(This is a work of fiction. The writer gives to the reader the liberty to post this work anywhere online but not with wrong credits. Also, any form of printing or publication is prohibited without prior notice.)


[Short Story]


(“The Dependence” – Part I)

This is one of those mandatory winter posts where I don’t feel like writing, but I want to tell you particularly how I feel about winters, sometimes.

This is one of those posts where I don’t feel like writing because my fingers are numb due to the cold. My pen is broken and it leaks, so I put it down on the table in the dark of my room and look at the fly buzzing at my window. It moves on invisible tracks on the glass, fixed patterns, not following them in order. It scrapes off its legs and then flies off and comes back again. It does that for a long time, then comes and sits on my face. It smells real bad, like something rotten. They’re right when they say that flies are more disgusting than pigs. Or maybe equally. Or maybe we should have a contest.

But a fly during winters is an unusual thing, you see? Especially when everything is dry and cold and hard. So I get up and chase the fly out of my room, only to start following it, later, without any reason.

It doesn’t fly off or away from me. Often, it flies a little off track, though, but then comes back again as if it knows that I can’t follow its course, and that we humans need paved roads. I feel envious for not having wings like it. I wish I could fly, too, and sit on other people’s windows and sneak into their tiny, insignificant lives.

As I walk, I feel an eerie silence looming above all the empty roads out in the evening and in such still & desolate atmospheres, an occasional breeze is enough to freeze you to the bones. An occasional howl, an occasional screech are the only things that you can hear. A random vehicle whizzes past you with its doppler caressing your ears.

Slowly after taking a few turns, passing a few ghost shadows and random street lights which flicker on empty roads, the fly takes me to an abandoned house. I can’t breathe properly because of a blocked nose and I have just walked some distance, so I stop to catch my breath and have a smoke. I remain outside the house on the deserted road, looking around to assure and re-assure my own safety as I tap the butt of the cigarette on my thumb.

I let the fly go.

Sounds like it just multiplied into a thousand flies.

I take out a match box and a cigarette and I follow the sound. It leads me to where the fly vanished inside the house. I can tell the house has been abandoned for a long time, now, because of the broken walls and the strong foul smell which I can sense even on a blocked nose.

I strike a matchstick to light my cigarette and as I do so, the contents of the room become visible, one by one.

The fly has led me to a dead body. There are millions like it buzzing around and together they seem really angry with my sudden interruption. The body is stiff, stuck to the floor and inflated like a balloon. I don’t know who put it there. I don’t know who the deceased is. But I remember that my fingers were cold and numb when I left my home. And that my pen was bleeding but still I wasn’t in the mood to write.

Perhaps my pen can answer a lot of questions.

I put my pen again in the dark of my room. But, is it ink? Let me turn on the lights, first.

[Read Part 2: http://wp.me/p2K1U7-3c]

[Read Part 3: http://wp.me/p2K1U7-3k]

[Read Part 4:  http://wp.me/p2K1U7-3L ]

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