~Sticky notes~
Varun Reddy

 
May 3rd

5:36 AM

Why is that hatred flows in my veins instead of blood?  

Why is it that I only taste the bitterness of anger? 

Why is it that my resentment continues festering like an open wound, growing more infected daily? 

When will these toxic emotions leave me? They have taken over, poisoning my mind and soul. 

Will it be when I drown in their acidic depths?

I closed my worn leather journal and placed it on the desk beside me. Journaling had become a part of my morning ritual, a necessity for maintaining my tenuous grip on sanity. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when it evolved into an obsessive compulsion, but I vividly remembered the day the floodgates burst open.

It started as a dull ache, a nebulous sense of unease that my mother said eventually would pass. But as days turned into weeks and weeks bled into months, the ache metamorphosed into a searing agony that threatened to claw to the surface and spill my secrets to the world. The indescribable suffering continued to rapidly accumulate with no outlet for release until it felt like I would spontaneously combust from the sheer force of the turmoil churning within me.

In one of those desperate moments, I reached for the tattered notebook, fingers trembling as I tore off the cover and began to expel a torrent of anguish onto every page of the notebook. 

Some days, the words poured in a frenzied, scratchy scrawl– a raging torrent of raw emotions and fragmented thoughts bleeding furiously on the lined sheets. At first, my writing was a feverish chaos of half-formed sentences and disjointed phrases as I struggled to match the emotions running through me. On other days, I simply wrote a word or phrase that I then vigorously crossed out, the ink so thick that it often tore clean through in anguished punctures. Then there were those days when I was left inexpressible in any language. Those were the moments that I scratched my pen against paper in abstract sketches and haunting doodles. Dark spirals and jagged lines morphed into visages seared into my memory. 

Without that daily purging, I was worried that the insidious storm of demons lurking within me might finally reduce me to ashes.

My fingers trembled as I pulled out a lone cigarette from its hiding spot. I turned the cigarette over and over between my fingertips studying it. Such a pesky little thing, a tight roll of dried tobacco leaves wrapped in paper. For some it was a stress reliever and others it was a status symbol, for me it was a chilling reminder of one of the darkest moments of my life that kept playing itself over and over in my mind like a sadistic movie I couldn’t turn off.

I traced the white cylinder gently with my thumb as intrusive memories of that night came flooding back in vivid detail as usual. The dank, musty smell of the deserted alleyway mingled with the stench of cheap alcohol and body odor as he shoved me hard against the cold brick wall. I’ll never forget the malicious glint in his beady eyes as he lit it up, cupping his hands around the flame to protect it from the drizzle that had begun. That first sickening breath of acrid smoke filled my lungs, burning, choking me. I wanted to cough, to gasp for air, but I was too terrified to move, paralyzed by the dark look on his twisted face. A humorless smirk creeped across his cracked lips as he took another long drag, holding the thick smoke in his lungs. Then he leaned in close, our faces just inches apart, and slowly exhaled the toxic plume directly into my mouth and nostrils.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I sputtered, vile smoke filled every crevice, poisoning me from the inside out. His gravelly chuckle echoed off the narrow walls and I flinched, my heart jack-hammering as he suddenly grabbed my arm and before I could react, he jammed the glowing cherry of the cigarette hard against the flesh of my forearm.

The searing pain was blinding, overwhelming every other sense as the unmistakable stench of my own sizzling flesh overpowered the repugnant cloud of cigarette smoke and laughter from the devil who stood in front of me. An involuntary shrill cry escaped my lips and he immediately clapped his filthy hand over my mouth, muffling my screams. 

That night, he continued to maneuver the smoldering cylinder against any part of my skin he felt like. I wish I could say that my skin was all he had scarred that night. 

The next morning, I awoke to the sight of my mother’s bruised and swollen face, her eyes puffy from crying. She immediately pulled me into a crushing embrace, her body wracked with heaving  sobs. She didn’t ask what happened to me in the alleyway and I spared her the details, but she knew something was wrong beyond my scarred flesh. She cried for me and her weakness, for her inability to protect me. I said nothing, staring blankly over her trembling shoulder. At that moment, I didn’t feel an ounce of sadness. I only felt seething, white-hot anger coursing through my veins. 

