PSYCHOLOGICAL STORY

                                                      POTPOURRI

As these tiny little droplets race each other down the window panel of my Coffee House and the room surrounds itself with aroma of freshly brewed Turkish coffee, I bite into my cookie reminiscing the memories I’ve made over all these years and it leaves me feeling empty. That is the thing about memories; they warm you up from inside but also tear you apart! I look around the brightly lit room full of people busy in their own lives and my eyes stop on these two brunette girls dressed neatly, prattling and giggling unaware of the world around them. They seem so exultant and cheery. Their bliss is infectious and makes me smile as I wonder whether they realize the kind of memories they are making.

As I sit here wondering, one of them takes out her phone and clicks a picture. She clearly wants to remember this day forever I conclude. If only there was a way I could make it more memorable for them, I think to myself….

I walk home as the rain kisses my cheeks and all I can think about is those girls at the coffee shop. They remind me of my neighborhood girls. Smart, pretty and popular, bullying other kids, calling them names. Their greatest joy came from bullying us. Laughing at our so called daftness. Sigh, those memories…

It is said that people don’t meet by accident! They are meant to cross paths for a reason decided by destiny. That stranger you met at the subway or that lady you smiled at the shopping centre, might not be the main characters of your story but they still feature in it, in your memories. These strangers are like little pieces of one’s jigsaw memory.

As I flip through channels on the local cable TV later that night, I see a headline that grabs my attention. It talks about the death of a 21 year old girl who looks familiar to the brunette I had seen at the coffee shop. ‘We have declared it a case of homicide. It looks quite similar to the kind of murders that have been happening around the city where the ring finger of the victim is chopped out and throat is slit open using a sharp kitchen knife like weapon’ continues the cop. I wonder if she would make a different memory if she knew that it was her last and switch off the idiot box.

I looked at myself in the mirror for one last time before the party. “You look like a pink fairy” my mother assured me.”Let me keep this memory” she said as she pulled out her camera. “Now, give me your prettiest smile sweetheart” she instructed pressing the camera buttons.

My mother, she loved capturing moments through photographs. She fondly called her album “Potpourri”. I swirled and twirled in my pink dress as she joyfully captured each and every pose of mine. Our merry photo shoot was interrupted by a fierce knock on the door. And the next thing I knew, I was on the floor next to my mother who was pleading my rather splenetic aunt for mercy. My uncle tied my petite mother to a chair while my aunt tried to take away her ring. After numerous unfruitful attempts, they shot my mother. The only difference was that, they used a gun. Then they cut her finger and took away her solitaire ring, with me on the floor unable to move. Being a helpless six year old, I lay there with my mother’s corpse howling and wailing for two whole nights until the neighbours rescued me.

Memories ,my mother once said, are like a box of chocolates, you can’t stop at one. You keep going back to the box for more. After all more of everything is blissful. Be it love, tequila or memories . And people who give you these amazing memories need to be acknowledged. “Thank you for featuring in my story”, I tell the other brunnette as I bring my knife close to her throat. She somehow seems ungrateful and yells for help. This reminds me of the time I cut open my uncle and aunt and stored their fingers in the attic.

And then all the other wonderful memories come rushing to me. Like the one where I carved the throat of my first boyfriend who wanted to break up with me and the second one who wanted me for my wealth and the third one..the third one because I wanted him all for myself, that man at the subway because he did not offer me his seat and that lady at the supermarket because she seemed gloomy and my latest being that girl at the coffee shop who seemed so jubilant and reminded me of a neighbourhood bully who would call me ugly. It’s been a week since I cut off her long pretty finger.

“I forgot to thank your friend, she kicked me and broke my tooth” I tell her . She cries and begs for my mercy, offering me all her material possessions. Stupid girl,doesn’t she know? Material possessions don’t make memories. Priceless moments like these do. “Do convey my heartfelt gratitude to her” I continue as I see blood rushing through her throat and her heartbeat reclining slowly.. “Things end but memories remain” I tell her corpse and walk away with this beautiful memory and her ring finger………

–END–

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