Thursday, 30 June 2011

You'll be Alright

She is always deemed a mute girl. Her uneventful reticence raises eyebrows. It is actually she who raises eyebrows first when being interrogated of her quietude, and living up to her label she offers no reply. That quietude was more of a latent idiosyncrasy than a natural inclination, for she used to ramble like any of you. The picture is still vivid in retrospect of how she rambled: angels with velvet wings lilting puckishly on streams of innocent words. Presumably too innocent those words that they immediately provoked the Authoritative. An offhand decision was made from the Authoritative, and the grave quietude descended.

Supposedly the aforementioned is too embellished a paragraph. She promises to whittle down any surplus of her story for sake of concision. Concision denotes dead silence. The night is shrouded in velveteen silence as she ponders about. Plans roll out of gestation and into the embryonic stage of action as she ponders. A spectre she is made by those malicious flesh who wronged. A quiet night belies a trembling disquiet fear. The disquiet city will be anticipating a split of the sky, a drum of the startle. Years of suppressed anger wobbles under the thin layer of the brim.

Now the ghost walks. The destination she walks to the vengeance where is to be executed. The vengeance ferments longer than the action. The action on the spur of the unpurified indignation. The indignation makes shine of her weapon. Under the intruding moonlight she studies her weapon with frowned contemplation. Contemplates not of the decisive action she will be taken but of the gilded beauty of her weapon. The sight reminds her the long-lost angels who used to lilt in her dream.

A turn of a corner and a few flights of stairs she is standing stock-still staring at the target of her vengeance. The vengeance no longer seems meaningfully urgent since she is now staring at the sight in awe. In awe she stares at a bundle of wrinkled package. Something quivers under that package, beneath a thinly-wrapped linen. The cave and the concave of the curve dance after every quiver. Again the sight brings back memory of the lilting angels. The angels she has missed which are now dancing on the wrinkled linen. Enticed by the sight she drops her weapon and sweeps out what is on her mind.

Galvanized by a sudden pang the person jerks up from under the linen. Hushing the dumbfounded one she leads the person gently back to bed as if in hypnotism. Despite the muffled shriek coming from under the linen she tucks in the tumbling figure. “You'll be alright now,” the broken of the protracted silence.

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