.

Twisting the doorknob, I walked two paces, hesitated, turned back, paused, reconsidered, turned towards the door, opened it, and at a snail’s pace, crossed the threshold. Still holding the doorjamb, I admired the overcast skies and the lovely scent of the after-rain, when – Bam! – the friggin’ door bit my friggin’ fingers! “Fffff*ck!”

I screamed, and for the first time that day I heard my voice. Massaging my fingers, I realized that I’m still alive. My heart beat for the first time, palpitating so hard it almost leapt out of my chest. I didn’t know shouting expletives could be so therapeutic. F*ck, being the day’s first word. Hurling curses can be so liberating. Try it.

(to be concluded...)