A Hundred Deaths A Day

The sheet of the abominable dark clouds curtained the luminous, spotless sky with a ferocity that prepared the Sumarian soldier to wait for his final blow.

Lying on his haunches now with a bullet deposited right above his left knee, Nedvoi, crying blood as black as his skin was alarmed at how the pleasant evening back in the barracks had transformed into a ruthless demon in the forests just a mile away as darkness pervaded the sky, split open in a flash by the scathing strokes of light, every now and then. Nedvoi, made anxious more by the sudden and thunderous change in the weather than by the inflicted pain, made indecipherable cackling sounds from his jaw – which now hung loose peeled off its flesh, in a desperate measure just to move from that wretched place and position. He was not to realise that it was not the weather but the treacherous condition his mind and body were subjected to that made him accuse instead the former and fear it. Dragging his body now, with still an astonishing, striving strength he managed to scurry down a few feet and find shelter under a tropical, thick, wild Banyan. He was breathing heavily and with every breath he inhaled, he felt the catabolism within his bulky frame, like in a clock-tower machine start working, the wheels rolling, energy being yielded and everything stagnant being rejuvenated before being knocked out to a sudden pause – little molecules of energy busted awaiting another breath. At this point in time, Nedvoi didn’t bear any particular thought or even multiple ones of his past confusing him, weakening him. He knew that it’d be anytime then when he’d lose himself but still couldn’t think of devising a plan to somehow escape. He was betrayed by his mechanism, deprived of energy and he kept babbling while panting heavily, awaiting his final blow.


Currently, displaced extensively in space and time, his body lies in a small, dingy room of an apartment in the second and top floor of a building stocked between two others of same size, shape and colour; opposite a bustling street lined on either sides with boisterous fruit and vegetable sellers and their respective stalls. The rain lashes down in a sharp file clanking down on the tin roofs, in short rattling bursts. The traffic has been blocked and rendered a snail’s pace making one believe that life has suddenly made to boom in here in an instant and people, as if on a fierce command, are deliriously and cynically rushing to do what they have to do. Despite of all, the clamour of the small town of Irlington fails to permeate or even diffuse through the shut wooden door of the room beyond which the psyche of Nedvoi Nesunk lay.


Nothing, it seems, has moved in here for a long time. The green bulb clinging to the damp walls fails to even tell the colour of the chipped-off paint. Pieces of it hang in there, half suspended in the air, refusing to fall down. The fan dangling from the ceiling sways noiselessly. There is no ventilation except for a high window; a translucent glass pried half open; no perceptible sound except of a distant rain. There applies no contrivance of time to this room, not even the pernicious tik-tok of it in the back of the mind.  Somebody is sitting upright on a wicker chair with eyes fuming, heart rigorously pumping blood and lungs clean of grime– a body of a seven year old girl, lying still, apart from the regular but slight twitching of the skin.

She suddenly jerks her head, conscious of a presence and starts talking, crying, apologizing, arguing, commanding and fearing a blue-eyed rabid, vicious animal staring her right in the face and in the end gives up, panting heavily awaiting her final blow.


In the stillness of the night, a knob turns to let a shadow glide over the walls. As droplets of water dribble down his coat, the man smiles watching his daughter fast asleep; smiles and reassures himself that she is quick recovering.