Short story : The impostor

They were trying to overpower the giant man. He was now lying down on the bed with his legs limping down at knees- unconscious. The effect of the sedative was wearing away for he was regaining conscience.

The boy was afraid now. From where has this impostor lurked in? The impostor was strong and menacing in his builds. Dad had previously shot him with the brass vase, and he fell like a fallen tree onto the bed. Father being a doctor administered him the sedative via a syringe. Emergency was in air. The air conditioning chilled his feet. The impostor was awake suddenly and grabbed him by his neck. He pleaded his parents to run away, to his surprise they actually ran away. The sweat ran profusely across his forehead. He could feel his breath giving away as the fingers burned into his throat muscles. His airway was blocked and his face turned pale due to lack of blood. The whole world was growing dark.


He murmured to himself unknowingly. Horse is a vain hope for deliverance. Despite all it’s great strength it cannot save. Psalm 33:17

Was he looking for deliverance…or he submitted to the situation. If he would have lived he would have spent days thinking all the inevitable questions. His life flashed in front of his eyes. He at age of 9 playing with his father in park. Praying in a dhoti at diwali, trying to blow the shell. His first love. His lost love. His present love. He was satisfied, and a smirk- of contentment, spread across his lips.

The attacker still had dried blood across his forehead, and acted trance like after the sedative. He was confused at the boy’s misplaced smirk-probably the last one. This confusion disrupted the grip.

He slammed his right toe into attacker’s groin, completely disrupting the grip. The boy fell down noisily onto the tiled floor on his back. He gasped for air, all he could see were rods and cones. The attacker clutched his groin and was seething in pain. It was fight or flight. He grabbed his lcd monitor screen and smashed it on attacker face. His heart was an over-revved piston engine. He had a tunnel vision. He could only see his dementor’s face from his constricted circular tunnel-like field of vision., The face gleamed with red blood and shards of glass. The attacker staggered on his feet. Whamm! He smashed his right fist into his nose. He used to punch cement walls till his knuckles bled.They did bled this time too, but they smashed his attacker’s nose. There was a gaping hole in his jaw. Impostor was losing blood at the rate of pint per second, he fell down unconscious onto the computer table, breaking it in the process. His head rolled away down to the left.

It was all too much for him. He slumped back in front of window AC vent. The cold air eased him and he regained his peripheral vision. He was thoughtless. His back was paining His white linen shirt was a total mess, with drops of dark blood. His glasses had somehow survived the adventure, and were still adoring his face. He soothed his bleeding knuckles, and arched his hurt back. The gold-gem ring in his middle finger did the trick, probably he broke the attackers’ nose. The ring now as red as the gem it kept. A silent fart convinced him of his still active metabolic activity. He was looked blindly at the fluorescent bulb at ceiling, he wanted to be part of its white light. He was still trying to remember from where did the impostor ensued, all he could recollect that he awaked suddenly by the noise of the brass vase slamming against impostor’s forehead.

He wondered what to do with the body now. He stood up, and took the vial of sedative and found syringe lurking in the shards of broken computer table. He gave the unconscious impostor another shot of sedative, trying not to see the bloody mess that his face was now. ‘This will keep him grounded for 2-3 hours’. He thought of dialing up nearest police station. But his instincts stopped him. He was confused, as always. His confusion ran ahead of him ever since he picked up himself. All the thriller and detective movies flashbacked. They all are so cool with the corpse, but this was not a corpse. He could not leave this fellow like this, and moreover he did not know why he was attacked at first place. He nervously ran his fingers through his new long hairs, it had been three months since he took a haircut. A nouveau director he was, struggling with the anticlimax of his movie. “What would have Watson said, ‘Dear Holmes, this is a clear case of attempted homicide’ .Alas why he only befriended Holmes.” He stood up and felt brave enough to ruffle through the impostor’s pockets. He was wearing a rugged blue denim and white tee with brown corduroy jacket. He found a crumpled piece of bus ticket, and a black leather wallet. It contained few currency notes something around a thousand and papers and a postcard size picture. He cleared off the wallet to his back pocket. He had a dark complexion, wearing a white cotton shirt and a white lungi with black leather chappals. A wore his moustache over his freckled face, like a typical south Indian. ‘They all look same’. But this one was not menacing, he had a soothing demeanor. But his eyes had an experienced vision, a face of one who has seen a lot of life, and struggled through it. A tang of pity came and went instantaneously. The boy waited for a while and saw two cans of room freshner lying at the shelf. He got an inspiration. He figured a fire triangle in his mind, he needed oxygen, fuel source and heat.

He went to the kitchen and twisted the gas knob to open position. He meticulously closed all the windows of kitchen but keeping the windows of the flat open, for oxygen. He distributed the newspaper like a stack of dominoes, such that it covered whole of the room and the stack ended in the kitchen. He got unused old nokia cellphone of his dad and placed the cell battery – four in number, around the unconscious impostor. He threw the cordless phone and his i-pod for added tertiary fuel source. The defeated impostor lied unconscious in his stupor unaware of how his prey has become an arsonist. He took out two bottles of chilled lager beer and poured them over the carpet, the one his dad had brought from Kashmir. He switched off the air conditioning for it would hamper with the heat and threw the carpet over the impostor. He was done with one more edge of fire triangle. Only heat edge remained. He took scissor and a cello tape from his study drawer- the heat. He got two cans of room freshener and another two of his deospray.He went on to rotate the tape in such a way over the canisters such that the plunger was pressed permanently. There was gushing sound made as the gas rushed out. He did the same to other canisters. He placed all the four canisters in a semicircle such that their spray jet met at a point- the focus. The focus was a stack of newspaper piled one and half feet above the ground- the fuel primary fuel source. The cans were empting at a rapid pace. He took out a match, he was already feeling the heat. He lit it and placed a bit of flame into the gushing current of aerosol. Boom! The whole system was now a massive flame thrower. There was fire in the air, all random and making random shapes. A morbid splendor. He rushed towards the door, and grabbed his denim jacket before banging the door shut. He ran down the three flights of stairs. It was all very quite for evening 7 o’clock. But his heart was at riot, juxtaposed with quite exteriors. His was panting like a steam engine. He was sweating like a horse. He had just made a homemade aerosol bomb, and set his flat to fire. The impostor would be charred to death, definitely, by an arsonist.

He caught a shared taxi to nearest metro station. He came across a cold drink stall.He took a can of coke and paid with crumpled 50 rupee note. He was used to drinking chilled coke when he was deeply upset or agitated. He gulped the cold beverage and it in turn cooled his interiors. He finished the whole can in 2 more gulp. And asked for another one. “May be I should not have incinerated the flat and impostor.”, his super-ego screamed. “ But I was acting on impulse”, his id supported him. He was used to acting on his impulse, and which always saved him from dreadful decision making process. He recollected reading somewhere that impulsivity was a defining characteristic of ADHD or bipolar disorder. “Nay not the bipolar disorder, but definitely may be ADHD”. He always thought himself to be affected by ADHD in a way or other. “Is this my another impulsive decision”, he wondered. His life has been chequered by spur-acting, yet he survived every time thanks to his luck. “Am I a pyromaniac?”, he added to the rhetoric question.

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