"Tonight, fists will speak louder than melodies and hearts will shatter without a sound."
Through the crystallized glass of the cab, the night appeared quiet and peaceful. The stretched beams of the streetlights and the honking sounds of the vehicles were low on the route.
Abhay adjusted the guitar bag on the seat as it was bouncing due to the driver's rapid steering on turns. The ride already felt stomach wrenching, either the reason was the bumpy road and constant turns or the man behind the steering wheel.
Coupled with the uneasy drive, the overbearing fragrance, as a whole bottle of perfume was splashed on the seats, was distressing him more.
It was clearly an inconsiderate attempt to cover the smell of the alcohol.
Abhay was cursing himself inside for paying no or little heed to the driver's eyes that appeared red and drowsy when Abhay talked to him for a brief before getting inside the cab.
He might've overworked himself. He thought at that time.
However, now his unsteady movements and inconsistent acceleration and braking both adding to the point- he was drunk.
Abhay's inward rage soon turned into malice fuming then to internal cussing on the drunk driver.
Bl**dy Drunkard! If you didn't drop me in one piece, I will make sure to find you even in hell.
Abhay's gulped his anger down and chose patience.
"Drive slowly. There is no need to rush." He ordered. His voice firm and strong.
"Yes Sir." The driver felt the murderous stare from behind. He raised his hand, trying to clean the sweat from his forehead.
Clicking the window button, Abhay let the warm air rush in, carrying with it a thin layer of dirt, still it was better than the suffocating stench inside.
"Sir!" The cab driver paused for a second or two, then said , " Ummmm! The AC....sir! the AC is on." His voice was low and shaky.
"Then, you shouldn't drink so much inside the cab that you need to throw dozon of bottles of perfume to hide that shitty smell."
Abhay was already enraged since his departure from the bar and this man just broke his pot of patience. "Filthy drunkard!"
"I apologize, sir. Please...please don't raise a complain on me." The driver pleaded. "Please sir, I swear on my beloved son, I....I ... won't ....I won't do this again."
"Hey! Keep your eyes on road. You will get both of us killed." Abhay alarmed the driver whose eyes were wandering from the path to the man who was sitting behind.
"And it's fine. No need to panic. I won't complain. Just make sure, never pull thus stunt again. Abahy said, his hands gripping the bakery box that was slipping from his lap.
"Even if you don't love your life, maybe other people love theirs. Not every person on this earth is suicidal." He added.
"Thank you, sir." The driver took a breath of relief. He sped down the vehicle and wide opened his eyes to stay utterly attentive.
Glancing at his watch, Abhay discovered how late it was.
It's already 11. Dang it!
He pulled out the phone from his pocket and messaged someone.
"On my way. I'll be there in half an hour."
Ping!
The reply came faster than he expected:
"The party is over. No food and cake left for you."
Abhay let out a sweet chuckle, his fingers tapping a quick reply.
"Still one hour left and I already ate. Thank you."
Again, the reply came within seconds.
"Why you gotta do late hour show on my birthday. I am not gonna talk to you! And I hate you!
His smile deepened, his fingers tapping again.
"Fine, don't talk. But atleast let me give you present and cake. Strawberry flavor. Your favorite."
Another ping.
"Fine. I will just take the present and cake. Won't talk to you."
Satisfied, he powered off the phone and slipped it back in his pocket.
"Sir...Is that guitar yours?" The driver asked cautiously, trying to start a conversation.
"Yeah!" Abhay replied, his eyes still glimpsing the view outside the window.
"Sir, Do you have a favorite? Want me to play it for you." The driver insisted.
"No need!" Abhay muttered. "We are about to reach. And no need to humble me. Don't worry. I won't report you."
Relieved, the driver babled nervously, "Thank you, sir. I don't drink daily, just today. My son.....he won a drawing competition. Got a scholarship for a reputated art college. I just ....I'm so proud."
Smiling awkwardly, he continued, "Your parents must be proud too, that their son is such a good man."
Abhay smiled dryly. The mist of warmth missing from his voice. "You can ask them yourself, once you leave this earth."
The driver got silent. Reading the room, he didn't asked anything further.
In the remaining distance, the cab remained noiseless and peaceful.
The cab stopped at the destination.
Abahy climbed out of the cab, slinging the guitar over his shoulder and carefully balancing the cake box and gift bag.
"If you love your son so much, don't drink and gamble lives on the road." He said, before walking off his way.
The route was lonely and silent. This stillness was broken by the noisy barks of the stray dogs and distant hootings of the owls.
This place was a lone area, with only a few houses- surrounded by fields and gardens.
