You only regurgitate once.

I feel like throwing up already. The street I am walking through smells faintly of carbolic acid and soap strips, but I keep walking. My footsteps can hardly be called discreet because I feel them echoing through the night, rendering everything else quiet. My gait is unsteady - I have no idea why - and my shirt looks like it had seen better days in the garment factories. I wipe my forehead on my sleeve and stop at a crossroads, unsure of which road to take to get to my destination. Then, I check myself - do I really know where I am going, or is this another pointless exercise I have to undertake to get rid of my little fragilities? I am horrified that I don't know the answer. Then, something happens which makes me want to scream but my voice is muted by a force unseen.

I see myself coming out of every house around the intersection, every shop, every unguarded alleyway, every abandoned parking lot. Like clones. Only that they have derisive grins on their face, like my predicament humours them. But, no one speaks a word. Suddenly, I feel the blood returning to my legs and I run. I run so fast that my sneakers do not make a sound. In my ears, I hear a familiar song playing. It comes to me in wisps of sound and thunder. Nine Inch Nails - Just Like You Imagined. Soon, my legs start to go limp, and after a while, I find myself disgracefully hurtling to the ground. I see the asphalt rushing to meet me, and I let it hug me. For now.

When I open my eyes, I find myself looking at a pair of well-fitting Italian shoes. My eyes trail upwards to see the owner of the feet and let out a small groan. It is him. He kicks me in the face a couple of times and then steps back to appreciate his handiwork. My lips are a tattered mess, and my right cheekbone is (possibly) broken. I cannot even scream for help, because he's kicked me in the neck, and my larynx refuses to co-operate.

'You're a man in a box. You are so weak that that I do not even feel any pity, like a lab-rat who you know will play in his cogwheel unless you feed him another lettuce leaf. I do not even know why I despise you or all that you stand for. You were always sure no one could get to your ivory-tower existence, that no one could defeat you except you. Look who's on the ground now'.

He kicks me in the stomach, and I hear the familiar sound of bone giving way under metal. I look at him, and I can taste the blood that is now trickling from the corner of my lips.

'Look at yourself. You're a mess. Did no one ever tell you that your accountability is almost down to zero? Anyway, I have a small present for you. Look'.

I follow his finger, and I gasp. Slumped against a wall are torn, mutilated bodies of women who I cannot recognize. Their stomachs show hundreds of lacerations, and the skin on their limbs is so badly mutilated I can see yellow bones wink at me in the moonlight.

'You know who they are? You slept with them, promised them you'd stick to them come what may and then you fled, afraid to be brought to terms with your commitments. Those are the charred remains of all that is left of them. Tonight, you decided to kill me. You thought you could do away with me and neglect the part of your life that needed to be cut out. I helped you pick the scabs and now I'll kill you. Slowly. Painfully. Isn't reality kicking in already?'.

He lifts my bloodied chin and takes a knife to it. The world goes black.

When I come to, I realize I'm in the middle of a cemetery, clutching my chest. I'm lying in the all-too-damned foetal position. All around me, the tombstones stand like toppling dominos frozen in time. He's gone. For now. Where on that little tetrahedron of time did I lose my balance? I am not sure.

Back-flip and doubletake.

Kurt Vonnegut died today. This is not good news,is it,Billy?

Shalom.

I know it's not the rain that woke me up because I find myself falling asleep to the rain more often than not. So, I open one bleary eye and reach for the light. My arm misses the switch by a couple of inches, and I fall headfirst onto the pillow. I notice by the light of the pale moon streaming in through my window, that my bedside clock reads 2:30 AM. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand, and squint at the window. There is an unmistakable bulge in the curtains, something that looks out of place here, in the serenity of my bedroom. There is a huge china ashtray on my study table, with a few spent cigarette butts inside it. I am startled by its presence because I don't smoke. Yet.

I proceed cautiously towards the window and yank at the pullstring. I stifle a tiny scream, as I see the dim outline of a man in a suit. As he turns to face me, I see that an unlit cigarette dangles precariously from the corner of his lips. His suit is well-tailored and he is clean-shaven.

'Hello, I have been waiting to meet you, you genetically-tainted bastard. Lovely weather, no?', he says.

As the moonlight hits his profile, I collapse to the ground.

He looks like me. Talks like me. Is me.

Strained Emotion - Entr'acte.

I stand behind my desk. My shirt is dirty, my head is hung and I stare at my soiled shoes with the irreverent concentration of a lumberjack. There is a woman in the classroom. The sari she has draped around her meaty shoulders threatens her integrity to fall to the floor in a heap of dishonour. I am being visually raped by the sightless eyes of my classmates. For them, it is a commonplace thing - the berating of a high-school student by the Prinicipal. My dignity is being questioned, and all I can do is chuckle. I am taken aback by my own glee. It's unnatural. My fingernails beat a slow, meditative tattoo on the desk. I look up to find the woman wagging a stubby finger at me. Flecks of spit crowd the corners of the teachers downturned lips. She tells me my behaviour is unacceptable. She says she doesn't care that I bring her school wreaths-of-glory or the ceaseless attention of international school journals. I shuffle my feet impatiently. The girl beside me, who I have been fucking for two weeks now, is giggling at my nonchalance. The giggle becomes a cackle and then, silence. The bell rings. The students block the doorway and amused classmates slap my back, and, in the distance, I can hear the tinny sound of the metal clasps of lunchboxes being unfastened. My unseeing eyes roam the length of the classroom, and then they focus on the sympathetic eyes of the girl I'm fucking. I feel no remorse, no guilt, no pain and I feel like Trent Reznor. She hugs me, and leads me outside. I follow effortlessly. We find our bags and sling them around our shoulders, while we head for the Main Gate. She goes on about how the Principal is a snout-faced douchebag and how she plans to spend the evening with her friends at Pop Tates'. We take a rickshaw to my house. My parents are not in sight. There is a note on the fridge. It says they will be back by ten. She wraps her arms around my neck. I don't respond. She starts kissing me. Blur.

I wake up in my room to find her asleep next to me. I raise myself on one elbow, prod her in the shoulder and tell her it's late. She dresses quickly, pecks me on my unshaven cheek and leaves. Something's changing. It's ubiquitous. And I can feel the emotion clogging up my arteries, travelling up to the hypocampus, choking my thalamus till I am out of breath. I do not know why I am doing this. I do not know why I am doing this. I put my face in my hands.