Rage that this cruel injustice was the only life I knew. As her tears dampened my tattered shirt, I silently vowed that I would not allow this to be our reality forever. The blind fear I had harbored toward my father for so many years dissipated, replaced by a resolve of steel. I would change the trajectory of my life by whatever means necessary. I would claw my way out of this generational cycle of deprivation and violence even if it required every ounce of my relentless effort. From that day forward, I poured every fiber of my being into my studies, knowing academics were my only hope of elevating beyond my current circumstances. I studied feverishly every possible moment, becoming oblivious to the chaos erupting around me. I studied as my father stumbled home night after night in drunken stupors, shouting threats about selling my mother and me to settle his debts. I studied through my belly aching with hunger pangs.  I studied through the sounds of him smashing what few belongings we had in blind fits of rage. I studied immediately after tending to my mother’s latest injuries, then she to mine. I studied after lighting my father’s pyre. I was desperate to make sure that my father wouldn’t find peace even in the afterlife that I prayed to the Almighty that never listened. 

I’m jarred back to the present when the unlit cigarette slipped through my fingers. I picked it up again. Turning it over in my palm, I let out a hollow, haunted laugh as the tsunami of traumatic memories crested again. My father had peddled me, his 10-year-old son, to one of his depraved drinking buddies for a cigarette and a bottle of cheap liquor. 

I carefully slid the single cigarette back into the secret pocket of my tattered suitcase. I had no plans of smoking it, not yet at least.I had purchased this single cigarette on a whim from a corner shop near my house the day I had received my admissions letter to Imperial University. Anytime the grueling grind of endless assignments and all-night cram sessions tried to extinguish my resolve, I would remove the cigarette to remind myself why I was doing this. 

After my shower, I pulled on a long-sleeved red t-shirt, ensuring the cuffs were tugged down all the way to my wrists. I paired the shirt with a crisp set of black trousers. Unlike most of the students on the campus, my clothes weren’t new or branded, but I made sure to iron out every single wrinkle and crease. 

With my overstuffed backpack slung over one shoulder, I headed out of the dorm room. Mornings on campus were usually quiet, with only students looking to get a head start on their academics and athletes in the midst of their morning practice. 

As usual I first made my way to the cafeteria to grab a smoothie and pre-packed breakfast option. Then I walked to the secluded lake I hung out in the mornings. Unlike the sleek, contemporary buildings that dotted the main campus, the administrative building and main library were built during the British era. It had once served as a  police headquarters for them before they repurposed into what we now called Imperial University.

As I settled onto a weathered bench, I noticed the ducks as they bobbed and glided across the surface. I continued watching the mother duck shepherding her waddling little ones along the muddy bank while eating my breakfast.

Once I was done, I pulled out my second hand laptop from my bag and began pecking away at my applications from the coveted international exchange programs to top universities in the US and UK. It would be an immense uphill battle, but Dhananjay Sir, the new progressive-minded dean, had taken a look at my material and reassured me he saw potential.

The previous administration had been too keen on catering to the wealthy kids and their parents. But Dhananjay Sir...he seemed to be cast from a different mold altogether. He seemed to emanate a genuine compassion for the disadvantaged. His advocacy had already helped me secure crucial scholarships and grants to continue my education.

Still, I didn’t completely trust his motives. Too many times in my life I had been offered hope and meaningless platitudes, only to be discarded aside at their first convenience. 

Regardless, I was determined to work twice as hard for these applications. 

I reread the part of the essay I had written last night before making edits to it. The shrill ring of my phone interrupted my focus. I quickly snatched it up, not even uttering a greeting because I knew she would instantly launch into her barrage of questions and motherly fretting the moment I picked up. When I got into Imperial University, my mother, determined to ensure I could focus on my studies without distraction, got a job in the town hospital’s cafeteria, providing her accommodation in the staff quarters so I wouldn’t worry about her and we could spend time together on the weekends. 

“Varun, I’m so sorry the manager called us in for a meeting last minute. I hope it’s not too late. Can you talk?” Her words tumbled out. She sounded breathless. 