His destination was a house standing alone in the middle of a vast grapevines field. Around the field, there were tall trees of Neem and Siris.
"Damn...this place still feels as haunted as when I first came here." Abhay muttered. "How the f*ck they live here 365 days."
Balancing both the cake box and giftbag in one hand, he used the other for picking out the phone from his pocket.
Struggling, in juggling both cake box and giftbag, he sent a text.
"I am outside. Come down and take the present and cake. I won't come inside as I have something to do."
The reply came after a minute.
"Okay. wait a bit."
Waiting outside, he strummed invisible chords, humming a soft tunes into empty darkness.
Without warning, a hard punch fell on his jaw.
Pain exploded across his face as he stumbled back, dropping the cake and barely catching the gift bag. He hit the ground on his hands and knees, skin scrapping across against the rough ground.
"You b*stard!" A voice that was low and furious, yet it held a sense of familarity with it. It was a voice his ears had heard more than his own. A voice that could be hummed through the cocophony of noises yet his ears would be able to recognize it.
With his heart nearly falling out of his chest, Abahy looked up.
What his eyes perceived was a tall and muscular figure who was glaring at him, a fire of rage flaming in his eyes. A rage so frenzy, if he could, he would've scorched Abhay to ashes with a single gaze.
His face half-hidden with a surgical mask over it and a black cap over his head. Some rebellious strands of his loose curls slipping through the cap, a subtle flow of unruly locks dancing around his forehead.
Before Abhay's braincells could comprehend the situation, the man rained down peircing blows, each fist and kick fueled by fuming fury.
Without a single grumble, Abhay absorbed all the beatings, body curling inwards as if in his heart, he had accepted the fact that he deserved every ounce of pain, the man was shedding on him.
The man reached for the guitar bag that was strapped to Abhay's back, his hands trembling with anger.
"The Charmholder Guitarist....To hell with you!" The man roared, unzipping the guitar bag, "I will break your bones and your f*cking guitar."
"Wait....No." This time, Abhay gasped. His eyes widened with fear.
The man pulled out the guitar and raised it in the air, ready to smash both guitar and Abhay's shard of pride however the moment, his fingers gripped around the neck of the guitar, something cracked inside him.
A mix of inexplicable visions flashed through his mind, the images that were surreal and unsettling.
A child's laughter- a boy, 7 or 8 years old on a rusted swing, barefoot. Muddy dirt and bruises whose blood was dried up, adorning his little feet. His long curls flying wild with the wind as he swung higher and higher into a summer sky.
A flash of crimson- a young body of a teen boy, sprawled on a cold floor, bleeding, his each gasp- plea for help.
A silent regret- a teenage boy, slumped over a desk, surrounded by a sea of unopened books, drowning in silence.
The next scene shove his mind out of his head.
Himself- standing on a dazzling stage, the roar of the crowd washing over him like a tidal wave. His first concert when he was 20. However the bizarre thing was- he was watching this vision through someone's else eyes, not his own. As if a movie starring himself was screening in the theater of his mind and he was watching the raw film of it.
The man panted, as if with each vision, his lungs became resistant to take anymore breaths.
His body lost its strength and the guitar sagged in his hands.
In that blur moment of his vulnerability, Abhay took the guitar from the man's hand, settling it down with a strange tenderness among the bushes, as if he was placing a baby in its cradle.
Before the man could catch his breath, Abhay was near him, standing firm. A spark of smile beamed in his eyes as if he was waiting for this frailty his whole life.
With a brutal shove, he slammed the man's spine against the ancient bark of a tree. His movement was rough and unyielding.
Abhay pressed his body close, pinning him there, their breaths colliding in the narrow space between them.
His fingers wrapped around the man's wrists, locking them above his head against the tree.
Slowly, he interwinged his fingers with man's as if in a intimate dance.
The force wasn't violent- it was terrifyingly possessive.
The man struggled, once, twice and even three times, but Abhay didn't flinch.
Instead, he hovered his face close, closer until the man could feel the whisper of Abhay's lips against his cheek, the heat of his breath soaking onto his skin.
Abhay's hand rose, almost frail yet dominating.
With a tender touch, he brushed over the man's temple, tucking a stray lock behind his ear, an intimate and jarring contrast to the iron hold on his wrists.
He tugged mask from the man's face with a slow, deliberate movement, revealing the man's expression. A blend of rage, confusion and fear.
Their eyes entwined like tender vines, holding fast yet strong.
No force just unbearable gravity.
Abhay smiled but there was no kindness in it. Only a dangerous amusement, soft as velvet, sharp as knives.
"Sameer Raina," He said, his voice like honey laced with venom,
"Don't you love your career anymore."
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