It was a new day, a day for another major argument to erupt between Avish and his goodwife.

Radha halted at the door to her parents' bedroom, her hand placed on the knob. She had just come to say goodnight, but another heated argument was going on in there. A loud, raucous, scary one.

'No, Avish! It's not right!'

'Oh, you sick little runt, you-'

'Why don't you try to understand? There's Radha - at least think about your own goddamn daughter for a-'

'Aaahh! Why did I ever marry this bitch?!'

Her mother sounded crestfallen. 'Why did you ever marry me?'

If she heard any more, Radha would be sick. But her muscles wouldn't obey her. The angry voices of her parents kept coming.

'You know what's your problem, Avish?'

A frightening thud came from the room then, like an object had been slammed against something wooden.

______________________________________

'You know what's your problem, Avish?' Preeti shouted. Sometimes, even goodwives lost their temper.

Avish banged his hand against the wooden table, and a splinter caught his flesh. Blood trickled out. He didn't care, he was going to die soon anyway. 'Tell me! What's my fucking problem?'

'You always want to be in control! You always think what you want! You do realize there are other people in this world, people who care about you! People who want you to be better than what you are . . . but . . you just wanna live in a hole you've dug for yourself, fine! I'm not going to make you crawl out! Least I can do is fill your bloody hole with dirt!'

Avish clenched his bloodied fist. The gash was deeper than he'd anticipated. 'And you know what your problem is, Preeti?'

She didn't utter a word.

'You're too fucking perfect.' And with that he stormed out of the room.

Outside, his daughter was standing with a stupefied expression on her face, ear against their room's wall.

Well, shit.

How much did she hear?

She heard. Every. Single. Fucking. Thing.

'Hey, hon,' Avish said, his chest paining. He had almost gotten used to it by now. 'You want to go to Wonky's today? Or - or should we watch your favorite cartoon, what was it?'

She's not a fucking kid.

The hell she isn't!

Radha's eyes travelled over to her father's hand, in which a length of wood, bloodied, was embedded. She shrank away from him.

'Hey, honey, how about . . .'

But she kept backing away, pushing against the wall. Avish saw her eyes, full of fear. The kind of fear kids show when they see a horror movie or something. He knew that sort of fear. He had experienced it. With his own dad.

She thinks I'm a fucking monster.

(you are)

Avish was to Radha what Dhruv had been to Avish himself.

A monster.

Incarnation of the Devil himself.

Avish had become the very person he had so despised. His life had been turned over its head. He realized how many fucking mistakes he had made. How he would give even his dick to get those choices back, show his dead mother-

(even she's dead because of you, you asshole)

-that he was the ideal person she had thought him to be. Show that fucking man in black he was more than a short, grumbling boy.

But in his heart of hearts, that was exactly what he was.

Wiping his uncompromising tears, his tears of knowing - knowing, finally, that he had officially messed up - Avish dashed out of his house.

Behind his back, Preeti comforted their daughter.

_____________________________________

Norman the Barman was an observant man, and his eyes ogled curiously the bloodied cloth wrapped around Avish's right hand. After a bout of drinks, he finally took the liberty to ask. 'What's that, Mister-Tired-Of-My-Wife?'

Avish gave him the death glare.

Norman shut his trap immediately; his customer's eyes were cancerous. Both figuratively and - yes - literally.

Avish drank till he couldn't anymore. A Superbowl of sorts was playing in the display television, but not a thing would sway his mind right now from rueful contemplation.

'You have heard that saying, Risharb?'

Norman the Barman didn't even object at being called by his real name. His curiosity got the better of him. 'What saying, sir?'

'Life's a bitch.'

'I have, sir, couple of times.'

'Well, it's bullshit. Whoever said that was either a royal cunt or a celibate monk. I'll tell you what the saying should be.'

Norman the Barman patiently awaited.

'It should go like: life's not a bitch. We are.'

Disappointed, Norman opened his mouth to interfere - curiosity killed the cat, dissatisfaction put it in a sack - but Avish didn't heed him any attention. He was looking at his cell.

