Siddhartha Basu stood with a letter in his hand. For a second he could not believe the legitimacy of the note. The alphabets were not clear and comprehensible and at a glance one could deduce it was penned in haste with slight shaking hands.

'I'm leaving, after months I concluded it was for the best, may be it was destined to be so from the beginning...'

He swallowed a lump, the mild hint of alcohol still lingering in his system rendered his knees wobbly and it was an uphill task to stand and finish reading the letter. It was particularly chilly that night and Siddhartha wasn't clear which was more-the piercing numbness of the outside or thawed emotions on his inside. His hands curled into fists, crumbling the note into a small ball. Exasperated, he threw it into a corner and rained blows after blows into the wall. Sharp pain passed through his bones, yet the sensations weren't what he expected. He couldn't feel what he was supposed to feel!

He screamed, threw the neighbouring flower vase into the hard, tiled floor. The porcelain, a witness of his ancestry, shattered into thousand pieces. Wiping his slight damp forehead, he slumped to the ground and cursed himself, cursed his father for giving birth to such a junk and his selfish mother who had more adoration for her precious thousand and five hundred rupee notes than she had for her son.

Siddhartha hated his own existence, had always been appalled by his genetics which bore a clear testimony of addiction and self-centredness, he wished he was never born or his parents never married or he..he..

An agonising call out of sheer desperation arose out of his throat, the walls resonated the scream and returned it back with double the effect, mauling his heart and mutilating his sanity. Crawling without any energy left, he picked up the note and straightened it. Cloudy vision made reading an onerous task, but he was determined.

'In togetherness, we only sought fulfilment, I earnestly wish to attain it in severence.'

Siddhratha couldn't read more, his bloody hands pierced like thousand acupuncture needles and he could never figure out the feeling, being shredded to pieces by a piranha seemed to be a probable analogy. 'She's gone...she's gone...she's fucking gone..." he mumbled in a trance.

The night was dark, deep but, he had no promises to keep. He never had any, at least not since he was twenty...at least not since..

A wild scream and few more blows later, Siddhartha hit the floor with the letter still clasped in between his fingers. Blood spots marred the whiteness of the tiles but it was no match for his tainted soul, the darkness of his shrewd mind, the blackness of his impure body. He bent into a semi-circle and tucking his hands within his knees, closed his eyes. The torture was so soothing, the cold a drug for his pain.

Siddhartha Basu was after all, a scandalised, tormented soul.

AN:

This was more of a prologue. For people who had read Scorned, please do not hesitate to drop comments.

I'm writing not just because I have a deep passion, I want to improve and better myself and digging deep into psychologies is my kind of thing. So your comments will help in self-evaluation.

Enjoy and do not forget to vote. Oh, I would prefer if you read Scorned as it will help you to have more idea about the characters. Bye ❤️❤️❤️