“It’s alright, Ma. I can talk,” I said, shutting my laptop and sliding it back into my backpack. “I still have 15 minutes before my first class.”

“Oh good…” I could practically hear the relief in her voice as some of the tension released from her voice. “How are you, sweetie? Did you sleep well? And please tell me you remembered to eat breakfast this morning.”

“I’m fine, Maa,” I replied, instinctively pitching my tone to be as warm and reassuring as possible so she would stop worrying about me unnecessarily. “I slept well and yes, I did eat. Did you remember to take your medication?” The telling pause was all the answer I needed.

“Maa, come on,” I scolded. “Do you at least have it with you?”

“Yes, yes I do,” she responded. “I just had the early shift this morning and it slipped my mind that’s all.”

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose as I rose from the bench. Of course she was putting her own health before mine. I hated that she did that. She shouldn’t worry about me. No one should. 

“There I’ve taken it now,” she stated matter-of-factly, as if that would erase my frustration. 

“Good! Remember what the doctor said. You need to be on top of this, Maa.”

“Okay. Okay. I will. I promise,” she placated. “I have to go now. You go and have a good day.”

“Okay. Bye,” I murmured before hanging up. 

📕

The hallways swarmed with students. The new attendance policy by the dean ensured that no seats in the lecture halls would remain empty at least this semester. 

I ignored the judgmental gazes as I maneuvered through the crowd. Most of them were the scions of India’s ultra-wealthy elite and social royalty who oozed an aura of unearned self-importance. Their sneering disdain didn’t affect me anymore. I’d grown virtually numb to their behavior through the years because of being treated as the outcast.

They hated me for their reasons, and I hated them for mine. They coasted by on legacy admissions and parent’s bank accounts, some of us spent every waking moment grinding away. 

I mindlessly entered the classroom, legs carrying me by muscle memory to my usual seat before I paused, noticing the chair beside mine was unexpectedly occupied. By none other than Sanjana Thappar herself.

She was the embodiment of everything I despised - the prototypical spoiled rich girl who oozed an infuriating air of entitlement and privilege. The kind who assumed the entire world revolved around her petty whims and that everyone in her orbit should be groveling at her feet.

Normally I had no qualms about promptly putting Sanjana in her place. Not that she ever meekly accepted the uncomfortable reality checks. Our verbal sparring matches had often gotten out of hand. 

But today, rather than her customary scowl or hair-flips, Sanjana was...smiling? At me? Her perfectly eyebrows raised in an almost congenial expression as our eyes met. I skeptically glanced around the classroom, finding the other students not-so-discreetly rubbernecking our way with undisguised curiosity.

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously at her. “What the hell are you doing?” 

She shrugged with mock innocence, delicately adjusting the shimmering hairband. “What? Last I checked, we don’t have assigned seating. Or am I no longer permitted to sit wherever I want?”

I scoffed at her faux nonchalance. “I’m not interested in whatever stupidity you are planning, Sanajna.” I jerked my chin towards the vacant rows behind. “Move.”

She merely crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair, maintaining that sickly sweet smile. “Listen… I just want to–”

The classroom fell into an abrupt hush as Professor Kant entered the classroom. Not wishing to kick whatever drama Sanjana was attempting to instigate into higher gear, I begrudgingly took a seat beside her.

Instantly, her overwhelmingly fruity peach perfume wafted into my nostrils. Everything about this woman’s presence was annoying. From her ridiculous hairband to her white dress that looked like it was plucked from the windowed displays of a boutique somewhere in Milan. I knew this because I had seen images of outfits like this in a magazine. 

I fought the urge to sneer as a fresh waft of the inescapable, artificially saccharine aroma lapped at my nasal passages.

“Excellent choice, Ms. Thappar,” Professor Kant said,her tone carrying an undisguised hint of sarcasm. “Maybe a change in your company will help motivate you to put in the effort required to pass your exams this semester.”

A stifled titter rippled through the class at the none-too-subtle dig, though it was hastily smothered. Afterall no one wanted to be in Sanjana’s bad books.

“Yes, Ma’am,” she replied with a simpering smile that didn't reach her eyes. She shot me a brief sidelong glance before returning her attention forward.

