9 months ago
Pratik is a high school graduate from Trinity International College, Dilli Bazaar, Kathmandu.
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The lady sat on the chair morosely, her eyes were sunken, her face was drawn and haggard, her countenance was tense, and her brows were wrinkled with rage. She crossed her legs then uncrossed it. She tightened her lips and gave the wall a penetrating glance. She couldn’t understand the darn thing. The boy simply didn’t get it. She was fortunes favorite victim, nature’s restless offspring. She could get away with punching a civil person and uttering streams of obscenities without future privations. She was victim, dash it. She belonged to the gleaming glorious victim group. Upset her delicate feelings then feel the wrath of "The victims club". Throngs of male feminists and blue haired, pierced eared fellow victims run to her aid with pumped fists and determined jaws.The rules that applied to the general public didn’t apply to her. He was going to find it out very soon. She clenched her fists, and trembled all over with restrained rage. Then she brooded in tense silence. It was written all over her face. The purple flush of the outraged victim deepened in her cheeks. If one were to look at her carefully one would observe an expression of majestic victimization. The urge to beat her chest and scream” I am victim hear me” grew in her. And if anyone couldn’t read her mind, they had to face her wrath. If victim-hood was a currency she was the wealthiest person on earth.
The world as we know it revolved around her bally feelings. She worshiped the feelings god with utmost reverence. And if someone didn’t comply with it, she would dash off to the police station and complain until strict actions were administered. If one were to glance at her they wouldn’t have an inkling of her secret talents. She had mastered the art of offence taking. She had learned early in life, if something doesn’t go your way go to the principles room, and utter a penetrating and shrill cry until the glasses cracked and the man kowtowed to her wants. And it had worked bally well for her. She had altered the will of many a men with this secret talent. The idea that one could get away with outrageous rudeness while claiming victimhood shocked her. I would be lying to the reader if I said she developed this art on her own. Her convictions only deepened once she met the marvelous male feminist. The man nodded with submissive approval to her every word. He whispered secrets of the art of victimhood into her ears. He introduced her to a world of professional victims and she felt for the first time at home. The art of victimhood was more widespread diverse and profitable than she could had imagined in her wildest dreams. She immersed herself on this subject and was writing a book title”How to be a successful victim” when the very foundations of her world was stirred by violent words.
She received an anonymous letter which read as follows.
You rotten, grotesque, slag,. Why don’t you jolly well hand yourself with your tie? You make me want to vomit up. I wish your blood literally boiled and your eyes rolled off your socket. Your whole body melted into a heap of stinking brown wax. Oh how I wish you’d choke on your own spit, and die a painful disgusting death. Go blast off your sniveling ligger.
The tone and the sheer vulgarity of the letter had unstrung her. Her heart was barely contained in the confines of her ribs. The pounding rose in her ears. Let me find him. Then I’ll show him. She blew hot breathe of contempt from her mouth. Top of Form.
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