<b>Death is the colour of empty skies</b>
<i>For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.</i>
~ Ben Johnson.
Sarthak died tonight. 1.06 am. N,N′-dimethyl-4,4′-bipyridinium dichloride. Methyl viologen. Paraquat. At first, he felt a burning sensation in his chest. This persisted for an hour or two. Then came the pain. As if somebody were ripping apart his lungs into shreds. It was a slow, painful death. By the time he was brought to the hospital, it was far too late. His parents rushed in to claim his corpse. “Suicide,” the doctor sighed.
Indeed it was. They stared at each other, silent, knowing not what to say. What, if anything at all, were they entitled to say? For it all began back a year ago, when they suddenly decided things were not working out between them. Things weren’t working out at all. The skies that had once been the pink of dawn, abound in love and life, were graying now, and empty. Death is the colour of empty skies; what else could they do but seek out separation?
It had been raining all night that night – the weather cold, bleak and bitter. The two had stood at the hallway like faint shadows. Silent, just like today, until one of them spoke.
“So – ?”
The latter, not knowing what else to reply, had gone on conceding on every point the former made. Until the discussion converged to the point of Sarthak, that is. On the question of Sarthak, neither would concede, obviously. What parent gives up their thirteen year old son? So they dragged the matter to court. Nobody asked Sarthak what he wanted. Not even once.
Tonight, Sarthak is dead. He did not flutter. He did not make a sound. None of the two speak tonight. For now there is no point of conflict – now the petition will be withdrawn from court, and the marriage terminated by mutual agreement.
Sarthak Das.
<b>Author Notes</b>
The names of the central character and the author of the story being identical is an unfortunate coincidence readers are requested to overlook.
#theabsurdist #microfiction #review
<i>For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.</i>
~ Ben Johnson.
Sarthak died tonight. 1.06 am. N,N′-dimethyl-4,4′-bipyridinium dichloride. Methyl viologen. Paraquat. At first, he felt a burning sensation in his chest. This persisted for an hour or two. Then came the pain. As if somebody were ripping apart his lungs into shreds. It was a slow, painful death. By the time he was brought to the hospital, it was far too late. His parents rushed in to claim his corpse. “Suicide,” the doctor sighed.
Indeed it was. They stared at each other, silent, knowing not what to say. What, if anything at all, were they entitled to say? For it all began back a year ago, when they suddenly decided things were not working out between them. Things weren’t working out at all. The skies that had once been the pink of dawn, abound in love and life, were graying now, and empty. Death is the colour of empty skies; what else could they do but seek out separation?
It had been raining all night that night – the weather cold, bleak and bitter. The two had stood at the hallway like faint shadows. Silent, just like today, until one of them spoke.
“So – ?”
The latter, not knowing what else to reply, had gone on conceding on every point the former made. Until the discussion converged to the point of Sarthak, that is. On the question of Sarthak, neither would concede, obviously. What parent gives up their thirteen year old son? So they dragged the matter to court. Nobody asked Sarthak what he wanted. Not even once.
Tonight, Sarthak is dead. He did not flutter. He did not make a sound. None of the two speak tonight. For now there is no point of conflict – now the petition will be withdrawn from court, and the marriage terminated by mutual agreement.
Sarthak Das.
<b>Author Notes</b>
The names of the central character and the author of the story being identical is an unfortunate coincidence readers are requested to overlook.
#theabsurdist #microfiction #review
Death is the colour of empty skies.
"For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
As what he loves may never like too much."
~ Ben Johnson.
Sarthak died tonight. 1.06 am. N,N′-dimethyl-4,4′-bipyridinium dichloride. Methyl viologen. Paraquat. At first, he felt a burning sensation in his chest. This persisted for an hour or two. Then came the pain. As if somebody were ripping apart his lungs into shreds. It was a slow, painful death. By the time he was brought to the hospital, it was far too late. His parents rushed in to claim his corpse. “Suicide,” the doctor sighed.
Indeed it was. They stared at each other, silent, knowing not what to say. What, if anything at all, were they entitled to say? For it all began back a year ago, when they suddenly decided things were not working out between them. Things weren’t working out at all. The skies that had once been the pink of dawn, abound in love and life, were graying now, and empty. Death is the colour of empty skies; what else could they do but seek out separation?
It had been raining all night that night – the weather cold, bleak and bitter. The two had stood at the hallway like faint shadows. Silent, just like today, until one of them spoke.
“So – ?”
The latter, not knowing what else to reply, had gone on conceding on every point the former made. Until the discussion converged to the point of Sarthak, that is. On the question of Sarthak, neither would concede, obviously. What parent gives up their thirteen year old son? So they dragged the matter to court. Nobody asked Sarthak what he wanted. Not even once.
Tonight, Sarthak is dead. He did not flutter. He did not make a sound. None of the two speak tonight. For now there is no point of conflict – now the petition will be withdrawn from court, and the marriage terminated by mutual agreement.
SARTHAK DAS.
Author Notes
The names of the central character and the author of the story being identical is an unfortunate coincidence readers are requested to overlook.
