Tale Share: Purely Fictional by Arundhati

Have you ever tried to bring a world from your imagination into the real world? Or tried to capture the world around you in a canvas of words, in a manner so perfect that even blind could see? It has been my lifelong dream to be able to do that. Arundhati Bhardwaj, a friend of mine by happen-stance and a film-maker-in-making by trade (yes, I wrote it that way deliberately, shush), managed to do just the same with her small anecdotal fiction pieces. I am impressed, and it's time for you to be the same. Read on.

* * *

I loved being grey. The mélange of black and white. A tinge of blue now and then, when it was a lonely weekend and there were clouds in the sky.

Then I met him. I saw him and my heart gurgled. Something happened then. I stopped being grey. Not that I stopped being it altogether, I was, merely less of it.

The day we kissed I was red.

The day he said he loved me I was Azure.

The day we fought I was bitter lime.

Then we fought again. I turned green. Soon enough. The green started to stay and it turned dark inside me. It hardened like rocks under the folds of my brain. All that was left in me now, was black.

We sat down and he told me he wanted to leave.

Ashen tears trickled down my cheeks. They never stopped. Mixing and churning in the darkness of noir. Eventually, they turned grey. Not always grey though, They had a tinge of blue now and then, when it was a lonely weekend and there were clouds in the sky.

* * *

She moved the last pawn she had left on the board, knowing that her mother was going to move her queen to win. As she picked up the pawn, a chuckle left her mother's lips.

"I thought you were better than this."

She looked up, tears in her eyes, it was 10 years ago. Her wrists bandaged, her mother's disappointed look, with a phone in her hand. She took one look at her, a small chuckle left her lips.

"I really thought you were better than this."

* * *

When I hear my mother screaming. I shut down. I notice the rage in her eyes, the frustration between her teeth. I am not scared. I say I don't care. Maybe because I do not. I just shut down.

I see her fists flying in the air, she throws things around. I say to myself don't care. Because this doesn't scare me. We have been through so many of these, I feel normal around it.

But.

When I hear my mother cry. I panic. I notice the glistening of tears around the corners of her eyes, the sadness between her lips. I am scared. I say I don't care. Maybe because I do too much. I just shut down.

I see her fists flying in the air, she throws things around. I say to her - I don't care. Because this scares me. We have been through so many of these. I feel normal around it and that scares me.