She never speaks, she keeps her past concealed. A prized possession of the world’s most secretive and exclusive brothels; her future streams in the room through a tiny peephole on her door.
The rules allow only one customer every night. David’s lucky day is the 6th of November 1999. His right hand clenches a bunch of golden keys, of colorful doors, each offers more exotic an experience than the most imaginative wet dream. He knows not why and would reckon all his life what was so special about smooth sky blue door.
The room’s white but shaded in faint florescent blue light. It’s cold, the temperature forever maintained below 50 degrees Fahrenheit with an unexplainable even colder mist veiling the floor. She sits on the bed, waiting for him, wrapped in a thin cotton blanket. The left side of her face hidden by the fringe of her straightened, black, short hair; her right leg revealed and adorned by a double headed snake tattoo around the ankle.
Her very existence intimidates David and as he catches her eyes the light within them pierces his heart. Fidgetively David undresses himself, pulling off his pants; his hands tremble as he unbuttons his shirt.
She silently watches the meek man struggle, without an expression she sees through him, beyond him but only into a void. David gives up on the buttons, as if suddenly realizing the passing of time. He looks up again at her but this time he is able to muster the courage and behold her. She gives out her hand, and that gesture is enough to tell David that his clothes don’t matter.
Her touch is cold, way colder than he had expected. She leans back on the bed guiding him upon her in the conventional missionary way, face to face. Her eyes green, bright but cold and deep.
She won’t move; she won’t make the effort neither does he want her to. She never makes a sound; she never speaks, but only breathes. He can hear her, her breath which rolls down his back start to turn faintly warmer, a little louder.
He is there; he is ubiquitous, only for a spark in time do his senses embark to a colorful chaos. And now as it cools down and he opens his eyes to witness again the reality of a crude room does she word herself out loud, “How hard can it be to feel alive.”
Suyash Shreekant is a talented young writer currently working on his first novel. Between his surges of creativity he likes to read, appreciate alcohol and bounce between Delhi and Mumbai. To read more of his work click here.
Suyash Shreekant is a talented young writer currently working on his first novel. Between his surges of creativity he likes to read, appreciate alcohol and bounce between Delhi and Mumbai. To read more of his work click here.
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