Pratik Mainali

Pratik is a high school graduate from Trinity International College, Dilli Bazaar, Kathmandu.

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Published On: May 12, 2019 12:05 PM NPT By: Pratik Mainali

The lady of Perpetual Victimhood

The lady of Perpetual Victimhood

The lady broke into a grim penetrating laugh that made the tube lights crackle and windows rattle.  Her eyes narrowed and ears slid backwards, like an evil ill-bred cat. Her tongue shot out and covered her chin.  She bolted to her feet. She laughed again. This time the tube light broke off from one of its sockets and dangled like a pendulum. Her chest rose like a heaving sea. She tightened her muscles and her back crackled. The tubelight shattered and showered into the glossy marble floor. Kicking the heavy door open, with her big broad feet, she stormed into the streets. A reckless disregard for logic and decency were her primary qualities and she wasn’t going to abandon them now. Without of touch of shame, she scampered about the busy road, eliciting nervous twitchy glances from the general audience. Her beastly presence in the civil and gentle public had stirred the public. They masked their fear the way a terrified child gives an unfaltering glance at a monstrous dog, hoping it will wobble under their gaze and spare their lives.

She gave a sharp snort and drank in the dusty air.  Her eyes were bloodshot and penetrating.  Looking around in maddening glare she dispersed the panic ruffled crowd. She began to pinch herself incessantly. The thing is, getting perpetually over nothing requires a lot of preparation and willpower. You need to irritate yourself by inhaling dust and letting it oppress your lungs. You need to pat your cheeks in front of the mirror early in the morning and scream “Who’s the victim? Me, a 100 times. Only then do you become fortunes favorite victim. Clouds of dust puffed from her nose. She bounded with heavy breathe like a furious dog. “I am offended” she cried, “Give me your attention, I am a victim, I didn’t like what you said to me”, she waggled her tail and boomed.

There are some people, nature’s noblest heroes, who, in the most tense, bewildering moments, take the bold steps and do right. Mr Shazin was once such gentleman. He immediately unbuckled his belt and whipped it out. “Witch”, he screamed, “I demand you, stop it, now…or else I’ll lash this leather all over your loathly body. A hysterical cry rang out through shredding the golden evening silence. The man gripped his belt tightly to summon courage. He raised his hands above her and commanded “Lie on the floor and I’ll spare you”. The lady sprang into the man. He flung the belt on her back. With a whooshing sound the belt connected. The entire fiber of her frame thrilled and she collapsed immediately into the ground. The man muzzled her mouth by a handkerchief and tied her by his belt. He then lifted her behind his back and walked towards the river.

The Bagmati River was murmuring listlessly under the summer redness. Dark rottenly smelling liquid flowed over the bed of pebbles. As Mr Shazin, laden with the wretched lady, moved closer, he felt his nostrils quiver. Reminding himself of his duty he gulped painfully and marched forward. The agitate body on his shoulder was writing and twisting in pain. He gripped it firmly. As he neared the edge, putting ounce of strength behind it, he threw her into the river. He gripped his knees, and panted. SPLASH! The lady plunged into the stinking Bagmati water. A roar of applause followed, and the man looked over his shoulder. People flocked towards him and carried him in their shoulder. The entire city it seemed, to be in an uproar.  He was beaming like a hattrick scoring soccer player when he was pushed into the silent water by the powerful crowd. He plunged right into the writhing lady, and was dead immediately.

 

 

 

Victimhood, Story, ,

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