He sat there in his snug leather jacket, flicking a Zippo between his fingers. She glanced with distaste at the pipe resting proudly between his lips, and made her way out the door.
He stood outside the bar, leaning against its polished facade. His gaze followed the curves of her body; trying to see through the elegantly fitted blouse. The grey moustache hid his lecherous smile, but she knew that look very well. She brushed past him, staring right through the brick pavement, muttering words of disgust under her breath.
She should’ve left early; she shouldn’t have waited so long.
She wasn’t alone that night. A group of teenagers rampaged the pavement, drunk out of their wits. All eyes were on them, but unlike her, they weren’t disgusted. They quite liked the attention. She gave them a look that did no good, but increase her revulsion. Unruly youth.
Hands in her pockets, she walked straight to the parking lot. A black Camaro sat patiently on the right, its lights dimmed. She looked at the two figures inside before swiftly turning the other way to her own car. Clearly principles and decency were lost in that scenario.
All she wanted to do that night was rush to her studio apartment and stay locked till the world became a less pretentious place. She, in her grey Armada and her blood red jimmy choos, wanted the world to be a less pretentious place.
Who was she trying to lie to?
But she didn’t know that. For her it was about judging ‘him’ or ‘her’ or ‘them’. But it was never ‘me’. No, she understood the world, and acted in perfect accordance. She was never inappropriately loud or late or even bold. She didn’t wear too many colours, nor all greys. Tonight, she mixed it up with stark red and jet black. Her hair was never too long, never too short. Her makeup never got out of control. Her accessories were never too flashy. They were just right.
She did everything ‘right’.
I tried fixing that. I tried pushing her off the edge, but she doesn’t budge. She stays glued to the spot as if she owns it. She believes she does. She thinks she’s found her spot. But she’s wrong. No one can find their spot. No one has a spot.
Out of everyone else, I should be the one to weaken her resolve. I am a part of her after all. A part that worked so hard to control her, but in vain. I’ve led her astray in the past, and she’d walk right into my trap. But she’d always come out. I even let her come out, just to see exactly how much the dark road had broken her.
But it didn’t. She refused to let it. She’d jump to accept it, before it could do her more harm than good. She’d twist it all up in her head, come up with some fanciful logic and tell herself there must be a reason.
I gave her hell; she laughed and said it was destiny. No one could have too many good days. I took away those dear to her. She cried and said it was meant to be, that they had to go before the evils of the world got hold of them. I showed her what karma could do. She embraced it with joy and claimed it helped her get through the darkness.
Why should I complain then? She is one out of the few who wouldn’t blame me. I can do as I please. But where’s the fun there? I don’t get credit for my deeds, and my actions have no effect on her. Why do I even bother then, why do I even exist then? I should be able to toss her life whichever way I want. I call the shots here, not her, not that mere human who seems to be so sure of herself. I am her fate. I control her life.
I am her fate.
They said she’s an optimist but that’s a lie. Optimists are easy to deal with; give them hope and then crush their souls. Mission accomplished.
No, she does not love the world, nor does she do her part to help it. ‘Why should I?’ she says, ’it doesn’t bother me’. Of course not – it doesn’t bother her because she thinks it shouldn’t. There is no guilt where there is no wrong. And being selfish, to her, is not wrong.
Then what is? What constitutes as ‘wrong’ to a person that seems to claim to find the meaning – a reason – in every small thing? What is ‘wrong’ to a person who believes everything that happens is right?
I should show her what’s wrong.
‘Wrong’ is playing with the life of that person, just because you can. Or rather, I can. ‘Wrong’ is snatching their life before they’ve had a chance to live it. ‘Wrong’ is making it rain when you know they need to get home early. ‘Wrong’ is switching that traffic light before the grey Armada has had the time to hit the brakes. ‘Wrong’ is letting it smash into the black Camaro, shredding every inch of human flesh into pieces.
‘Wrong’ is slicing that perfectly good jimmy choo into bits.
‘It’s because I was going too fast. It was karma,’ she’d say if she were still alive.
