A Paranoid Perception

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Gorghy was lying down on the muddy floor of his hut; he always did so diagonally: feet towards the entrance and head near to the opposite corner. His black coloured tape recorder was lying on the woebegone short table on his left side. The handle of recorder was tied in the center with a dirty white colored cloth. It had been hours since he was playing the cassette in an endless loop; it was the only cassette he had. His hut was at the corner of a road passing by and right next to a puddle large enough to be treated as a farm by Gorghy.

secluded home, gorghy home, gorghy hut

Not far away from the hut were the quarters of the nuns associated with the church of the town. And in those quarters lived two of the nuns who had raised Gorghy after he was found abandoned four-weeks old near a dump yard. Despite of their best efforts nothing much had come out of him. He somehow managed to study only till the first seven years of his life leaving him almost illiterate and unable to express himself in front of others. Anyhow in the sleepy town there weren't many jobs to be had and he managed by cleaning the dishes and other menial jobs.

Gorghy's right hand was bloodied and moving in random incomprehensible movements on the ground. The blood was rather all around him. The deep reverberating sound of the waves was making him feel as if the world was rotating in front of him in clockwise direction and so fast that every turn left a trail behind to merge with the next rotation's images. It was all too blurred for him to make sense of it. It was a kaleidoscope of the howling seas and the fearful splattered blood. Gorghy's was a tough physique with large coarse hands and a face speckled with deep marks. He, of course, couldn't remember who his parents were. Nor could he in his mind recall being fed by a woman's naked breast and sucking it so hard that the nipples bled. Nor has he registered any event of biting a feeding hand to cause a vein to burst.

Gorghy was brought up as a Christian by the nuns but it had never mattered to him - he could never understand who god was and why he had to go to the church on Sundays. And he never did. However the cross given to him by the nuns was still around his neck. It had become old and worn out. Only two weeks ago he killed a seven-year old boy in his hut. It was evening time and the young one had lost his way back home. While passing through Gorghy's farm his left foot got stuck in the shoots and his wailing led Gorghy to him. He helped him out and took him to his hut with one hand of his tightly gripping the boy's shoulder; in fact so tight that it hurt more than getting stuck in the thorny bush. Darkness was a characteristic the people in the sleepy town were used to with the nearest major city being more than eighteen hours away. Nobody saw anything.

blood patterns

Inside the hut, Gorghy soon muffled the boy's mouth with his left hand and lifted him by his neck with his right one gripping the slender neck so hard that it collapsed like heated butter. The nail of his right hand thumb had dug deep enough into the skin on the front side of the neck to cause bleeding. The suppressed screams never made their way to Gorghy's ears and with few last frantic kicks life took another form. He then threw the body in the middle of his one-room hut and proceeded to collect his knife kept at the window. He stabbed the body endlessly till the blood spurts from the neck, thighs and ankles had painted his hut in a ephemeral dark red colour. There was a deep gash in the front side of the neck. Gorghy lay on top of the body and chewed on the lower lip and then with one sudden jerk of his jaw tore it off. His cross was embedded in the gash of the neck - half inside. The sound of the waves had drained his emotions. Nobody ever came to Gorghy's hut as he was a recluse with apparently no sense of humour, suffering or joy. The boy's body disappeared never to be found again.

Gorghy's hands were bloody today as well and their incessant random movements had created beautiful patterns with the blood of the four puppies who lay slain in a dump in the hut's corner. He had spotted them at the local vegetable market and had lured them by his innocent "chsk, chsk" calls. With these four it wasn't difficult at all - they were all too young. He put them to sleep in the same way: his left hand closing the mouths lest they bark and his right closing in on their tender furry necks. He laid all of them for forming a rough circle. He had sliced their tails off with the knife and burnt them over the kerosene flame. Then he cut the tongues out of each of them. One by one he took them inside his mouth and over his tongue - feeling the softness, the texture and tasting the dripping blood. And a few bites later he was done. The sound of the waves still drowning him in his collapsible dreamy trance. After a while he lit the kerosene flame again and put his left forearm over it - reducing the distance every few minutes. His skin was red and then turned into blue and finally black It started peeling off and the scalding continued till it engulfed his forearm completely. The skin had lumped together in places and appeared frothy and slimy with a red underneath. He held the knife in his right hand and started sliding it against his right ear. Blood oozed out, trickling over to his cheek and neck and then his shoulder and chest. The cutting off doesn't take long with the final requiem in the form of the sound of the knife rubbing against his Incus and Ossicle. He put his ear in between the four dead puppies and bathed in his own blood.

 dead kittens, dead cat

Next day he went to the nearby nursery covered in heaps of clothes and bought a dozen lilies and planted them in the farm. He takes care of them - watering them everyday, putting them under the shade during hot afternoons and protecting them from dogs, cows and buffaloes. The only equation Gorghy has ever known is of love. And he does bring the lilies in his hut sometimes ... sometimes ...


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