Serial || Cross-Eyed Sleep (Part 4) (Siddharth Pathak)
Initiated to a life of violence and crime at an early age, David Mondal has worked his way up from being a pickpocket to a professional assassin. David escapes the accidental revelations of the doctor in the train who kept coming close to randomly pinpoint his real identity of a killer for hire and takes refuge in a chosen hotel that allows any abject decadence of its customers. David befriends an emissary of the hotel who promises him female company of every single variety. David also checks the identity of his target in Mumbai and is dumbfounded to discover that his imminent victim, Anita Bakshi is a teenage girl who happens to be a spitting image of the girl he had deflowered by force when David himself was only a teenager.
The ornate arrangements, the superficial pieces of clothing that covered the prize within have been set aside at the very beginning of the evening. She was stripped down to nothing – everything – just as he already was.
She has been a delight throughout this extended evening spent together. He had requested eight hours which could be extended upon the man’s marzi. However, she fell asleep in her seventh hour, post an indeterminate conversation that could raise a pious soul but only served as a faint reminder of life for the two fallen lovers.
They went on to have intercourse, of course. But they did not have sex in exchange for money. Even though David paid up front, they ended up making love. What Father Lucius may word to be ‘pure, unadulterated love’.
It was a lucky beginning, orchestrated over a two-person party of food, fancy drinks and the hash that came from the little prostitute.
How old could she have been anyways? She did say she was nineteen but she said it as if one was supposed to lie to a customer’s face. It was the same voice in which she disclosed her false name,
Julie she said she is called. Smart, urban, a college student by any guess and not too hard for David’s hash configured cells to assume Julie was short for Juliet.
She did disclose her real name before going off to sleep. Sadhana, she was ordained. ‘An ancient name’, had been David’s initial reaction, until her story gave him clues to the kingdom and to the omnipresent Sadhana, a dedicated practice of learning that defined every functional soul.
The seven hours were rare minutes of high… high, useless philosophy served on the platter of laze to be ultimately annihilated by the whims of a focused buffoon.
The seven minutes are the ill-shot commercial breaks of life that only aid your descent into muddy consumerism. There is the occasional joke to enjoy, message to receive or scantily costumed girls to feast upon, but nothing constructive ever comes off those commercials now, do they?
No spark of lightning aids David in his job. That is the purview of the logical, rational part of his brain. However, David will be lying if he claims that he has never wished to use his creative prowess to kill.
He tried hatching plans on marijuana, but it took him to a place where paranoia is a spillage of utter terror. It was weeks before he got back to his piper’s rhythm.
Drinks made him create, yes, but they would be such crass hyperbole of his suave rationale, it did not take him more than a few sessions to realise intoxication of any kind was a bane to sound planning, especially when the stakes are sky high.
Intoxication must be reserved, inside a gleaming showcase, for the days of abject surrender. Those were the days when you took a break from your active sadhana and meet its namesakes out in the corporeal world.
And a fine specimen of the corporeal world Juliet was. Innocent as a wispy autumn dawn, cold till you
shine sunlight to make it expose its coils. Like an ancient rope trick of an anonymous Indian Baba, her innocence would transform into experience and back home again, as she sleeps like a fifteen year old naked child in the loving, genuine warmth of an incestuous father.
As David finds the hands attached to his intoxicated body reach the girl’s forehead and stroke it asexually, several voices in his head began making a hammering sound nearabout the pituitary to which he had no option but to adhere to. So he took control of his body and subsequently, his hand, bringing it down to her hips.
Julie, young as she is, happens to be an early bloomer. Matching her well-formed breasts and sleeping nipples is her slender waist and shapely hip. A sexy hip it was, alluring to the point of a bloody throb in the nether regions of David’s body. David quickly crosses over to the other side of the bed so he can properly view her rear. Julie ended this wild ride with one final burst of two back to back tequila shots which shot her straight out of her senses. Now she sleeps like the drunk whore she obviously is.
David lunges at the bedside table and retrieves his cell phone. Putting it on camera mode, he begins to snap photos of the naked Sadhana. The flashlight, coupled with the mellow light of the hotel room give the images a semi-real filter. David takes his sweet time and photographs Juliet like a professional, aware of angles and play of lights on the bare, edible human skin.
It is somewhere during these precise moments that David ends up taking one decision that will change the course of his life significantly.
David decides to shoot Anita Bakshi.
The camera would be replaced by a firearm on the day of reckoning. It would have no less of an impact.
Both were deadly in hands that knew how to manipulate them to one’s will. One cleverly taken photograph could destroy an upright woman’s spine or a living legend’s veracity, even an absolute truth!
A single bullet aimed well, on the other hand, can begin a world war. A hapless world searching for The answer in all the wrong places.
The answer that is hidden in plain sight… inside. All it takes for anyone to find it is to surrender to its depths, fall back – far, as far as it can possibly pierce the veneer of the sky.
David feels a primal necessity to find himself inside the biologically opposite specimen that lies on a senseless platter in front of his thirsty eyes. David’s insides churn in a feisty turn of the screw as he feels himself getting an erection.
David places the recording device on a reading desk against his laptop, affording a clear view of the scene as David climbs back up on the bed.
He crosses over to face the back of Julie’s head, grazing his erected, transient manhood on the desert dunes of the whore’s lower back.
David goes on to pick up her left leg and without much ado, pierces her vagina with a superhuman fervour, enough to put any pornographic henchman to shame.
The passage, already wet and distended from a warm night of lovemaking, facilitates David’s unprotected device to dig for condiments. Man, ungrateful that he is, mistakes loving facilitation for bland surrender.
A man fails to surrender himself unless he receives in exchange the daskhat to lord over it all.
Performing an expression of abject dissatisfaction for the eyes of the camera, David withdraws himself from inside of Julie before immediately digging his hand back inside of her for some ready-made lubricant.
The dripping fingers quickly move two spaces to the south, cautiously entering and exiting the other hole that is not as accommodating as the northern one.
David quickly checks to see if the action produces any response from the living dead. Seeing as it doesn’t, he quickly places the tip of his penis near Julie’s arsehole and pushes with the might of putting a wooden steak through the heart of a vampire.
As the clock moves past Sadhana’s scheduled eight hours of escort service, David eventually begins to recover his money’s worth.
…To be continued…
First published in Issue #4 of CultureCult Magazine (Spring 2016)