Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Why I did not become a writer: Part 3

I woke up in a pool of blood. My own blood. It was pitch dark around me, I could only guess at how long I was unconscious. 5 hours, maybe 6. My hands were empty, the letter nowhere to be found. I pushed my palms against the floor and tried to get up but my arms just collapsed from under me. Helpless and cold, I wailed out the one thought in my mind. Raquel's name.

The sound of a chair suddenly interrupted my wailing. I looked around again, my eyes starting to adjust to the darkness , and I realize there was someone sitting in the corner of the room. Raquel!! She must have stayed!! She stood up and walked over to me silently. I managed to muster all my strength to lift up my head and look at her. It was not Raquel. It was Bala.

"You know Bertie, your poem was damn good hor. So good that I got date with Raquel because of your poem, don't play play. So thank you ah!"

Maybe it was the blood loss, but I couldn't fathom what he meant. "What are you saying Bala Subramaniam!! What did you do!!?" I screamed.

"Come on la, I thought you so smart one, you still don't know meh, I switched your letter with mine la, ha damn slow lor you."

So that was what happened. He switched my really eloquent letter with his own, probably one with full of vulgarities and even worse, horrid grammar. No wonder she slapped me. The thought filled my entire body with rage, and by some miraculous effort I stood up. Bala stood stunned by this show of strength from me and for a second I detected a hint of fear in his beautiful blue eyes. I walked slowly towards him , every step felt like a dagger through my entire spine, but that pain was nothing compared to the rage I felt inside. It was as if my entire insides were on fire and I needed to let it out.

(To be continued)