“did you go to your hometown?”, the guy asked smiling.

“i couldn’t. was caught up with work”, he replied briefly.

the guy went about his work for he had several houses to go to make his delivery for the day.
that question lingered in his thoughts for days. which home was he talking about? he obviously had him confused for someone else. he didn’t have a home to go back to. he didn’t have a sense of home. no belonging, no place to go to. he was a stranger who was forced to confirm. he had familiar faces around him all the time – some accepted while some forced due to obligations. he had familial bonds to force feed, but he didn’t have a home.

days passed and yet that troublesome feeling didn’t subside. the man had poked a tender spot and now it just wouldn’t stop bothering. he felt haunted by voices that wouldn’t stop pelting at his wall of blind third eye. he wanted to go away to a place where familiarity and he were not together. he wanted his memories to be erased. whatever little estranged relationship he had with the world, he wanted it to disappear. he wanted to be bleached.

he stood outside the house at night probably for the last time. it was a cold bitch of a winter night - deserted streets, foggy lights and a cold air. he did circles in squares secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of her. maybe she wasn’t at home or she was sleeping. it wasn’t late and he could see lights up in the house but no sign of her. he looked around and saw houses in a similar state – well-lit and no movement inside. looking deeper, each housed a story that no one knew just like hers – only milder and shallower. the home that they called it was an embodiment of bodies. the home that he was looking at was an embodiment of a troubling memory and an evanescent spirit – painted by her brush in hues of a spirit that howled for years and haunted the nights. but, it wasn’t her home, it was her house. minutes passed and yet there was no one in sight. the fog was making it difficult for him to breathe and he was choking on his smoke. ironic it was – he had nothing to do and yet out of time. he was gripped with the thought of barging in and meeting her, may be drop a greeting, hug or shake hands, but his memories kept eluding him. he wasn’t certain whether she lived here or not. he wasn’t certain where she was. he wasn’t certain what he could or should say to her. there used to be a school around somewhere, but they had shut it down long time ago.

he lingered for a while trying to soak in the experience of his memories that foamed and burst shortly like bubbles. it was years ago when he was here - her presence, her touch, her incoherent words and her besotted demeanour – all bubbles. and then he remembered, that was the night he bled.

this is where it starts. this is where it will end.

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