Another Scar to Fulfill My Destiny

I have scars on my hands.

Scars which the world may deem ugly.

 

But to me they mean power.

They define me.

 

“How did you gain these scars?” you ask.

“It’s a long story for a very long day.

Not one for today.” I reply.

His curiosity doesn’t seem to be satisfied.

So, I add, “These scars mean only positive things for me.”

 

He seems to have accepted my response.

At least, he shows that he has.

Except his eyes speak a different language.

Is it curiosity I see in them? Or is it anxiety?

 

However, we are here,

At this ridiculous coffee shop for an interview.

Honestly, it’s all a business to me.

I reassure him, “my rough hands mean only good things.

Things you wouldn’t have never explored before.

Territories that have been unchartered till date.”

 

He says nothing; only looks.

Curiously, anxiously, nervously, eagerly.

I can’t make out.

 

I need to work on reading him better.

That’s going to be a necessity

If I work for him.

 

He has a basic list of questions.

The usual.

However, his eyes seem hungry for more.

More detailed information.

 

I tell them, ‘Not so soon, there’s still time for all that’.

Once our contract is signed,

Hunger will be thoroughly forgotten.

I beam with pride as I think that.

 

He does his part swiftly.

Signs the contract and pays the bill for our coffee.

He don’t seem very happy

Besides I don’t care for his happiness.

 

I am finally living my dream.

I have fulfilled my lifelong passion today.

A passion that has given me another new scar today.

A scar that will let me live out my destiny.

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A Murder She Saw

She saw her body lying in a pool of her own blood.

A pin drop silence had fallen in the room.

There was no surprise felt except her own.

There was no remorse either.

 

Her blood was duly cleaned

And the police were promptly summoned.

Their arrival brought an ocean of crocodile tears

And there were wails that were expected before.

 

Through thunderous sobs a lie was concocted.

The real culprits played the age old blame game.

A poor maid was thrown in as a prime suspect.

They said greed was her lure.

 

Yes, they were right.

Greed, truly, came very easily.

But the hardworking child maid wasn’t induced by it.

The young one craved only love which she shared abundantly.

 

It was them.

Materialism had overcome their minds.

It was her own blood that had betrayed her.

They had hacked her in the most ruthless way.

 

It was astonishing.

The smoothness involved in the planning.

The ease in their demeanour

And the organic brutality of everything.

 

Looking over herself, a cold corpse now,

She only prayed for justice to prevail.

Her own blood had betrayed her.

Spilled it mercilessly

And condemned an innocent helpless child of malefeasance.