There’s a Klaus in the House.

foreword: This story is in part inspired by the madness and frenzy evoked by Klaus Kinski on screen. the rest is just a story. It might be a little too dramatic and bizarre for sensible folk, but, “what will be , will be.”

And then it was broken. The moment of exhilarating calm disappeared into a turbulence of everyday words. The silence that had reached a deafening crescendo crashed into a thousand little sharp, tinkling shards that made the wounds bleed again. They held each other in arms like they did in a lifetime and they talked about things that did not matter anyway. They felt the moments before seep away from them, drop by drop, like what they shared seconds before were all surreal, like a Dali painting. But none said it.

In the yellowing glow of the streetlights he watched her silhouette through the window, watched as she gracefully rose and sauntered into the shower. He could hear the water run for a brief while and then she was back in the room. She spoke about being late for work the next day and curled up besides him under the sheets and gradually he could see the lines of her face settle into something he knew so well . The night was serene and yet he felt it to be strangely unsettling. He knew she would be gone tomorrow, only to return at the end of the day as someone else. He would not know her as she was now for a long, long time. When she was like this she loved daisies and he wanted to bring her a garden full of them..but he knew it would not last.

He lifted himself up and walked to the windows through which shone the garish neon lights of the district below, people milling around and exchanging money, food and flesh even at this hour of the night. And he wondered how all this happened again. He had accepted the banality of his existence all too well before and somehow he knew it would be hard to go back there after tonight again. And he hated her for it. He knew she would suffer too and it gave him a grim pleasure. And hurt him too. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl up into nothingness.

He could see a thousand myriad moments framed across the wall of the room and looked at them years later. At this moment though, they seemed vaguely obscene, reminiscent of something that stopped existing long back. Was it since their child died in her womb? He wondered for the twentieth time.. It was at the beginning so gradual that probably none of them had noticed anything, unless of course they had started living their separate lives within the confinement of the same four walls. Or so he thought. The apathy, he mused was in no way celibate. They would still use each other for carnal pleasures, until it became just another chore, in the next few years. And it had stopped bothering him long since. Until today. She had been alive, she had been what she had not been in years. And it awoke in him a hunger to feel again, feel anything at all, with an intensity that he feared to admit to himself.

Would it be different if they were thrown away from each other, he wondered. If one of them got lost somewhere or if they simply went their different ways, as all sense dictated they should have, then, would this numbness still exist? No, that was just not enough, he decided. What if one of them died? And suddenly he could see it in his mind. He pictured how beautiful a corpse she would have made, all peaceful and cold, her hands folded on her chest. He saw himself as a man standing besides her casket in black, gaunt and disheveled, head bowed down. He wondered how that man felt at that moment. He envied that man for all that he was probably feeling, the sharp emotions, the memories, the pain. Would all the graying things ever get their colors back? The fantasy became a thought, and the thought became an obsession. His face grew hot, and he sat their on the window sill with his head between his hands, hands that clawed through his own hair and tried to twist some sense out of them. But none would come save the frenzy that was coursing through his blood, throbbing in his temples, rushing into his head, spreading like a wildfire, annihilating every other thought in its wake.

Eons later, or so it seemed, he stood up. Her soft breath was the only sound that filled the room. Like in someone’s bizarre dream, he walked to the kitchen. His shaking hand found a large knife in one of the drawers.

The sun rose, and filled the room with an even bloodier glow. She lay on the bed, ripped and slashed like a rag doll. He lay on the floor on a pool of blood, the knife clutched in his hand, his eyes staring at nothing but replaying the entire scene in his mind. How her jolt of surprise had changed to a strange look of comprehension, and what he read as a certain sadness. Initially she had tried to scream, but he had forced his hand on her mouth, until her muffled screams stopped. Blood gushed from where he had stabbed her, and he took off his hands from her mouth. She was whispering something, her face contorted in pain and white from the shock, but he could not make out what she said. And he didn’t care at that time. The writhing form on the bed extended her limbs as if trying to hold on to a last vestige of life, but only found the handle of a bedside drawer. The drawer glided open and the hand fell down, with a finality that thundered down into his brain and down every nerve of his being. He felt oddly relieved, and empty. And then to his horror, the numbness started seeping back. He screamed “No!” inside his head, but it was happening all the same. In a vain attempt to distract himself from the numbness, he looked around wildly, in the hope of finding some tiny scrap of thing that would interest him. His eyes fell to the half open drawer that her hand grabbed in her last attempt. There was an envelope inside. He picked it up.

It was the report of a clinic, with her name and yesterday’s date on top. The results said,
“Positive. Pregnancy confirmed.”

And then, the curtains fell.


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