#sarthakdas #microfiction #review
"For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
As what he loves may never like too much."
~ Ben Johnson.
Sarthak died tonight. 1.06 am. N,N′-dimethyl-4,4′-bipyridinium dichloride. Methyl viologen. Paraquat. At first, he felt a burning sensation in his chest. This persisted for an hour or two. Then came the pain. As if somebody were ripping apart his lungs into shreds. It was a slow, painful death. By the time he was brought to the hospital, it was far too late. His parents rushed in to claim his corpse. “Suicide,” the doctor sighed.
Indeed it was. They stared at each other, silent, knowing not what to say. What, if anything at all, were they entitled to say? For it all began back a year ago, when they suddenly decided things were not working out between them. Things weren’t working out at all. The skies that had once been the pink of dawn, abound in love and life, were graying now, and empty. Death is the colour of empty skies; what else could they do but seek out separation?
It had been raining all night that night – the weather cold, bleak and bitter. The two had stood at the hallway like faint shadows. Silent, just like today, until one of them spoke.
“So – ?”
The latter, not knowing what else to reply, had gone on conceding on every point the former made. Until the discussion converged to the point of Sarthak, that is. On the question of Sarthak, neither would concede, obviously. What parent gives up their thirteen year old son? So they dragged the matter to court. Nobody asked Sarthak what he wanted. Not even once.
Tonight, Sarthak is dead. He did not flutter. He did not make a sound. None of the two speak tonight. For now there is no point of conflict – now the petition will be withdrawn from court, and the marriage terminated by mutual agreement.
SARTHAK DAS.
Author Notes
The names of the central character and the author of the story being identical is an unfortunate coincidence readers are requested to overlook.
#sarthakdas #microfiction #review
Death is the colour of empty skies.
For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.
~ Ben Johnson.
Sarthak died tonight. 1.06 am. N,N′-dimethyl-4,4′-bipyridinium dichloride. Methyl viologen. Paraquat. At first, he felt a burning sensation in his chest. This persisted for an hour or two. Then came the pain. As if somebody were ripping apart his lungs into shreds. It was a slow, painful death. By the time he was brought to the hospital, it was far too late. His parents rushed in to claim his corpse. “Suicide,” the doctor sighed.
Indeed it was. They stared at each other, silent, knowing not what to say. What, if anything at all, were they entitled to say? For it all began back a year ago, when they suddenly decided things were not working out between them. Things weren’t working out at all. The skies that had once been the pink of dawn, abound in love and life, were graying now, and empty. Death is the colour of empty skies; what else could they do but seek out separation?
It had been raining all night that night – the weather cold, bleak and bitter. The two had stood at the hallway like faint shadows. Silent, just like today, until one of them spoke.
“So – ?”
The latter, not knowing what else to reply, had gone on conceding on every point the former made. Until the discussion converged to the point of Sarthak, that is. On the question of Sarthak, neither would concede, obviously. What parent gives up their thirteen year old son? So they dragged the matter to court. Nobody asked Sarthak what he wanted. Not even once.
Tonight, Sarthak is dead. He did not flutter. He did not make a sound. None of the two speak tonight. For now there is no point of conflict – now the petition will be withdrawn from court, and the marriage terminated by mutual agreement.
SARTHAK DAS.
Author Notes
The names of the central character and the author of the story being identical is an unfortunate coincidence readers are requested to overlook.
#sarthakdas #microfiction #review
For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.
~ Ben Johnson.
Sarthak died tonight. 1.06 am. N,N′-dimethyl-4,4′-bipyridinium dichloride. Methyl viologen. Paraquat. At first, he felt a burning sensation in his chest. This persisted for an hour or two. Then came the pain. As if somebody were ripping apart his lungs into shreds. It was a slow, painful death. By the time he was brought to the hospital, it was far too late. His parents rushed in to claim his corpse. “Suicide,” the doctor sighed.
Indeed it was. They stared at each other, silent, knowing not what to say. What, if anything at all, were they entitled to say? For it all began back a year ago, when they suddenly decided things were not working out between them. Things weren’t working out at all. The skies that had once been the pink of dawn, abound in love and life, were graying now, and empty. Death is the colour of empty skies; what else could they do but seek out separation?
It had been raining all night that night – the weather cold, bleak and bitter. The two had stood at the hallway like faint shadows. Silent, just like today, until one of them spoke.
“So – ?”
The latter, not knowing what else to reply, had gone on conceding on every point the former made. Until the discussion converged to the point of Sarthak, that is. On the question of Sarthak, neither would concede, obviously. What parent gives up their thirteen year old son? So they dragged the matter to court. Nobody asked Sarthak what he wanted. Not even once.
Tonight, Sarthak is dead. He did not flutter. He did not make a sound. None of the two speak tonight. For now there is no point of conflict – now the petition will be withdrawn from court, and the marriage terminated by mutual agreement.
SARTHAK DAS.
Author Notes
The names of the central character and the author of the story being identical is an unfortunate coincidence readers are requested to overlook.
#sarthakdas #microfiction #review