Obsessed

I've been always been intrigued with obsessions; having a few myself (probably not dangerous ones, *smile* ) they amuse me to no end. So when two of my most favourite readers did posts on obsessions (Incurably Yours and Pink), I decided to join the party!

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Walking through the crowd on a busy street she was thinking of him.
Going through the daily chores she was thinking of him.
At the mall, at the workplace, at the basketball court, she was thinking of him.

She was obsessed with him, and she knew it.
She loved her obsession and enjoyed it.
She enjoyed the pleasure the obsession got her.
She enjoyed the pain it brought her.
She enjoyed every moment of her obsession.

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Every evening, she would come home and talk to him. Tell him the entire story of her day, what she did-where she went-who she met-who said what-what she told whom; the whole story! She listened to what he told her, she loved his advice. She loved he held her hand when he spoke to her. She loved the way his hand caressed her the nape of her neck; she loved the way his hands played with her hair. She could stare at him for hours to no end; she was so in love.

She wasn't selfish, was she? Of course not. So she listened patiently to his story of his day. She knew he didn't like being interrupted, so she politely smiled and nodded at the right time. She thought he was the smartest guy on earth - and she knew all his stories by heart. Like the time he outwitted his boss in a meeting and impressed everyone there to become his boss's boss the very next hour. Or the time he saved an old woman on the street from stray dogs. Oh and the time he ran to get into a train he missed and managed to catch the train - that was her fault actually, she loved having him drink tea with her and couldn't bear him going away. She laughed at those stories. Oh, he was just so funny... he could turn the dullest stories to the most interesting and hilarious ones!

Suddenly a wave of depression came over her. She realised that he would be going that evening to Mumbai for 3 days. She hated when he went away. She had no one to speak to. No one to admire her, no one to approve her work, no one to crib to, no one to laugh with. She hated his boss; she hated his work; she hated the entire world. She hated herself for loving him; she hated him for loving her; she hated him for being there. She started hunting frantically for his picture. She would shred it in the shredder - it would serve him right for not resigning from that job. But she couldn't find the picture. She knew she had kept it with her perfumes, and broke a bottle trying to locate the picture.

"Well, it was just another bottle of perfume", she sighed.

And as the script said, the broken glass cut her foot, her pretty foot. The pain cut through her, she still couldn't locate the picture. She could take it no more and started crying on the bed, her foot bleeding and the blood making a mess of the sheets besides dripping all over the floor. As always.

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It was a good 4 hours before she woke up. She tried putting her foot down but there was an excruciating pain in her leg, and then she remembered the events of the evening. He had to fly to Mumbai, she remembered. And she had to clear the mess.

"God! Why does he do this to me? And why do you do this to me? Why do I hurt myself each time he travels out of the city?"

She took a deep breath and started to clean the mess. Looking wistfully at the bottle of perfume - 'twas a good fragrance. She hoped he left her a note, but realised he hadn't.

"He was probably angry with me again, how stupid of me to hurt myself"

And went to the kitchen to get herself a cup of hot tea. She never liked drinking tea alone, but he wasn't there to give her company. She had started enjoying the pain, the pain in her leg every time he was to travel out and she broke the perfume bottle and the glass cut her leg. The masochist in her loved him travelling out and loved her breaking the perfume bottles for her to cut herself. The tea and the pain put her on a new high. She figured if she can't talk to him, she might as well pretend she was talking to him. So she played the game and told him about her day. By now she knew the drill; she knew what to tell him. She pretended she was on the phone, she pretended he called her from Mumbai. And she started apologising about the perfume bottle and the mess in the bedroom, and about all that blood. She knew blood nauseated him and she went on to tell him how sorry she was. He was as usual patiently listening.

His patience sometimes got onto her nerves. And today, she lost it.
Why can't you ever lose your temper?
Why don't you shout at me?
Why don't you slap me?
Why don't you abuse me?
Why don't you tell me I'm a psychiatric case?
Why don't you throw me out of the house for me to fend for myself?
Why at least why don't you tell me to change my job, my clothes, my hairstyle, the way I cook food?
Why don't you ever say anything Raj?
Why Raj, Why?

But this time there was no answer. She shouted and shouted and kept shouting till she broke down and started crying again.

She knew something was wrong. She knew she needed help. And she knew it was already too late. She knew she was obsessed with a figment of her imagination, she knew Raj didn't exist; she knew she was playing games with herself. And yet, she needed Raj. He was her need, for her to survive. She needed him to take care of her, she...

And once again her brain went into a state where her obsession with Raj was controlling perception of reality.