Ashok reached her apartment in one hour after he left the airport. He opened the door with his spare key.
For a moment he stood in the middle of the room holding the unopened package feeling dislocated. The room was empty. Their memories scrubbed and washed away hidden under the newly installed carpet. The walls that stood witness to their passion regained its innocence in the purity of fresh white paint.
He sat in the middle of the floor crying silently. Only there could he unleash his sorrow. His remorse. He bottled it inside of him and kept the pain at bay until now. He let his tears fall calling out her name.
He undid the bow that tied the package. He caressed the worn out leather covering the diary, wiped it every time his tears fall on it. A slim silky ribbon attached to it parted the notebook in the middle. He opened it to where it was marked. A letter fell from between the pages. He picked it up. His hands trembled while he read it.
Suicide is an act of revenge. We discussed this a few times. And agreed on this. It is meant to punish the one you felt had wronged you by burdening their conscience forever.
We laughed at tragic lovers. We promised never to fall into melodrama. Who knew. I never thought I’ll get waylaid by an emotion like this.
You broke a promise. This is my way of getting even. I will do this out of spite not love. I will not be generous. I will not wish you well. I wish you emptiness, I wish your life will be haunted by my grief.
You shook your head at those who take the easy way out. To those who put a period on their life story by a noose on the ceiling fan. You thought they were weak. But you are weak. I will do this to mock you.
If there is hell will you rescue my soul and follow me? Will you be brave this time? In our next life will you search for me? Will you choose me then?
I will wait for you Ashok.