Us

The page was blank. Just like his mind. His hand quivered, faltered, almost dropped the pen.

Everything had been perfect, like a dream.
Was it maybe, really that? Just a dream?
He wasn't sure what to believe or who to trust anymore.
His heart was overflowing with a million emotions, and yet, not a single one of them were betrayed in his expressions or his actions.
Everyone around him kept telling him how he ought to be feeling, how he was supposed to behave, but all he felt was an emptiness. A certain loneliness that he was beginning to enjoy the company of.
He put the pen down on the table.
He had intended to write down his story. Their story.
What was he supposed to write?
Where was he supposed to start?
Was he meant to start from the beginning, from the day they first met? From when their eyes had locked gazes and he had told himself that she was definitely the one?
Or was he to write about when she had first confessed her feelings for him, with a blush on her face and a smile lingering in her eyes.
Or perhaps the first time she had kissed him.
It hadn't been perfect. As far as first kisses went, it had been a disaster. But it had been the first time she had kissed him.
To him, that itself made it perfect beyond belief.
He looked at her name for inspiration, etched into his skin, into his arm.
Etched deep into his heart.
She had laughed when he had first told her about it.
The way she laughed.
The light twinkle in her eyes that he was certain only he noticed when she laughed, when she truly laughed.
Like that time.. When was the last time he had heard her laugh?
His mind was blank.
Just like the page.

The first time they had fought.
It had been over something rather silly, a dropped phone call. Something they both agreed was rather funny in hindsight.
The first time she had shouted at him. It had left him so deeply hurt, completely heartbroken at the simple thought that even for a single moment, she hated him for something.
There had been a hundred apologies from both sides.
And then she hugged him, and her momentary hatred no longer mattered. He knew she loved him.

He noticed the swiss knife on his table. It had been a gift from his father.
'It's not a toy', he'd said, 'only use it in case of emergencies when nothing else can do the job'.

He looked down.
The blank page stared up at him, taunting him, teasing him.

And then there was that night.
The abuses.
The tears.
The shouting.
The fears.
The hatred.
Their love.
The pain.
The sorrow.
His sobbing.
Her glee.
It's not You
It's Me.

His hand, trembling just a moment ago, steadily clutched onto the knife now.
What was this, if not an emergency?
With a quick, calculated jab of the blade he made an incision on his arm, right below her name.
A half-surprised gasp escaped his lips. The pain had been expected. What he hadn't expected was the ecstasy that accompanied the pain.

Finally, he was in control.

Slowly but surely, he kept cutting, till her name was encircled by a smooth red crevice marred by a few rough scratches.
And then he peeled her name right off.

Drops of blood sprayed out, falling on the table.
He noticed some of the blood had fallen on the piece of paper too.

At least it was no longer blank.