The drizzling night sky was partly veiled by dark clouds. The vastness above looked gloomy; it occasionally quivered with suppressed growls of thunder, as if being perplexed by its own ominousness. The forlorn cricket ground seemed to be partially reflecting the wretchedness at the top. Although both teams were now safe and dry, the detritus of the unfortunate event from sometime ago still lingered. 

"What on this earth do you think you are doing?" Mayank groaned like a captive beast as his coach, without providing a satisfactory explanation for the action, plucked him from the dressing room. His light brown wrist was locked under the coach's firm grip.

"Leave me alone!" he yelled again, struggling to chase away from his head the predictions of whatever terrifying experience was awaiting his arrival.

The light stubble on the all-rounder's square face was left alone, and the dark bush of short yet untamed hair adorned his appearance. His eyes, on the contrary, were more like a roughly written book of poetry; life, if they held any, was well concealed from regular minds. The five-foot-ten-inch-tall guy was far away from what one would precisely call a giant, but it could hardly be denied that he looked far too stout to be driven around in that manner. The coach, Sanchit Rodriguez, continued to drag him in silence for a few more seconds; the last drop of his mercy apparently evanesced into thin air following the disgraceful incident.

"Keep your mouth shut and walk!" He at last offered a stern reply without bothering to look back at his intractable pupil.

Mayank held back and pulled his hand with all his might, finally managing to set himself free. He massaged the wrist gently while observing the coach as he turned around, letting his burning glare freeze on him. The Indian all-rounder kept still in the position for a couple of moments before shipping his raven eyes away. "Forget about it. I'm not going anywhere."

Sanchit stood void of words for a while before flinging a short, strict response. "You are coming."

Mayank placed his eyes back on him. "Where?" An unmistakable expression of disgust conquered his face as he spoke. "To the minnow shed, huh?"

The coach's eyes enlarged, signifying that he did not appreciate the rude metaphor. "Minnow or not, you are coming. You got me?"

"What for?"

"You'll apologize to Waseef for what you did."

"Apologize to that cra-"

"Shut up already! You should've thought for a second before acting like a wild thing out there."

The all-rounder rolled his eyes. "That worm should have thought for a second before crushing my foot!"

"Really? This is cricket, not a street fight, just in case you have forgotten. It's a gentleman's game, and we've got to keep it that way. It was unintentional on his part, but what you did was deliberate."

He did not wait for Mayank to reveal his tongue anymore. Confirming a stronger hold of his wrist, he continued to pull him hastily to the opponent's dressing room. Mayank tried to fight back again, ignoring a few pairs of intrigued eyes as they crossed them. The world around him seemed to have faded into nothingness; at the moment, the thorny path to doom was his only reality. The coach was determined to keep his mind off the thoughts of leaving Mayank alone. He was more than done with his audacity.

They were a few steps away when Mayank let out a yelp again, this time in a relatively composed and pleading tone. "Wait!"

The coach stopped and turned around. "What?"

"Bring him out. I'm not going inside and doing it in public."

"Public? Are you serious? It's just them, with no camera peeking from anywhere. If you have such a strong sense of self-esteem, how could you do that on the field, in front of the whole damn world?"

Mayank did not have an answer for that. Overlooking his weak sigh, Sanchit raised his right arm and waved through the glass door. Austin Blake, the opposing team's English coach, caught the sight and calmly walked out of the dressing room.

For the next couple of minutes, Mayank stood still with his feet fastened to the ground while the coaches seemed to be engaged in a serious conversation, marking the end of sentences with thoughtful nods. The words buzzed around his ear like a swarm of bees as he clenched his moist fist. He desired nothing more than the agonizing sensation of having a little flesh ripped from his face.

At the end of the brief discussion, Sanchit seized Mayank's hand and walked inside, accompanied by Austin Blake. The heat of disgrace boiled Mayank's cheeks, leaving his body numb from toe to neck. He pointlessly eyed the proud tiger in the team's logo before placing his defeated gaze down on the snowy, tiled floor. He continued to breathe heavily; he could sense the boys' furious yet curious eyes focused on him, which only supplemented the suppressed eruption inside his mind. For a moment, he wondered if a few drops of disobedient tears would slip down to merrily add to his humiliation.

Unsurprisingly, the environment was still humid there, in the Bangladesh dressing room. Waseef Ibrahim, the captain and the victim of Mayank's rage, sat quietly at his place and observed the three. He had an average height and a complexion that could not be told apart from Mayank's, but the features in his face held something of grace in them. Guessing what they were up to was not a very difficult job for the captain, and he was deeply disturbed by his own predictions. He did not quite like the sight of Mayank's eyes, the fire behind which was blazing insanely. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to tame his desperately racing heart.

Nayif, the tall and bony opener, looked a little out of place by virtue of his pale skin and dark brown hair. He sat beside the captain, taking in the drama through his light rectangular frame. He occasionally stroked the child sitting on his lap. The fair, petite boy was the captain's cousin and did not really belong there; Waseef, despite the complicated process, was compelled to bring him along.

"Waseef?" Sanchit spoke in a composed tone. "Come over here with the kid. Maybe you two will behave more sensibly in his presence."

Waseef threw him an acrid look, which was contested by a hint of peculiar satisfaction on Sanchit's face.

The captain nevertheless complied. He let out a sigh and got up, holding the little boy's hand. Despite his reluctance, he slowly walked to the two invaders. Fayzan clutched to Waseef while checking the sharpness of his front teeth with the tip of his tongue, just in case the bad guy decided to hurt his cousin again.

"Mayank," called Sanchit in a cold voice.

The all-rounder directed his eyes toward the coach.

"Go ahead," he continued. "Fast."

