My Grave-Stone

I did not like the feel of metal against bare skin. It felt naked and vulnerable. And yet, it was the way of life. The flesh, the cold stern touch .. the bruise it left for life .. a grudge that slowly subsided away and gave way to a pain .. a slow revelation of brutal heart ache.  I could never get over the tearing away of flesh, the sudden impact of leather and iron. And I ran , I ran hard till my blood turned acrid, throat arid and my heart pumped iron clad fists at my chest. I ran …

I hated the feel of metal against bare skin, and yet I had to endure. With cold metal in a casing and a trigger tucked under your shirt, you felt safe. There is a false sense of security with death tucked at your waist, how ironical it seems. Amidst the smoke and the dirt, I could see his face. He strained to get a look at me. I felt his stare driving me to the wall, nailing me down. And yet, it felt familiar. His stare, the attitude, the cold sudden hatred, it was all painted on my heart. And I ran … Panting .. sparing no breath … But he was always there. It was like living an eternal paining truth .. running from it and facing it yet again, it its gory glory time and again. Life was not easy.

The feel of metal against skin was unforgiving, tortuous. I was hidden from the tiger, crouched on a tree, sweating .. keeping my heart beat slow, for there was an eternity yet to endure. And that was when I saw the branch slowly bending its way down, down to a dead dark well .. I could almost touch the slimy hissing snakes .. There was no hope, no purpose .. and so no fear. I bent down further to lick water drops off the leaf .. and then ..

“Died of a heart-attack, pupils dilated, nightmare probable cause, found dead on arrival” – said the doctor’s report.

The dark feel of metal against skin is fatal. The coffin touched my bare hands. I felt the same. Life was no different than death. I still hate the feel of cold bare metal .. and I ever will, and that’s what my grave-stone reads.

R.I.P.