27.5 C
Bangalore
December 8, 2018
Untitled

Undead Bride

I trace the origin of every noise as the night falls deeper and deeper into absolute darkness. Staying awake is equally frightening than falling asleep into the temporary world of dead. I prefer pitch darkness lest I see some forms or figures clad in snowy white awaiting the chance to drink my soul. While trying to fight the not so explainable anxiety bordering panic, I foolishly remind myself, ‘No matter what, remember not to invite anyone in or get invited either into any obviously haunted looking castle. 

Oh Silly, Vampires don’t exist. Even if they do, isn’t it rather appealing than appalling to become the undead bride? The undead bride looks always beautiful with the privilege of having anyone she wants, even as dinner. She can sleep as much and do not have to wake up at the daybreak to break her back. The dark alleys of my thoughts are becoming more scary and maudlin. My perilous ramblings sway between romanticism and villainy.

The wind brings the music from a faraway flute. Someone nearby is toying with melody. Neither does it sound like wedding bells nor a death march. It’s something else; like an allure to an empty graveyard. Before I could figure out and compartmentalize the music in my grey matter, my thoughts gets distracted by the midnight howling of the street dogs. My vague mind quickly consults the Dracula, the authoritative book on this matter. Sigh, he is nearby and I am sure my blood would be sweet. Either I submit or chop all the garlic in the kitchen.

Damn these superstitions, girl! It could just be mating calls. I wish I knew the language of animals and get a solid basis to drive myself mad. I don’t want to know why your bark, sleepless dogs, but just tell me why you howl! What makes the whole neighborhood go multiple decibels quieter when the dogs starts the howls scaring the wits out of our brains?

Logic tries to cut through swiftly but alas, something allsl down in the living room accompanied by a rolling sound. I paralyze. This is how I will die when danger flirts with me. Instead of running, I will stand still, hypnotized, lips parted, with no scream coming out, welcoming the danger closer and closer until it wraps its tentacle around my neck.

My imagination is no longer my creative twin sister but the jealous wrecker of my sleep. The clock strikes thrice. 3 AM is always scary for me. Didn’t Jesus die at 3 AM? Does that make it a holy hour or the hour the devils leap out and dance on the soul of mankind? The symbol of cross elevates in my mind as a weapon for this forthcoming danger.

Am I hunted by the Count Dracula or Insomnia? While weighing my options, disturbed sleep slowly creeps in along with unpleasant dreams that borders the line of nightmare. Before I totally slip into my personal darkness, the last lucid thought dashes across my mind.

Nights, when you are away, are gothic for me.

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