The Second Confession and the Deceitful Angel

She was the one, or so I thought.

I had made all the arrangements.

Conversation script - check.
Gift - check.
Fuel - check.
Weapons - check.

I was enamored by her, same interests, beautiful, artist, pet-lover, head-strong.

My first confession had been an utter humiliation. I had spilled my wrath instead of telling my pain and need with acceptance.

This time, I was adamant to do what it takes to do it right. Completely spellbind the prey in my web. 3-4 months had passed since we knew each other. I concluded it was sufficient for confessing my feelings. She had rekindled poetry in me. No one would ever evoke the same kind of magic.

I told her I will take her to a spot just for a trek. The place was my romantic getaway, both in solitude and in company.

It could have been obvious what she was expecting but I was pre-occupied by my script, thoughts, anxious what the outcome will be, thrilled to run an adventure. She had agreed to accompany me that day. Felt like it was the day I was born for.

I picked her up from her home. We shared one end of earphone buds listening to a playlist of my composition while riding my moped. The drive was a journey in bliss. We made small-talk.

Finally, we reached the river bank.

We walked till the giant tree touching the river's waist.

"You know Emylene, there is something I need to confess. I haven't told this to any girl before."

She looked at me but said nothing.

"It's a story of a boy. A boy who met with an unfortunate accident. Being 8 years of age, the boy was full of childhood bliss and ignorance, happy with what he had, making toys of what he could get.

One day as nature urged, he took a piss besides the garden and while closing the zipper, it stuck in his weiner. He thought the zipper would come out by itself but it didn’t. Panic got hold of the boy. He thought the elders will help him out. But force proved futile and only resulted in more pain. Wrenching it open by a screwdriver felt like getting ready for being bobbitized. The zipper wouldn’t come off. Not only the boy had to endure pain but humiliation of being naked infront of an entire porch to a crowd watching with a blend of sadistic pity as to see why a boy with his pants down is crying about.

The boy was taken to a hospital. In the rickshaw all he could think of, it will be cut-off. He will face unbearable pain and then the part will be no more.

In the hospital, the boy was shown to a lady doctor. Showing to a gent would have been kinder but as the boy didn’t think he had any say in the matter, he showed the doctor the calamity befalling him. The doctor shouted, ‘pull-up your underwear’. So there was now body-shaming, in addition to pain and humiliation.

He was taken in the operation room. All the surgeons were ready with their outfits and gear. The boy was looking for a machette or a large knife. But couldn't see one. He was injected with needles. The boy felt sleep approach him but the fear of the oncoming onslaught kept him panicly alert. The dosage must have been strong. His last thought before falling asleep was the acceptance of death.

He woke up surrounded by relatives eager with relief to see if he was ok. He didn’t felt any pain. The part was still intact. On taking him back home, he found that a carrom board was bought for which he was saving every coin in his piggy bank. They were doing their best to make him forget with their feigned smiles. They would never know."

"Thank you for listening. I had kept that story with me for so long. Of what a girl would think if she saw a scar at an unexpected place."

I was so caught up in the moment, I didn't even say, I love you.

"Here is a gift for you."

She was opening it up. It was a hairpin. But while trying it on, she saw a group of boys passing by the road some distance away from us.

She got scared, "Will you stand in-front of me?"

I looked back and saw the boys, they hadn’t noticed or even if they did, they pretended to ignore us. Still, instinctively my hand drifted to my pocket grabbing the screwdriver and placing it in her hands. I had the folding knife of a nail-cutter at my disposal.

A story told by some army personnel I had heard at a military camp for teens had stuck with me. A girlfriend boyfriend pair were walking through a shady area. They were suddenly surrounded by hooligans. The boy fearing his life, ran away from the spot immediately. The thought of the girl’s safety occured to him quite late. He didn’t had the guts to run back nor face her again.
The boy joined the army to conquer his fear. He faught battles, won wars being gravely injured, honoured with the highest bravery medals yet his conscience would always prick him about the moment he was proven weak. Thinking that serving in the army was his act of redemption, he thaught he can now muster the courage to see his long lost girlfriend. He went to her house. She opened the door and smiled as recognition crossed her face. They exchanged pleasantries. He saw a portrait size photo of a man he didn’t knew. There was a garland around the photo. He asked her who he was. She said, 'he is my husband who saved me from the hooligans that day.’

This story was the reason for arming myself. But sensing her fear had evoked anger in me instead of composure at a moment providing the opportunity for being a true hero. The facade of being head-strong had worn-off. Our privacy was compromised. And so had my chance of stealing my first kiss.

"Have you seen the movie face-off?"

She shook her head.

"In the movie, a gangster father asks her daughter going for a date whether she has protection. The girl stupidly replies,'you mean a condom?' The father shows her a folding knife and says 'if he forces himself on you, thrust this in his thigh muscles and twist it'. (I added my inputs) Or you can cut of his jugular vein behind the neck."

As a jeep stopped near our spot, she had enough excitement for one day and so did I. She said she is running late.

I took out my moped and waited for her to sit behind me. She walked slowly while looking down at the road towards me. A fat tall man closely resembling a goon got out of the jeep and also slowly started approaching in my direction as I was waiting for her to quickly sit behind me. She was walking as though she was completely unaware or did not mind about the worse that could have happened. I had taken the screwdriver back from her and placed my hand steadily on it, ready to pierce his heart should he try any funny business with me or her. She slowly and finally sat behind me and I sped the moped before the man could come any closer. I felt like I escaped a high tension situation.

But something broke my critical thinking, the way she was walking, she must have some idea about what the worse that could have happened.

So either I was trying to protect someone who didn’t value her life or it was all a setup.

I asked her, "you know in the poem 'The Sandman' that I sent you, there is a stanza :

As night turns day,
the day turns night,
there is always dark somewhere,
a sandman’s duty everywhere.

What do you think it means ?"

She replied with a hesitant confidence of having an opinion, "It means that there are some dark feelings we have that need nurturing."

Being the ever optimistic diplomat, I said, "In a way, yes. Still there is another way to look at it. What I think, the earth is always rotating and has one side covered in darkness at all times. So if it’s the duty of the Sandman to make children fall asleep at night, when does the Sandman sleeps ?"