The lecture soon commenced. I flipped open my notebook and began jotting down notes, doing my utmost to ignore the peripheral distraction beside me.

Which proved utterly impossible as Sanjana began clicking her pen and tapping it against her desk. Every now and then she would write in one of her cartoon themed notebooks and then mid-sentence switch her notebook. Then at one point she just began doodling.

I grounded my molars, shooting her a withering sidelong glance. Naturally, she remained oblivious - or more likely, purposefully dismissive.

Suddenly, a long silken tendril of her hair came drifting across to tickle my forearm as she leaned over to sneak a peek at my notebook.“What is your problem?” I hissed through gritted teeth, recoiling instinctively.

Sanjana responded with an exaggerated pout, leaning back to her original position with a noisy huff. I rolled my eyes, focusing on Professor Kant’s voice again. 

A garish pink object suddenly appeared in front me. It was stark against the crisp whiteness of my notebook page. It took me a disorienting moment to register it as a sticky note.

I frowned at the now crookedly adhered post-it on the corner of my notebook. She tapped it with her nails. That’s when I noticed her light green nail polish. For a creature of habit like myself, it bothered me that she changed her nail polish so often. Every single day without fail, her nail polish would be a different color. 

I glanced down at the post-it.

Rolling my eyes at both the stupid penguin joke as well as her request, I flicked it off my notebook using my pen and pushed it towards her.
For a brief moment I thought it was over, but barely thirty seconds later, another post-it note with the same eye-searing pink appeared at the edge of my peripheral vision. I shot Sanjana an exasperated look, but she simply nodded towards the note. With an aggravated sigh, I picked it up to read it.

I simply shook my head and unceremoniously slid the note back.
Sanjana’s eyes widened momentarily in apparent disbelief at my dismissal before narrowing calculatingly. Her pen started scribbling furiously once more, and seconds later another violently pink note appeared at the edge of my vision.

I gave her a noncommittal gesture which immediately earned me another post-it.

After that, she didn’t bother me for the rest of the day.

📕

Once the classes ended, I followed my usual routine and headed straight back to my dorm room. Not only did I have my own mountain of homework and studying to tackle, but I needed to write some notes for the evening tutoring sessions. It all began last year when a few students approached me about providing private lessons. I agreed, happy at the chance to earn some much-needed cash on the side. This year, however, with the administration raising the minimum passing grade, the flood of tutoring requests had increased exponentially.
I wasn’t complaining. If these rich brats wanted to pay exorbitant rates for me to spoon-feed them the knowledge they could gain for themselves if they tried a little harder, I had no qualms about taking full advantage of them. It was a lucrative arrangement for me and I didn’t care what anyone else thought about it.
My study session was rudely interrupted by a series of sharp, impatient knocks at my door. Pulling my sleeves to make sure they covered my wrists, I rose to answer, fully expecting a student needing help with his academics.
Instead, I was surprised to find Sanjana staring back at me with her arms crossed. “I thought we were supposed to meet by the benches” she said, letting out an aggravated huff as she cocked one curved hip to the side.
“I never agreed to that.” I replied flatly, already moving to shut the door.
“Yes, you did!” she objected. “In class, when I passed you that note. You gave me a...whatever, hand-wavey thing in response!”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“What the fuck is your problem with me, Varun?” she shot back through gritted teeth, leaning forward aggressively into my personal space.
“I have so many problems with you. It’s hard to pick just one,” I countered, crossing my own arms to mirror her confrontational posture.
She seemed to appear even more petulant, actually stomping her foot and letting out an inarticulate scream of frustration. “You are the most infuriating man I have ever met in my life!”
Meeting her fiery glare with an impassive stare, I simply shrugged. “Great, then leave.” I started to shut the door again, only for her to shove it back open with an aggressive thrust of her palm, nearly hitting me in the face.
She took half a step over the threshold, hands planted defiantly on hips. “Because I need your help!”
“With what?”
“I need a tutor and I was hoping you would do it,” she said in a single breath.
I studied her for a few moments while she fidgeted under my gaze.
“So?” she prompted when I didn’t respond fast enough for her.
“Not interested,” I said, punctuating my denial by firmly shutting the door directly in her stunned face.