Participate in the 3rd Season of STORYMIRROR SCHOOLS WRITING COMPETITION - the BIGGEST Writing Competition in India for School Students & Teachers and win a 2N/3D holiday trip from Club Mahindra
Participate in the 3rd Season of STORYMIRROR SCHOOLS WRITING COMPETITION - the BIGGEST Writing Competition in India for School Students & Teachers and win a 2N/3D holiday trip from Club Mahindra

The Beautiful Insanity

The Beautiful Insanity

5 mins 301 5 mins 301

"It tugs at me, you know, this way and that until I move to its beat. A magnetic pull, so alive and energetic. Like a wife, it orders me, screams at me. sometimes. Oh, it does. And other times, it is like a mistress, seducing me with its tempting grasp. Both are hard to ignore, to disregard. If I don't relinquish, it will squeeze me out, until the last drop and then I will be no more. Yes, I know, I am getting half way towards the mark of insanity, but... It is beautiful, this insanity."

The doctor stares at me, wordless. I have a tendency to make people inarticulate. It's all part of the game, I suppose.


His white coat is so unobtrusive, his steep nose so ordinary. Just another man, trying to get into my mind, the mind that, oftentimes, even I can't get into...

Oh, bother! I smirk.

"Ms. Nitha... I would say you're too into it, but somewhere along the way, you know it, you know it is wrong. It is dangerous, this addiction, any kind of addiction."

Like I don't know that.


"But doctor, this one, this enslavement is inevitable. I must be suffered, such is the fate ordained. Like a colorful jellybeans put in front of a diabetic, it tempts me, to teeter forward and to extirpate everything that stands in the way, my way, our way. You should understand, doctor, I have no leash upon it. The leash is in its hand, its enticing hand." I sigh. I am already tired of explaining myself, over and over again.

He stares again, a long time. Scratches his bald head and clears his throat. The sign of nervousness. Humans are fascinating creatures... They -- he -- is one of the reasons I am so addicted to this.


"Ms. Nitha, let me put it this way... Any vices can be abolished if you just give it a try... You-"

I wave a hand, "Oh, an alcoholic can give up on alcohol if he eschews from where it is. But mine, my addiction, it is in the head, doctor. I can run, far and wide, to nihilism, and it will still march along with me. I am a new melody and, it is my violinist. I am the vagrant, and it is my GPS system. We are bound together, intricately interwoven. One can not come away, without breaking the other."

He takes a long breath. "Ms. Nitha, this fascination is rather far-fetched, I understand. Even a drug addict put forth the same theory about why he can't escape. It is nature, human nature. But... Anything can be stopped."


"You don't understand, about how it works. As I sit there, I can conceive a thousand ways to murder and slip through even the tightest of fingers. I don't put any effort into thinking about the scenario. It just comes, a rabid dog, attacking, until I lose to it."

Beads of sweat, like little pearls, appear in his forehead. He twitches, his eyes widen and dilates. Fear is a very constraining emotion, fear tends to overrule common sense, I know, and now, this man fears me.


"...It is like a storm, doctor, hurrying in, a hurricane so intense not even the great wall of China can bar it. It only goes away once it is satiated, its hunger must be fed. It is a glut, and it eats, and eats, off me..."

He laughs a nervous ring. His finger creeps towards the phone.


This enslavement is inevitable. I must be suffered, such is the fate ordained. Like a colorful jellybeans put in front of a diabetic, it tempts me, to teeter forward and to extirpate everything that stands in the way. I have no leash upon it. The leash is in its hand...

"I can call your wife, doctor, and explain the crease in your white shirt. You must have been tallied with your accountant, or must have partied with your receptionist... It's not personal to me, doctor, just a game I play. The curtains have been raised... Your drama begins! Your wife barges in ready for her revenge and finds you slashed, blood spilling out of your gut. She calls the police, and your affairé is discussed. She, the first suspect. They call me, of course, I was the last you see. But then they'll see my face... How can I be the killer? It is all so easy doctor. Am I insane?"

He pushes the chair back, stands up, waves a frantic hand. "No, you can go, Ms. Nitha."


"Do I need to book my second appointment?"

"No, you are not insane, you needn't come again." Ever, he doesn't say.

"Thank you, doctor. I am pleased you understand. But, like I said, this insanity is beautiful." I sashay out.

Walking inside the bookstore, I pause in front of the hilltops of books. Good and bad, oh, how I love 'em all.


'Hey, it's Nitha Sharma, the mystery writer.' One woman whispers, pointing me. Many whisper follows, as I pull out a Sylvia Path and Kristin Higgins.

My phone rings. My Editor flashes on the screen. I answer with a smile. I know why she is calling me now.


"Nitha, why is Karthi, the patient, the perpetrator, and not Leesa, like you, originally said. The psychiatrist's wife found out about his extra-marital affair and kills him according to the cops. But Leesa didn't kill him, although everything points to her, and Karthi did. And Karthi escaped. All so......con-" She pauses.

"Because I can..." I laugh, "because I CAN"


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