A Love Story

I hate addictions of all kinds.

I first saw Kartik when I was six years old and he was eight. Kartik had always been a bully. Bullying his little sister into giving him all her chocolates, his parents into buying him the latest play station, bullying me into doing his homework, his friends into giving all their play cards to him.

Kartik's sister Kajal once ran up to me panting, all sweating, and told me, "Bhaiya has your photo on his mobile phone screen. I think he really likes you." And I had no idea from where did he find one. I hated getting clicked by anyone. The moment I saw the photo, I knew this wasn't taken with my consent. When I asked him to take it down, he refused. Furthermore, he forcefully clicked a selfie with me and made me put it on my mobile phone screen.

Another level of bullying.

Kartik and I went to the same college. He was my senior, obviously, and he made me dance to his tune. He made it a point of kissing me every time we bumped into each other in public. Flying kisses. I felt humiliated. I told my parents but obviously they were so much in love with him that they wanted me to be so too.

College level of bullying.

Slowly and steadily, I saw Kartik for who he was: a lifetime bully, and I became his favorite. People called me paranoid. Girls wanted to "feel" the way I was supposed to feel with all that lovey-dovey display of affection. They wanted me to feel lucky. But I couldn't.

Then one day, I was forced into marriage with my bully. By our parents, our siblings, our friends, and the society we lived in. We were one happy couple, childhood sweethearts, they said. Made for each other, they said. College romance, they said. A culprit with his victim, I said.

Life became a living hell for me. He, on the other hand, was living the life of his dreams. He got what he wanted the most- me. Nights turned into nightmares with his hands touching me all over and he pushed himself onto me. He wanted to touch me all the time. He started working from home, made it a point to touch me at least once in a minute. Fed me with his own hands, and made me feed himself in return. We lived away from our families, in a desolate place, on the outskirts of the city. His closeness to me made me feel breathless. I couldn't breathe in his presence. His "love" for me was becoming a lifetime punishment for me.

All my life, I hated addictions of all kinds. I hated addiction to phones, to television. I hated it with clicking pictures. I hated it if someone kissed me, even if it were my own parents. I hated being touched. I hated addiction to food. I hated the addiction of a person.

And he was addicted to me.

So I had to kill him, by slitting his throat, while he was busy preparing my birthday greeting card, from the back.

And I'm not sorry for it.