IS IT MY RESTLESS DESIRE OR BLOODY OBSESSION !

If you can control the want, it's called desire and if you let the want control you, it becomes an obsession.

It's all around me. It's dripping, gushing and oh it smells so sweet. It's metallic, tangy flavour, I can almost taste it in the air. Sujoy is staring at me from the floor, silent. I like it that way. Quietness suits him. He has so much to say, always. I had never noticed the golden specks in his brown eyes but they look so pretty. The hollowness creeping in his eyes is beautiful but not as beautiful as a pomegranate battlefield, that surrounds me. Human bodies are so fascinating, so passionate. Just a little incision and it would effuse it. It is the colour of Phoenix and every time I make a cut, I feel reborn".

I am a huge fan of old Chinese movies. In one of those movies, the Knight was executed by Lingchi.

Death by a thousand cuts.

As a young girl, Lingchi fascinated me. But as always, fiction exaggerates. My first boyfriend; crooked nose, Ayaan, didn't even survive the first six. He made me realise that while a knife can cut through the human skin as smoothly as it cuts through a doll's, a doll can survive a thousand cuts but humans cannot. It was still glorious, though. His carotid artery bursts and the shade of country wine; i.e. blood is all on my face, on my hands. It was everywhere. The memory still makes me grin.

But I have come a long way now. Rohan, the boy before Sujoy, was alive till a two-hundred and fifty incisions. I might have to be a little precise, but I think I can manage a three hundred with this one.

What's the noise? No, no, tears are amalgamating with the red, diluting it. Ugghh!!, Sujoy is ruining my art. Seems like it's time for another dose of Alprazolam. It keeps my performers compliant and slows down their blood flow, giving me more time. You see, I'm a bit of a perfectionist, being a Virgo. And I'm trying to perfect Lingchi. It might take some time, but I will create my magnum opus. You might say that this is my obsession.

I have made a hundred and two meticulous incisions from his face to his ribs. I need to be extremely methodical otherwise he will die and dying means game over. No more cuts, no more cherry chapstick on my lips. I can see Sujoy drooping. Perfect. While the drug makes him extremely lethargic, he can still perceive the pain.

Time to work on his arms.

I can feel the excitement building up. I'm no maniac but this definitely makes me chuckle, I take his hand in mine. His dark arms will soon be a watermelon ice pop, like a parting line of a bride's hair. I sterilize the skin on his right shoulder and arm. I then pick up scalpel #16 from the surgical kit, I was using scalpel #11 but my cuts needed to be deeper now. I'm slowly moving horizontally along an invisible line at the top of his bicep. As I tear his skin, I see my teen days of womanhood, feels like menarche is spilling out. Sighing deeply, I relish the moment. It seems like the pain had cleared away a bit of the haze for Sujoy. I can feel him staring at me with his glassy eyes. With great difficulty, I take my eyes off and smile at him. Oh!! hair looks beautiful dyed in the last tint, alike menopause. He doesn't smile back. How rude !! Can he not feel the splendour of the moment?

My phone buzzed. The notification says it's a dead body on 4th Avenue. I close my eyes and I turn around. And when I open them, the world around me shifts rather alters. I see myself in the iron-rimmed mirror reflecting the sun's gleam. It's no more, only dusty brown. Uggh, I hate dust. It aggravates my asthma but it's time to get to work. 

Apparently, the man was killed by a toothpick. My body is thrumming with the desire for know-how. You see, I am a forensic criminologist. Our slogan is, "can't run fast enough to be a serial killer so I'll just help the police catch them".

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi says the mirror behind me. They say the mirror removes your inhibitions and shows you, your true self but in my experience, I have learnt sometimes, that what really defines a person is not what they do but what they chose not to.