The Third Blade

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
When a psychotic teen feels dissatisfied with just asking his girlfriend to cut off contact with two men in her life, he decides to take one step further with the third man.

Submitted: March 08, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 08, 2017

A A A

A A A


All around the mulberry bush
The monkey chased the weasel
The monkey thought 'twas all in fun
Pop! Goes the Weasel!

A penny for a spool of thread
A penny for a needle,
That's the way the money goes,
Pop! Goes the weasel.

I lie awake, staring at the ceiling fan, counting its blades. It’s a three bladed fan. Perfect. “Anand. Shubham. Shubham. Anand.” I mouth the words as if they’re a vile infection that threatens to reach my lungs, before the cigarettes I smoke can even begin to show their symptoms.

But what is this nagging feeling? The two blades of the ceiling fan align perfectly with the twisted, flat, lifeless guts of the two people, but who’s the third? I must have a third. Could I perhaps invent a third and pretend to eliminate him? Could I perhaps mould an online identity of a third and play along just so that one blade can be counted?

But no, I have counted the blades already. Three. And my mind screamed out the words “perfect” almost simultaneously as I finish counting the third blade. So I must be missing something out here. There must be a third; a weasel, the vile, loathsome creature infesting the perfect life of my beloved Bipasha. I must weed out filth because it is my job to protect her.

And then it dawns, as I stare out my eighth floor window to witness the rising sun across the horizon, the third entity. It was there all along, staring me right in the face and I never realized it. I immediately place the mild gut wrenching feeling I had yesterday when he said he would go over to her house a lot these days. To pass exams, he said. To win grades, he said. But I know it’s her heart he plans on winning. I always know. And each time after the tiring spat that follows the weeding of yet another piece of filth, she thanks me. I pretend to ignore the hurt in her eyes, for I know it’s her way of tormenting me. A feeble attempt at getting back at me, you see.

I believe in myself. I know my feelings are precise and that she will see the full effect soon enough and that “thank you” will be rewarded with genuine affection, and not just a wry smile and empty eyes. Makes me want to gouge out those kohl smeared eyes.

What am I thinking? She is my life, my love. No, the filth is getting to my head. And I begin counting again, mouthing each name like the lingering taste of fever in my mouth. “Anand. Shubham.” I pause for a minute as I stare at the third blade. It’s cleaner than the other two. It is amusing to see it struggling to appear cleaner. A crooked smile creeps across my lips; that soon comes out as a raspy laugh. Trust me, I didn’t mean to laugh. And so I resume. “Arav,” the third blade.

***

“Hello?” I hear the weasel-like voice over the phone line. It appears to be tainted with sleep. No, it’s guilt.

“Where are you?” I ask him placidly, not letting the rage creep into my voice.

“Almost there. You order the teas. I’ll be there in a bit.” Click.

The plan has already been set to motion. Anand and Shubham didn’t satisfy me as much as they should have. Yes, I got her to stop speaking to them. But it doesn’t matter. They still crawl around in their miserable existence, spewing feelings in her that are not supposed to exist. Regret over losing them, for instance.

But I’ll make sure that is not repeated this time. The weeding process will be complete.

He arrives with his familiar bag and his familiar gait and his familiar beard. An instant surge of rage consumes me. I hand him his tea, focusing on my hand to keep them from shaking. But it does.

Did he notice the slight tremor? The slight anomaly in my patterned, rehearsed behavior? No he can’t. He is not that smart, no one is. So I watch him take the cup from my hand.

He goes on to talk about what he came for. The pest sits there and dictates how I should treat my girlfriend. I control a sudden urge to laugh maniacally. Because that would make me seem something I’m not - mad. I let him speak, looking at him with made-up interest. But I observe him, really. And I plan. I always do.

And when it ends, it’s all crystal clear in my head. We rise from the wooden bench and I take the final step in my arrangement. “Why don’t we go over to my place and talk?”

***

I take up my phone and type a message in our WhatsApp group. “Tomorrow. My place. Lunch. Everyone be there on time! J”

Two minutes pass and I get the desired reply in the group. “Arav: I can’t stay friends with you anymore, Bipasha. I did not expect this from you. Go to hell for all I care and do not try to contact me ever.”

I smile.

The group is thereafter filled with questions first, confusion and chaos. Then it moves on to anger and finally resentment. He removes himself from the group without writing another line and blocks Bipasha, I find out from her. I empathize with her and soothe her. I give her my love and my support. And soon it’s time for everyone to come over.

I arrange my place as best as I can. My mother has gone out and she won’t be back till late evening. Bipasha’s friends come in one by one. First Aradhana, then Ishika. Then Shehan and finally my sweetheart.

She hugs me. “Thank you, Sarthak.” She smiles genuinely at me, looking at me with those kohl smeared eyes I once thought of gouging out. I feel guilty. But I knew it, I always knew she would thank me one day and it would be genuine. She knows I did the right thing. Not yet.

I serve them my own cooking. They love it. I made rice and meat for them and they all appreciate my skills and look forward to more. Shehan eats like a horse and finishes up half the meat. For protein, he says. The rest the others eat. Arav is not there and I’m glad. I only have eyes for my girlfriend.

The rest of them leave and we see them out. I call Bipasha to my room. We kiss passionately before we begin talking. And when she talks, it’s only about what a cunt Arav is for doing what he did. I empathize with her, basking in her genuine affection and gratefulness for my support. I knew I could make her happy. This was the right thing to do.

Behind her, under the blanket, I see his phone peeping out. I hide it quickly under the pillow, lest she should see, the WhatsApp group chat window still open in it. This time was perfect. This time was complete. No more will he be able to crawl around my girlfriend with his filthy limbs and halfwit mind. I made sure of that when he was here yesterday. And then he was on my floor the next moment, followed by the cooking pot, and then in their stomachs. And finally bits of him stored on the plate beside her, smelling like heaven, for I’m great at cooking like so many other things.

I look up at the ceiling fan blade and smile.

All around the mulberry bush
The monkey chased the weasel
The monkey thought 'twas all in fun
Pop! Goes the Weasel!

A penny for a spool of thread
A penny for a needle,
That's the way the money goes,
Pop! Goes the weasel.

“More meat, Guria?” I offer her.

“Yes, thanks.” She smiles.

-THE END-


© Copyright 2020 xyrina. All rights reserved.

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