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241

Prose

She who lies

Rupali Kathal

She glares at me, "You will be left with nothing"

I turn the radio on.

The music flows into a tired mind; it is not sudden. Not a siege on the senses, but a more diplomatic strategy. It approaches silently, offering a subtle opinion, a quiet melody to hum in the background. Within seconds, the tune is no longer alien. Now the melody evolves into a slightly stronger version—not overpowering, just strong enough that its arms can rest on the tired temples. A circular motion of notes, tension loosening from the grip of stubborn muscles, let free. Now the melodies are no longer nameless; they run deep, hitting the hypothalamus, stirring feelings long forgotten, mimicking ones that never existed, and you are transported to another land. The attack is complete; the frog is cooked.

Music had that power. To generate pseudo-emotions, lamenting the loss of fabricated love.

Or perhaps it's a substitute for feelings buried from another lifetime.

I don't know why my mother lies.

But she lies to me every day.

The stairway is empty. I turn back to the window. I trace the million tiny cracks on the window's corner where it meets the wall. I can still see the silhouette of Agha Chacha leaving. It has started to snow, the figure would soon be lost in snow. Any second he could stop breathing. And drop dead. A storm was to come, Mother is never wrong about the weather. By morning he would be buried deep inside layer and layer of snow. It would take police days to find his body.

My reflection in the mirror has aged. I realize instead of the cracks I am tracing the wrinkles of my reflection, "He will take everything"

"No, he won't" I try to convince Mother. But she just won't listener

"Why did you poison him?" The face was distorted, white snow sticking to the window, and the view was turning opaque

"You told me to"

"I am dead" My mother replied

"No, you are not" I smile, "Stop lying"

My mother lies

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