A message. From Dr. Rahul himself.

'I gotta go, Risharb. Bill me.'

_____________________________________

Avish was balked when he got to know he had been summoned to the hospital for nearly half an hour worth of counselling, all of which roughly amounted up to: We've tried almost all the fancy tricks we have up our sleeves, patient. Now we're going to pull out a wand and flourish. Either the rabbit's coming out of the hat, or the rabbit is dead.

Aye, Avish boy. You have little time left.

_____________________________________

Avish closed his eyes and did something he hadn't done in quite a while now. But somehow the occasion felt right. The time felt right. Everything felt right.

He entered the Void.
_____________________________________

'I was pleasantly surprised when you called for me. This is the first time you have done that in a long time.'

'Twenty-seven years, Bhoo. Twenty-seven effing years.'

'You have kept track of time, I see.'

'I have. I miss being a kid.'

'Your childhood was not particularly sublime, old friend.'

'It wasn't. But I miss it.'

'May I be so rude as to ask why?'

'You're too polite, Bhoo. Loosen up. You never fail to flatter me, you know that, right?'

'You fluster me, old friend.'

'Why do you call me that? Old friend? Do you not still consider me one?'

'Indeed I do. But last time we interacted, it did not go too well.'

'Yeah. It didn't.'

'You did not answer my question.'

'What question?'

'Regarding why you miss your childhood, despite it being so hard on you.'

'Ah, well. I miss being the victim.'

'Pardon? I am afraid I do not understand.'

'You wouldn't. It's . . . fucking weird, really. When I was a victim, everyone picked on me. The Boogies. That's what I called them, right, Bhoo?'

'Positive.'

'And my Dad. Until . . . that blasted night. I swear I could've ended up in jail. I wish I had. I've heard prisoners have a short life . . . then my Mom died. Because of me.'

'It was in no way your fault. Everything went unequivocally as the universe had intended.'

'Stop with that bullshit of yours, Bhoo. It was my fault, and I know it. Since I'm about to die, I might as well fucking accept it . . . Bhoo?'

'Yes, old friend.'

'I thought you were gone.'

'Perhaps if you were to open your eyes, you would see me for yourself.'

'I fear you might not be there.'

'After all these years? You still question my existence?'

'Wouldn't you?'

'Perhaps. I cannot say for certain.'

'Far as I know, this could all be a fucking dream. My whole life, a fucking videogame. And I'm just a character in it. A fucking character with a fucking bad player operating me. Maybe that's why I can't control what I want to do sometimes. Happens with everyone, I suppose.'

'Every human I have met with, yes indeed.'

'Hot fuck. That might as well be true. Then you'd be the operating system. Talking to me. Talking to all fucked up characters of this fucking videogame in different forms. The little voice in all our heads that guides us. The little brain in all our penises and vaginas that makes us - '

'That videogame would be called life then, old friend.'

'Would it?'

'I presume.'

'Could it be so, Bhoo? Or am I just losing it?'

'Well, if it is a videogame, then you have nothing to lose.'

'But it doesn't feel like one.'

'Pity.'

'I hope it were. A videogame, I mean. Because sometimes I wake up and the pain in my groins and my shoulders or my back or whatever the fuck is killing me. The ground feels fake, the walls surrounding me seem fake, my own flesh feels fake, everyone feels artificial. And I don't even mind all that anymore. What hurts is the knowing. The knowing. That this is all real, for me at least. Even if it is a simulation for someone else.'

'I feel for you, old friend.'

'Do you?'

'I do.'

'I guess it was the right decision calling for you, Bhoo.'

'I am glad I am being helpful.'

'Bhoo . . .'

'Yes?'

'What are you?'

'I am me. I am you. I am what you need me to be.'

'No, sorry, wrong question. I forget that you're a tricky son of a bitch, even if you're just inside my head. I guess the real question should be framed differently.'

'I am obliged to answer, old friend.'

'What am I, Bhoo? Take your time.'

'I have had all the time in the cosmos. I have been asked that question before.'

