A Stabber

I

"I see, you’re not adjusting... You don’t want to even listen. Why should I even ask you for any explanation? Do whatever you like.” Madam Sophie dropped the register after a vibrating howl.

Misha tapped her heels and said in a low tone, "I want to leave."

Madam Sophie’s eyes looked like a volcanic snapshot. She didn’t speak a single word. Misha came out of the office and leaned over the railing of the famous ho-hum corner. After around two minutes, her phone blinked. Misha saw a CC of a mail with the headline ’Suspended’. Madam Sophie sent the email to Misha’s guardian, her uncle.

Misha rushed to her room and pulled out a long backpack from the dusty top of the closet.

"Well, her clothes and her packing story aren't that good. Her route towards the shady neighbourhood is also not a very pleasant one. I skipped that part." Samir said casually.

Editor Diya frowned, "But those scenes could be appealing to the readers."

Samir was continuously playing a unique beat on a brown notebook cover with a fountain pen. He had a soft gaze on the table. He looked up and said, "Diya, it is not only about the details of that cringey neighbourhood; the later part of the story is way more interesting. I am thinking about…you know, how to bring on the main plot in the very first chapter."

"Samir, listen, build this up slowly. It’s a damn thriller novel."

Samir stopped playing the beat. He said, "If I jump like this..."

He wrote something on an A4-sized sheet and slid that towards the other side of the long table. Diya saw, "Misha stabbed me twice, and I deserved it."

II

Misha didn’t even think to go back to her estranged family. She neither called her uncle nor glanced back at her cousin at the supermarket. Her cousin tried to talk, but she pretended to be busy and kept choosing the ingredients for seasoning. In those five years with her so-called family, she got nothing but sepulture lumps of unworthiness. She once said to one of her roommates, "I’ve just wiped them away like I could do on any kitchen slab."

After a short haul at the supermarket, she finally had some good food, good sleep, and in her words, some good deep breaths. After months of ugly splits at the hostel, that new little revival gave her some great ’firsts’. She managed her ’firsts’ with her earnings at the music festival. She had the confidence to slip off the existing notes from her purse for her first ’high’ rent. She was working with a band, and every single day she felt that it was quite a well-off job. She sometimes sang there and sometimes played drums.

Last week, the other drum boy, Danny proposed to her with kenspeckle, saucy pick-up lines. Well, Misha didn’t shy away or make a face as the other band members did. She had some fun with him. That night, she listed her fairytale-ish future plans on his sweatshirt.

Misha had every single detail about her ‘first’ experiences in her notebook, like Madam Sophie had on the hostel register. That notebook was jam-packed with some emoji-looking scribbles and some future promises for her love.

One night she wrote, "I don’t know why the Serbian guitarist, Vuk, warned me about Danny. He is cute. He teaches me every trick, so why did he say that you should stop being played? Never mind, I think he has some wrong assumptions. Perhaps he misunderstood Danny. And his English—OMG, perhaps he tried to say something different. It’s better to take it off from my overthinking brain jar."

She suddenly flipped back and read loudly her old stuff, "Today, Madam Sophie caught me for the second time, and that too for coming back late. Honestly, I don’t like coming back late. But I’m going for shows, and she never understands. I’ll not stay here. Shamzy promised me that she would show me some good space."

She smiled and said aloud, "And Shamzy did!"

That night, Madam Sophie caught her for the third time. The band’s lead singer, Shamzy managed this attic of a restaurant for Misha. Misha paid half of her earnings for this tiny, tenebrific place. Shamzy had a part-time job at the restaurant. Misha joined this clan too.

III

"That night, Misha and I were in one car, and others were in another. She had been in the band for the last ten months. She was ready for everything; she had that…you know, the patience for better music, better writing, better rehearsals, and better performances. She was so good, and she had every single thing that could make her a new ’Adele’. She had offers. She started getting good payments. All went perfectly, like any trending hashtag. But one thing pissed me off. Every time she took this whole filthy band with her. I only wanted me with her, only me. I didn’t want Shamzy, Vuk, Paresh, or anyone."

"I knew that we two could make something exceptionally strong, but that baggage could slow us down. You know, I talked to her in every possible way. But that girl, oh, she was extremely... The best word would be... hmmm, yes, ninny!"

"This ninny treated those "hippies" like her family. She ignored every smoke on her face, every little theft from her purse, every single jinxed joke, and every single survival lie. I had to do something. Trust me, I didn’t mean that sort of ruckus, but I had to use some tweaks for those idiots. On that day, I just became a little catty to the car. I took Misha with me. I just wanted them to be in the hospital, but they drove pretty smoothly. I had to... my last hit on the car…It just flipped over and burst into flames. Wow, it was a damn good shot. Well, yes, I did that intentionally."

"Misha screamed. She hit me forcefully. And finally, when she jumped out of the car…you know, I couldn’t let her go. I called her and stopped her. But she brought out her long chopping knife. Imagine, she showed me her dainty, shaky hands with a chopper! And wow, that girl stabbed me. Hmmm, two times on the chest. But then I had to let her go too. I had to say goodbye. Obviously, I didn’t forget to take her favourite ‘fairy-diary’. It had everything."

Samir stopped talking and sipped water. Then he showed Diya the brown diary in a waving style. Then he moved close to Diya and whispered, "I still have those two marks."

The next day, Diya got a message. It said, "Do you know Diya, what Danny’s last word was to Misha? Guess. Okay, chill. I tell you. It’s ‘Fool’."

Again, she got a blink.

"I hope you’re not.”