Perspective

It is said that once we die, our life flashes in front of our eyes and what we hear is our own self, describing the events that led to the inevitable. It's the Butterfly Effect; the Butterfly Effect to the single point and it's the road that matters – the choices we made and the path we took. It was in one such haunting winter night that the middle aged found his turns converging to him in a dark alley. There were many a wrong decisions he took; souls he hurt and families he starved. The world is indeed a sophisticated Hunger Game where the participants are also the audiences. He usually kept drunk to muffle the voices in his head and in that dark stretch, his blurred vision did not see his sin dashing towards him, putting an end to the voices once and for all. But he did hear himself again, after his death. What he heard was his soul, describing the fortunate night.

It was a tiring day

There had been a bit too much alcohol

My steps were uneven

Thank God the lane was dark though

I suddenly tripped on a sharp piece of metal; I sighed

I threw it away

A part of it broke

And then I felt the breaths near me; I swung my lousy hands; blood spattered everywhere

I didn't see if anyone was around

I felt the mass in my throat; I could not shout

My heart raced fast and I started to run

I took a firm grip on the dagger and pulled it out

Thoughts started to rush in my mind; I didn't have much time in hand

It grew darker around me as I turned

I could see the silhouette in the distance; it was him

The world is indeed a Hunger Game and in one's death, born is the life of another. That night, while a body lay bloodied in the eternal sleep, there was someone else who finally left a burden of a lifetime with the lifeless mass. He took a blind turn in one of his daily night getaway to see someone in the distance. He got it right this time. All the nights he begged for one opportunity and finally he got his. He knew the reason of the dagger in his company and did not hesitate to have a second thought of his actions. He might meet his choices in a dark winter night someday and again there would be his soul, describing to him. But I wonder, if his soul scripted the events of that night from his perspective, what would it be? It would probably go like this…

I could see the silhouette in the distance, it was him

It grew darker around me as I turned

Thoughts started to rush in my mind, I didn't have much time in hand

I took a firm grip on the dagger and pulled it out

My heart raced fast and I started to run

I felt the mass in my throat, I could not shout

I didn't see if anyone was around

And then I felt the breaths near me, I swung my lousy hands, blood spattered everywhere

A part of it broke

I threw it away

I suddenly tripped on a sharp piece of metal, I sighed

Thank God the lane was dark though

My steps were uneven

There had been a bit too much alcohol

It was a tiring day