The Witty Writer

He has been holding a pen for over three years and attempted to write a path-breaking story every day but ended up crushing papers. Hundreds of hand-crushed papers were covering up the dust bin in the corner. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling fan in frustration and thought “May be it’s time to give up writing and focus on something else”.

The writer was in his late 20s with weird patchy beard although he did have long curly black hair and wide eyebrows. The deep black eye circle seemed to have a permanent feature of his oval-shaped face.

His drowsy eyes were not able to keep themselves open. He was living in a clumsy apartment with foul odour. The walls of the apartment had turned brown from white, clothes were piled up in the corner like a pile of garbage in the street. A thick layer of dust had built up on books and shelves. The poster of Bob Marley had turned yellow and the hour hand had stuck on 12 in wall clock.

Suddenly, the earthly scent had touched his nostrils but he was in a dead sleep. Dark clouds were approaching at a lighting speed and the whole atmosphere had turned into a scary picture.

All of a sudden, there was a knock on the smudgy window’s glass from the outside. He was still asleep and only a lightening thunder strike could wake him up. Heavy blows were knocked continuously and finally, it woke him up from dead sleep.

He woke with a grumpy yawing and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the window and there was someone outside the window. He rubbed his eyes again to be reassured and there was a girl.

She knocked continuously in helplessness.

He was always afraid of ghost stories and facing the ghost was the last thing he wanted. He froze for a few seconds and his face turned pale. He did not know what to do now and thought to run away. The thunder strikes made the situation worse for him.

The girl uttered something but was inaudible to him and finally he got the courage to go near the window. Somehow, he wanted to help her but his legs were shaking and heart was pounding, “What would I do, if she attacked me?” imagined the writer.

He signalled with his hands and slowly opened the window in hesitation and that feeling, was beyond understandable for him.

The girl jumps into the room without wasting any second and gasped.

He rolled back a few steps in case she attacked.

Her teeth were chattering with cold and her black wet hair seemed like noodles hanging on her face. Her blue eyes looked vulnerable and she was far more beautiful than any other girl he ever saw in his life. He shifted his eyes away as he did not want to look like a creepy guy.

All of a sudden the anxiety of the writer flashed off and he got his nerve back. “She seemed nice,” thought the writer.

“Would you please give me a towel”? asked the girl.

“Yeah, sure” stammered the writer.

He rushed to the hall and got her a dirty towel.

“How did you get there and who are you,” asked the writer while stammering.

She was still gasping and drying herself using a towel. She looked at him bewildered.

“What is wrong with you, I am your wife”, cried the girl.

His face turned pale and heart was beating like a drum. The bodily sensations got him to the corner and coldness took over his mind and body.

The writer stammered and said, “What?”

Who are you? What is your name? You cannot be my wife? What are you talking about? What do you want from me? Asked in single breath with suspicion.

“Why do not we sit down and talk?” suggested the girl calmly.

The calmness of the girl comforted him, although he was out of his mind. “If I freak out and run from here, I won’t find who she is. Am I being delusional?” thought the writer.

He asked her to sit in his chair and went to the dining hall to bring his chair. While he was getting the chair, he smiled and thought, “Wait a minute! This is merely a dream and I am going to prove it.”

He took a musty pillow in his hand and sat across the girl.

Thirty seconds passed and no one spoke and surprisingly, he threw the pillow on her face to prove whether she is real or not.

“Firstly, you do not recognize me and now throwing a smelling pillow on my face. Is this how you treat your wife?” the girl argued.

The girl continued and asked him, “Have you written anything interesting?”

Now he became oblivious and looked around skeptically.

“You have to answer first and repeated the questions”, he demanded in a serious tone.

You are still stubborn. “I hope you remember your name?” inquired the girl.

“Of course, I know my name”, raised his voice.

My name is ah… and he could not understand what was going on and now he does not remember his name. The world of the writer seemed to be crashing and he thought, “How come I don’t know my name? And who the hell is she? Is this a dream? Am I delirious? Should I leave?” All these questions made him more anxious and not knowing his name made him furious.

“Your name is Zen and you are a professional writer and you have written some award-winning stories”, she assured in a compassionate tone.

I know, I am a writer, “but why don’t I remember my name?” thought Zen.

“But, who are you,” asked Zen curiously.

“I am your wife, Kia, don’t you remember me?”, stated empathetically.

This time he looked her attentively and she now smelled like vanilla oil.

She glanced at him and brought a chair near him and held his hands.

He noticed that her hands were tiny and veins were noticeable. He told her nervously, “Your hands are like a doll.”

“I have always had such hands, don’t you remember when you proposed to me?” she said showing her wedding ring.

“When did we get married?” he asked dubiously. “If I need answers, then I have to play along” thought Zen.

“Last week”, she revealed with a smile. She added that we had a small ceremony in Florence with only a few close friends and family. “We have known each other for more than 4 years and you proposed to me in front of the media when they awarded you for the best author. I was stunned then and never thought that a geek like you, will ever propose me like that.”

He could not believe what he had heard and more questions popped up in his mind, “How is this possible? I have not written a single word in the last 3 years and I am living alone and how did she get outside of the window.”

Meanwhile the rain slowed down and darkness began to lift.

He stood up in front of the window and looked outside. “How is this possible and how did she reach here? I am staying at the 21st floor and there is no way she could climb this far”, thought Zen.

He looked back at her to get the answer but he noticed a train was leaving from the platform and he was sitting by himself alone at a railway platform. He had a train ticket in his hands to nowhere and a book titled “The window” written in bold and purple letters.

Image source: Pixels