36 Self Identity (1/2)

The room we were sitting it was still. Five individuals who inhabited the room were all silent after hearing Brad's experiences. The silence spoke louder when mixed with emotions. And at that point when Brad-or Blessing-was done telling her tale of broken heart, my soul was not synced with my heart anymore.

Everything Blessing had told us peeled another layer off Madonna's alias. She was not the perfect lover. Not the perfect person. Not even a person human…

…if she ever was one.

Brad was the one who broke the silence by wrapping up his story. He, once again, put his hand in his pockets and started speaking like a gentleman that he was,” Well, that was all to it. After Madonna left me hanging at that bar, I cried. A little. And I waited for it to open to the public. That night, I got intoxicated, heavily. For the next two weeks I couldn't come to work. I chalked all of it up on medical emergencies and allergies.

It was all going well but one of my employees squealed to the higher ups about how me and Madonna were close. They concluded that I was biased towards her in the past and was helping her in her career. That made some waves, which came crashing down when they asked for my resignation. I demanded an outrageous amount of money which they were able to pay.

And so, to summarize, I lost my love, i lost my job, and I lost my motive.”

He looked at Madonna, who had her head bent all the way down,” Kind of a crappy thing to do, is it not?”

Madonna didn't answer, and Brad was not holding his breath. Just like before he continued to talk with his stoic expressions.

”It wasn't the best of times. But I eventually got over it. Today, I teach kindergarten students what not to do to a human being. I am also married to a beautiful local girl. And thus, comes my request. Please don't come knocking on my door because I have something to cherish now, and I won't let you take that away from me. Keep your promise, at least one of them, and stay away from us.”

The lingering sound of Brad's harsh words pricked my skin like needles. I didn't cry. I wasn't crying, I had a clear vision. At a single scan of the room I noticed everyone's expressions.

Priscilla was more shocked than joyous. I guess business and personal relations don't work well.

Also, because Blessing dated her ex.

Brad: Calm, collected and unchanged. He was keeping himself in check, which I was grateful for. I can't imagine what he'd do at this level of mental torture.

Madonna: Head Down, embarrassed and ashamed, with eyes seeking forgiveness. Not from me, but from Blessing. It didn't please me that her glares were pointed at him and not me.

”Kyo,” Amaan spoke in my direction,” You don't have to clench your fist too hard, dear. You'll bruise your hands.”

I couldn't understand what she was talking about. But when I paused for a moment and examined myself, I concluded that I was enraged. I was having a headache so bad it could turn anyone unconscious. I was gritting my teeth. And I was pointing all of my anger towards Brad.

Maybe Brad was not being calm. Maybe he was keeping himself in check so as I can contain myself. I knew that I was prone to do something stupid if he even tried to breathe near me.

What was I saying? I was never that volatile. I heard myself thinking those terrible things and got ashamed of myself. I was Madonna.

Right at that moment Madonna put her hand on my shoulder. She read the atmosphere and all the possible reactions I could have. It was only me who hadn't grasped my potential to do the worst.

I felt Madonna's trembling palm sitting on my shoulder. As if her whole body sobbed. It was warm, I could feel it through the shirt. It was all too familiar touch that my body was accustomed too. But it belonged to someone who did all those heinous things for some money.

The thought came rushing down and powered my nerves with bitterness. I swatted her hand off of me. In the moment, I wanted the back of my hand to connect with her cheek. I wanted to slap her across the face for not respecting another human being. I wanted to push her down to the ground and ask her where she lost her sanity. I wanted to spit on her, and kick her, and shove her.

I wanted nothing to do with her.

I bit my lower lip and rushed out of the room. I marched away. I walked away. Bottled up my spite and left the table. Just like any other person would do. But I was not just another person in just another situation. I volunteered to do this. I just hoped god would give me brownie points for initiative. But the reality was proving to be a real bitch.

I saw a washroom and rushed inside to escape from the hounding eyes. Ironically, a small room with a toilet, sink and a shower comforted me more that an open terrace with steel chairs ever could. I ran to the mirror to take a good read on myself. As expected, the veins were popping left and right over my forehead.

My body seemed to burn. It seemed like it had boils all over it. It itched for me to be in my skin. I clawed my face until blood gushed out of my cheeks. I screamed like a banshee to spit out my fury. I hugged myself at the waist, trying to twist it for some kind of permanent damage. But I couldn't answer the question I had in my mind.

Who was I really mad at?

I continued to scream until I felt another hand on my shoulders. This time the touch was rugged. It was not smooth, but it had an iron grip. Like someone was saying 'I'm never going to let you go' just from a single contact.