Ain't Nobody Reads Them Classics

Fiction


Classics

 

              Today, I need to only accomplish one task - to kill myself. I truly regard myself to have a reason to exist, but I seem to have found none. My earlier years were so full of hope, but as I ran out of time, also, I was deficit of hope. Ever since I was little my mother would tell me that I would achieve true greatness like none other before. That belief has led me on till yesterday. The thought of taking my life was held in because I still had another reason to stay. Now, neither do I have the belief nor the reason. It started with a betrayal, the book I had been pouring my heart and soul in for twelve long years, but then my masterpiece was taken, or lost. I never knew why. I try to think of the decisions I’ve made over the sentence. I was miserable, all I knew is now not requisite. Now, they require a fresh set of skills and a bracing face for everything, Fuck that. People with children had money sent, many had money saved or still working. I had none, my bread came from the occasional play in the theatre and my living is from paycheck to paycheck. So, I was bound to make a decision, about ten years ago, to move on to any other knock. Since people are bitches and so is opportunity, it only knocked once, but I was asleep. As I woke up the next morning, I see two calls in my cracked phone. One from my therapist and one ‘Unknown’.

I called back but no one would pick up, and well why would they. It was ‘o’ five hundred and thirty in the morn. Before lunch, I got another call from an unknown number, but this time I said hello and someone spoke back. It was a call from a well-known director’s assistant. She spoke softly. Sir, may I inquire the reason for receiving a call this morning. I told her that I had received a call yesterday but I was busy at work. She was calling to inform me of the position for Head Writer in their offices. I sat up straight and nervous, but I was happy. That there is something I’m good at and I’ve been discovered, but before I had the best moment of my life, she spoke again. “But, unfortunately the position is taken now, sorry for the inconvenience, good evening.” That was it. I slapped my face harder than I could and kicked myself. Nobody is to blame, but me. I was sleeping like a miserable old fool, even worse, people don’t even pity me. Then I said out loud, “I’m going to make some changes around here”, and the first was my life.

Why not tell the story of my life, all I had to overcome, every hurdle and every river I had to cross to be nothing in life. Someone needs to tell everyone that sometimes all you can do I try, and if everything is done right, sometimes you’ll lose. In black and white, I penned my life, of the perfect childhood and the least luck in a life filled with land mines. Every step I took, any direction, it blew up and I’m the only one there whilst the people I know don’t pause and look. I finish the book, a beauty of seven hundred pages which took me twelve years to complete. Over this time, I only waited for the moment when I would announce my book getting published. I would practice in the shower of how I would say ‘suck it, eat that!’, and walk away. But instead, I had to spit on myself. The book - I lost it or someone stole it or a raccoon ate it - either way, I am to blame, as always. Then I got drunk, and after that very drunk and slept for a while. I wake, not in knowledge of the day or the time. From all around, I heard people in my mind say I’m a disappointment. The walls creeping in on me, I get lonelier and scared by the second and all I could do was sob. My life is useless, I’m a liability and I need to end my life. Then I write the alternate ending of me taking my life before I truly do. I place it on the table and cut myself in the hand, blood gushing and splattered everywhere. I would have wanted a peaceful way for my life to end but for one last time I’d like to feel something. A feeling that would make me want to live. But that proved useless, I still wanted to die. Before I did die, I used all my strength to write two more words, Fuck me.

 

Psycho writer

 

Weeks later, foul odour and taste spread the place till the neighbours. The police kicked in my door to find me lying in my filthy blood. Calls from my publisher, voicemails of my book being approved to be published. Apparently, I left the main and only copy of the book at their office and people loved it. A few years later, my life became a must read but I haven’t read it yet. Not many have. They say it’s a classic but none have truly read the book. They speak of it, they discuss it, but barely anyone has read the book. Then I remembered myself, being postiche of my knowledge, saying I’ve read all the classics and know much about them. But I always lied, now, they do too. I realised classics are just books people praise but don’t read, ever. 

I then laughed, and slept like a baby, because I’m now reborn as one.

Sketch By: Kislaya Sinha


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