LAST TRY

Gathering all his courage, he decides to give it one last try….
Imagine a room, dimly lit. A single streak of moonlight peeking through windows thickly covered
with curtains of grey velvet. Everything from the glossy furniture to various paintings that hang on
the walls speaks of taste and class. All is seemingly still, not a particle wavers, and not a soul wanders.
But if we move a bit forward just besides the stately oak bed we see a solitary figure sitting cross
legged on the cold marble floor.
“Lock the door”, orders a chilly voice. Lazily he gets up, dragging his feet along heavily and bolts the
door. As he passes by the wardrobe mirror we catch the glimpse of a boy; young of age, handsome
of figure, with raven black hair, skin dark as cocoa, eyes the color of burnt coal, lashes thick and
curved. But wait something about him is peculiar maybe the cheeks that lack color? Or his
movement that's so slow and measured? And then our eyes fall on his bare arms. Angry red gashes
form crisscross carving on every inch of them, some mare scars and old, while others fresh and
dripping.
“Agaieeen” sings the chilly voice but his time he chooses to ignore the whispers of his mind and
examines his paintings. They're all oil on canvas, depicting different moods; each a unique pallet of
color. Some dark and joyless, some as bright as sunshine while others a camouflage of both. All are
different yet the same; they're all abstract.
His lips curve up in half a smile. He had spent hours, nay days on each of them. Gave them shape and
depth with a lover's hand, gracing dead paper with meaning and beauty. But what were they to an
outsider? To eyes which were unaccustomed to art. Nothing, just an awkward mix of lines and
curves. Useless strokes. “Yess useless”, comes a whisper. “You are useless, now be gone!”
The boy nods ever so slightly, to no one but himself. Bending down, from a pouch hidden in the
nook of the closet he takes out a fresh blade. As he lifts his chin, those pair of dark eyes sparkle so
brightly that a scene of stars in the midnight sky flashes before us. Here my audience, we know what
is to came and we grasp in horror. We scream and shout but he would not listen before, he cannot
now. This single gush of pain will remove all others. Gathering all his courage, he decides to give it
one last try. The silvery blade winks like a star as it rises and falls. A gush of blood; a muffled whimper;
and darkness follows.
Who knew that he, Abdul Wahab was Schizophrenic?