My mate is a vampire – the one without those fangs; she’s reluctant of giving up on me. She likes me. She dislikes me. She’s complicated. Her whimsical acts of terror are deliberate showcases of her eyes. It’s true about her: You may like her; you may dislike her; but you cannot ignore her. It’s been quite a while since I’m stuck with her. My life is augmented to be a part of her – whether I like it that way: preposterous and precarious or well, I have no choice. All of my contingency plans to get rid of her bigoted obsessions, have drowned. Bear with me – it started off very calmly. Calmly, as if there’s an awkward silence before a storm. It all began silent and ended silent.
We first met at a coffee house. She was the most beautiful waitress there. Blonde hair, illuminating smile and a cold heart – she had it all, profusely enough to flaunt people around her. My friends were, by the way, regular people there. I was a loner. I was a first timer. She came to us and had a peek through our faces, one by one, and head by head. I was the last one to get noticed. She scanned me, recollected her vision as if she was jotting down something with her eyes into her brain circuitry, and trotted like a gazelle towards the counter, like a traffic light: you look at it, but do not get along. I was pissed off. I hated the way I was precipitated. She didn’t come to serve. Maybe we are not her type. We jumped off onto our plates as we were hungry enough to weigh out decency over biology. I consolidated my thoughts and walked over to the store for the payment. “How much?” I asked. The cashier replied, “Its 550.” She was there. She looked at me with a surgical smile. I blushed. But, I thought, why would she do that? She ignored me like moments ago. I knew she was complicated. I gave a thousand rupee note and left a note. It would read: “Seeing is believing. You are beautiful.” I gestured to the cashier towards her. The cashier abruptly gave her the note, the papered one, as if it was a system there, an indoctrinated axiom understood well enough by everyone there, of course, except us. She saw it, forgot to smile and moved her hand back and forth crumbling the paper only to hand it over towards me. The cashier look at both of us. That was surely an intrusion. It was now clear that I wanted her attention. I wanted trouble. And wishes do come true. I left. We left. I unfolded the crumbled paper with extreme precaution as if it was a torn million dollar bill. She had her phone number in there. She bent over to see us leaving, maybe she had more customers coming in: they were short of sitting tables. Or else, what could it be? Maybe she’s already missing me, I guess. We then met. She came late. She mentioned some undone job she was stuck with. I was happy. We felt in love? But, each time we met, she would apprehend, “I will dissolve you if you leave me.” This was the tenth time she had told me. Weird. The more often she used to bring these words to our date, the more her face would display erratic muscular subtleties. “I now have you. If you leave me, I will dissolve you”, she yelled each time. I romantically would say, “I am ready to be dissolved my love!” These were one of our first “love exchanges”.
Her home was to the east of the vicinity we used to come close in. But, she would always appear from the west. “DADT”, she would throw at me each time. I had, by then known its - Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. But, I had to reply her about everything. I had told her that I loved her literally millions of time, it was appearing as if they were mantras chanted, those that merely made sense. She used to grab my hand tight and would itch my hand with hers, in a way, back and forth and nice and warm, distinctively a gesture of cutting through steel with a knife. I had to talk over the phone for hours, with her. Then, I would sleep over the conversation just to slip over the conversation. She would drop dead her phone down, only for me to discover that she’d call after a minute. One night she came to my house – at a distance couple of feet, on the front yard. She gestured heavily through silent lip shouting: “Do you miss me?” she would tell. It’s telling and not asking, I can tell. She didn’t move an inch until I repeat the same yes over and over again, for consecutively throughout every days of the entire two year period. She was obsessed. With me. She had lost her rationality. I was up with a psycho. I was stuck, nowhere to go. I had no love left in me. I wanted to get rid of her. But, I was scared. What if she kills herself? No. What if she kills me? I started to think of ways which would work its way away from her. One morning she came early to me. She moaned, “Marry me.” I was left speechless. She now not just cared, but she dared. I feebly said, Wh…what? Wh….why so early? We’ve got time. I…I need time. My parents have quite an expec….” No sooner had I finished the last sentence, she ran with a knife towards me. I pushed her to the side. She fell down with her knife. Meanwhile, she had already started unrolling a plastic bottle full of beans like pills which she popped devouring into her mouth yelling, “Die you bitch. What use are you?” I got hold of the bottles and threw them away instantly. I hit her at the back of the neck, caught by her belly and tried to un-pop those meds out from where they would go: I needed to get rid of her by not letting her get rid of me. She threw up. All those small dots soaked in emetic juices stinking like hell, buzzed out. That was a projectile vomit. I carried her to a hospital. I waited up. I felt embarrassed. I felt proud? No person had pulled off such an attempt to finish oneself just to feel me. I felt special and trapped at the same time. How could I leave her? How could I dump her? I was in a storm - a storm which was not moving in any directions but hovering over my head. I gave in. I’d compromise.
I decided to marry her. I think my love would bring her back. She was lonely and lost, loose and looney. Looney because of lack of love. I had decided. I walked over to her room. My chest leaped up as she opened her eyes. She would look at me with love. “I will make things happen right. I will dissolve you! Do not leave me.” She kept weeping. She wrapped me around as if I was something for her to eat. Yet again, I felt cold. We decided to get married. She had all the necessities arranged. She urged me to leave it on her. “I will do justice”, she added - “to our love”. Everything was now going to be happily ever after. We wanted to become happily married ones. I wanted to tell her that I loved her too. It occurred to me that I had never told so, since we met. Actually, she had never given me a chance to do so. Or I had never wondered that I should? Should have I? Anyway, it was the wedding day, finally. We were dressed like heavenly angels. We ate food. We clapped to ourselves. We laughed. And we ended the extravagantly lonely wedding. Nobody was invited. She insisted me on this. I agreed as If I was going to agree everything ever after. She kissed me. I kissed her. And now, it was our wedding night. I did not like surprises. So, I went for protection. It was about 10 in the night. The nearest chemical store was open. They’d serve meds and some more lab stuff. I knew the man. He smiled at me and congratulated me. He handed over the thing to me. I blushed. He added, “She was here too.” I was surprised. “You mean who?’ I questioned. “Your wife – she was here. Are you cleaning tonight? I mean she bought a heck lot of acidic supplies. She was saying something about dissolving or what!” Blood rested on my face. It ran as if it was being chased. I nearly passed out. My feet trembled. She was going to dissolve me tonight.
“It’s a good script”, the producer explicated. I had taken an hour to read the script of the movie that I had written to Mr. Smith, the director whom my meeting was arranged with. He liked it. It was his taste – horror and suspense. He pointed out some flaws, as he always does. He is anecdotal. There’s no a priori argument that I can win with Mr. Smith. I left his house. I usually do it immediately enough not to wait till he whines about the last issues we had and the heck of an effort that was required to fix it through – which did not end up well.
I by now, am a confident writer to begin with it. I write movie scripts. I am very lucky to have worked with such a renowned director. He even gave me an opportunity to name this movie. When I reached home, I looked up in the internet to juggle through a series of titles for my movie script. “The betrayal”, “Wounded her”, “The weird mate”, “The obsessed mate” and the next and next and the other – I was going through them all. I uttered each of these words restlessly and fumbled deliberately over their pronunciations. I spoke and uttered and shouted out the names explicably. Then, I ended up with one. I named it, “Mate’s Obsession”. Then, I was silent.