'I'm sure you have, Bhoo. I don't particularly give a shit. I'm almost fucking sure you don't exist. Just answer me in conceit. What the fuck am I? What the fuck are we all? Why the fuck are we at all in the first place? Just . . . answer me.'

'Of course. Let me warn you, the answer might be a major let-down.'

'I don't give a crap.'

'Good enough.'

'So? The answer? I am feeling unwell, make it quick, please.'

'You . . . You are you. You are what you need to be. If you strive something, you only end up achieving what you set out for if you sacrifice, if you give it your all, no matter how harsh life has been to you. If not, you might become successful in the public eye, but inside you are crumbling, you are -'

'Ah fuck, my chest! It's exploding!'

'Are you quite alright, old friend?'

'Oh fuck it! Fuck the world! Fuck cancer! Fuck you! It hurts, God, it hurts!'

'I was under the impression you had stopped believing in the Almighty a while ago.'

'But it fucking hurts! Do something, Bhoo, fucking do something!'

'This will be the last time I will be doing anything remotely like this, old friend.'

'Idon'tgiveafuckorashitjustmakethepaingoaway!'

'Last time, remember. After this, not even the will of the Holder can cease your pain. Or save you from the claws of death.'

'WILLYOUFUCKINGDOSOMETHINGABOUTTHISALREADY!!!'

'Of course . . . there you go . . . just lay down . . . exemplary . . . take a deep breath . . .'

'I CAN'T BREATHE! I CAN'T FUCKING BREATHE!'

'Just believe you can. See? Not so hard now, is it? There . . . nice and steady does it . . . do you feel any better now, old friend?'

'. . . it hurts . . . a lot . . .'

'Good. Then I assume my work here is done.'

'It still aches . . .'

'It will fade. Worry not.'

'Can you tell me how long I have until . . . can you?'

'I am afraid not. But I do need to educate you before I depart, old friend.'

'. . . how?'

'The universe has made you suffer, has it not?'

'Yeah.'

'You are not the only one. There are countless out there who have suffered like you and worse than you. I believe you already know that. That for every misery, someone out there has a greater one. But most of them rely on something, a pole of sorts, to stand and survive this cruel monstrosity called life. Others, like you, have me. In one form or another. Perhaps I am a voice in their head. Perhaps I am there as their actual best friend. Perhaps as their father, or mother, or distant relative. As I said, I have many forms.'

'What're you getting at, Bhoo?'

'Does it hurt still?'

'No. Thank you. Don't try to divert me from the topic.'

'Time cannot be reversed, old friend. Even I cannot do that. And having me as your pole of reliance is in no way a crime. What would be a crime, though, would be to make others suffer the same fate as you. That would be contrary to what the universe deems appropriate, and hence it will make you suffer even greater miseries than before.'

'Stop, Bhoo. Please. I know what you mean.'

'I have to do this. You have to understand.'

'You think I don't! I think about it every fuckin' moment of my worthless goddamn life!'

'I am well aware you do. Yet that in no way suggests you understand.'

'I do, Bhoo, just stop, please - '

'No, you do not. You need to realize it from the within. Everyone who has ever done a single wrong deed does. Even if they think what they've done is not wrong in their books.'

'Don't fuck this up, Bhoo. I beg you.'

'You have suffered, yes. I know that better than anyone else. But in what way are you giving your daughter a different life than yours?'

'Bhoo, shut the fuck up - '

'Or your wife a different one than your mother's? Or any of the people you have ever remotely harmed or hurt? Ask yourself.'

'Shut the fuck up!'

'In what way?'

'I said - '

'Find the answer.'

' - shut the FUCK UP!'

'The answer, old friend.'

'Look over my fucking daughter if you're so fucking concerned! But who are we kidding? You don't exist without me! You're a fucking nobody!'

'Would you rather that I do that?'

'Fuck yeah!'

'All the better for it.'

'Fuck off.'

'Fare thee well, old friend. We are now officially undone.'

If you've read this chapter, if you've followed this story carefully . . .

Well, then there's not a whole lot I would like to say.

Wish you well
xoxo