The Unusual

I was bound. My hands and feet were tied with an itchy rope. It left rashes but I could only see them and feel the pain. I wanted to shout and in fact I was shouting but all in vain. My mouth was very meticulously covered with a dirty piece of cloth which stunk. I tried my best every now and then to break my voice but couldn’t. There was a sharp, blaring light right in front of my eyes which didn’t allow me to see anything in front. I felt almost blind. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen darkness. At one point I wished that I die but then the curiosity didn’t let me die. Why was I here? Why was I put in such state? I was there for 7 days and I could not figure out why I was being punished.
The man was unusual. I should be using scary and villainous terms but he was nothing more than unusual. He had a crew cut and was clean shaved. He looked more like an underdog school boy. I always saw him in shorts, 7 days straight, he had never worn anything apart from shorts and a torn t shirt.  From all I could notice with my weak eyes, it was that he had no hair on his arms or legs which meant that he was accustomed to pain. He wore a watch in his hand, always. Every time he came towards me to try and feed me I could notice that he had minor scars on his knees and his forehead. The pain in his eyes killed me every day. It felt like he wanted to end it, once and for all. It felt like he wanted to end it with me. And that scared me.
On the eighth day, I was woken up with the lights going off. I do not know when my tired eyes had fallen asleep. It was him, he was back. He had not spoken a word ever since he had brought me here. The last memory I have of a normal life is when I was walking down a lonely street to buy a few grocery items. I wanted to ask why had he brought me here but I couldn’t, he wouldn’t let me. Suddenly his phone rang; with my red burnt eyes I could notice a broken screen. He had not received a call from anyone but it was an alarm which had went off. He turned it off, put his earphones on and went near the mirror. I had no idea what he was going to do when he did something which was again very “unusual”. He started practicing words in an accent which sounded American. Why was he doing it? I had no idea why but I was astonished. It was irritating but it fascinated me. He was making fast hand gestures and speaking words from apparently a dictionary in his phone. For an entire half an hour he did it. I could see a sense of salvation in his eyes after he had completed this exercise.
I was so engrossed in the activities that he was doing that I forgot to struggle. And so I began struggling like a fish without water; I had no energy but applied all of it. I wanted answers, I was ready to be killed but I needed to know why. Finally he paid heed to my desperation and came near me. Just looking at me closely, he was lethally close. So close that I could hear him breath. My eyes pleaded pity, from him for me. But he kept looking at me expressionlessly for a few seconds before he took out a long, sharp knife and pierced into my neck right then. I was killed by him, brutally killed. I struggled a lot, wrenching in pain, did not want to die but died in three seconds.
“I feel that with every such dream, I am killing myself a little bit. Every single day!” said Sparsh. Doctor Batra, a young lady in her early 30s was quite taken aback with what she had heard, not that she was not used to it but it did frighten her every time, but somehow she maintained her cool and answered, “Woah! That was quite a dream, Sparsh! You are visiting for the tenth time, every time you have new stories to share but there is one commonality in them.” “what?” asks Sparsh, clean shaven in knee length shorts and t shirt. “Your stories always end up on a sadistic note. Someone or the other is killed, mostly being you. You are highly insecure about yourself. Keep expressing yourself as much as you can, staying an introvert cannot help you always.” Sparsh smiles at the doctor, gets up from his resting bed, prepares to leave and says, “Ambivert madam. That is what I would like you to call me.” Saying this he wears his jacket, chains it fully, puts his hands in his pocket and walks away. Dr. Batra kept looking till his figure disappeared from her vision. After he went away, she heaved a sigh of relief and picked up his file. It read, “A serial killer. Likes to narrate his murders as dreams in first person.”