A moment of uncomfortable silence followed.

"I'm sorry," Mayank said in a faint voice, deciding to put an end to it at last.

"It's alright. I should have watched my step," replied Waseef.

Their eyes never met, but the coach looked moderately satisfied. "Okay, that'll do. I hope not to see this again."

Sanchit bent down a little, affectionately directing his palm toward Fayzan's cheek. Waseef, however, lifted the child at once, leading him away from the coach's unwelcome clutch. He ignored Sanchit's narrowed eyes and focused on Mayank.

"Really, Mayank, don't think about it," he said in a gentle voice. "Good night."

"And good night to you too," he added, hurling a displeased stare at Sanchit. "Sir."

The coach smirked as he drew himself closer to the captain. "With that bitterness," he whispered into his ear, "you could have as well called me a son of-"

"How low are you going to stoop?" muttered Waseef.

"I only did what I felt was right. Shouldn't you be happy?"

Waseef looked away, clearly vexed by the response. "I am assuming I am good to go," he said before walking back to his seat.

Both coaches exchanged a few more words before the scene was finally over. Sanchit headed back toward the Indian dressing room in rather quick steps, while Mayank followed him with a lowered gaze. He could still feel the numbness that refused to relinquish his limbs. He wanted to believe that he was simply suffocating behind the bars of one of those deadly yet familiar nightmares, and he would break free any moment with a frightening shake.

As soon as they stepped back into the dressing room, the coach was pulled away by Aanvik, the Indian captain, for a private conversation. Mayank, on the other hand, was left surrounded by his anxious, or more precisely, curious, teammates.

The captain's dense black hair was managed decently; although he was not shorter than Mayank, he possessed a figure a little narrower than that of his. Unlike the all-rounder, his face was adorned by rather composed attributes.

"C'mon!" He sounded utterly upset. "Was that really necessary?"

"Son, listen to me," the coach replied in a grim tone. "I don't love him any less than you do. Trust me, he needed this."

"But Coach-"

"Aanvik-"

He stopped at once, allowing his coach to continue.

"Do you think you can ever do that on the field?"

The captain moved his eyes downward at once, going slightly scarlet in embarrassment. He shook his head.

"Do you think anyone among the rest of the boys would have reacted in that way?"

"Well," the coach carried on, not allowing a response, "anyone from my days wouldn't have either, I believe. I can't just allow our relationship with the team to deteriorate any further because of that one insane guy. It's not the first time, my boy, is it? Fines don't do any good. He needs to learn how to behave himself, even if we have to impart the lesson in an unconventional manner."

"Okay, I understand, but it could have been done differently." Aanvik tried to sound calmer, responding to the coach's stern glare. "I mean, we... we could have waited a bit more. He could go and talk to Waseef all by himself. Waseef would have understood."

"You really think so?" The coach raised his eyebrows. "Your friend is so mad that he won't even let me touch the kid. Was I going to eat him up?"

Aanvik maintained silence. It did not really sound like the Waseef he knew, but he could not deny that he had been acting strange lately.

"Anyway," Sanchit added, "let's drop the matter right here, shall we?"

Aanvik waited for a moment before offering an involuntary nod. He walked off to Mayank, finally realizing that was the best he could do at the moment.

The sky cleared up within no time, but fierce winds banged against the windows of the two buses that were occupied by the teams. They were on their way toward the hotel. The environment was unusual in both vehicles; one was shrouded in uncomfortable silence while the other witnessed a few compressed rants.

Not a single word escaped Mayank's tongue as he reached his allotted room. He slammed the door shut in Aanvik's face, and it was the least the latter could expect from an unsettled Mayank. Aanvik, being his closest friend since childhood, knew what was next in line. He stood silently in front of the closed door for a minute before swallowing the urge to knock and heading toward his own room.

Finally being blessed with the much-sought solitude, Mayank let his body slightly burrow through the immaculate surface of the bed, offering the thunderstorm from before a place in his soul. For a moment, he felt his entity lose itself in between the deafening sound and the dense misfortune. But then, all of a sudden, he heard a knock on his head, which reminded him of his very own way of digging out. The guilty hand belonged to something ominous and abstract-something that resided securely in the core of his soul, guarded by Mayank himself, either willingly or reluctantly, gladly or grievously.

He jumped down from the bed at once. For a couple of minutes, he remained glued to his position, repeating to himself that he was sure of it. The next moment, he grabbed a bag lying in the corner and searched deliberately every inch of it before he finally got his hand on the thing. He held it firmly in his grip and set off for the washroom in reckless steps.

In no time, he was standing like a lifeless statue, his eyes stuck right on the ones of his weary reflection. He overlooked his heart, which was kicking hard against the wall of his chest. His attention was fully conquered by the flame of hatred that was dancing behind the glass.

His eyes shimmered brilliantly as he moved them toward the thing in his hand. The key, or that is what he believed it to be.

Thin, sharp, and glossy. A blade.

He placed his hands side by side. The left sleeve was pulled up, and the right one eagerly held the weapon.

All his brutality spilled out; he watched with keen eyes as the blade viciously scratched his skin.

In the twenty-eight-year old story, the wrist vein was spared one more time. After several strikes, the blade was finally dropped. In front of him was a hazy view of a pool of blood. Everything around seemed to be sprinkled with an unearthly shade of red.

A barely audible groan escaped his throat. He was being stung by a feeling that was ambiguous. It was pain. It was agony. Yet it was the thing that the darkness in him relished the most. Mayank smiled feebly through the ominous nightmare and set his eyes on his reflection once again. Blood flowed out wildly from the slits, munificently blessing his soul with a taste of bizarre satisfaction.