One Hundred and Twenty Seven

A peek into the past – Rameez:

How dare they do this??!


Who the hell do they think they are?!?


They’re think they’re gonna get away with this?!??

Hell no!!

Punch. Kick. Punch.

I destroy the punching bag, pounding my fists repeatedly against the firm material.

I swipe off Fang’s grin, blacken Venom’s green eyes, and leave Scar with something to match his name. I fling the chairs across the room, splintering the strong wood. Kicking out, I bend the metal table.

My breath comes short and fast, but I don’t back up.

For every horrible word hurled at me, for every look of disgust cast my way, for every fist raised toward me, for every leg moved in my direction; for all the pain, all the tears, all the blood, all the bile; for every sneer, for every grin, for every atom of pleasure felt by them because of me..

The punching bag feels it all – my frustration, my sadness, my helplessness. It feels the heat of a fire that’s begun to burn in me which was never alight before. A fire of anger which will only go out when my thirst for revenge is quenched. When the grin is on my face, when the knife is in my palm, when the power is mine. The punching bag feels it – the slow breaking of something no longer whole inside me, yet it hangs, strong and sturdy, feeling every crushing emotion of mine with perseverance.

Leaning against the wall, I gulp down water from my bottle.

In the mirror I see my reflection. Small and skinny. Tired and troubled.

A soldier who goes to war unarmed is doomed to destruction.

My body aches, my limbs beg for mercy, but I stand up and grab a set of weights.

I will show myself that I can, and then I will show them.

Perhaps it is the thought of my father in distress, the look of grief evidently pinching my mother’s face, the unfairness of it all.

Perhaps it is simply the troubled illusions in my mind that push me on.


The days pass in a blur.

Time has a funny way of passing too quickly when you most want it to drag. The way it rushes pass, leaving you with fleeting memories, and breathless moments, forcing you to keep going, never allowing you to stop, unkindly reminding you that it waits for nothing and no one. Not your singing heart, nor your aching one. Happy or sad, the seconds never stop ticking by.

Being thrown straight into the deep end, where the water is ferocious and the sharks are forever hungry, inevitably changes you.

For Meez, it wasn’t a good change.

His life began to revolve around preparing to quench his thirst for revenge.

Music cleared his mind; calmed his heart.

His vocabulary expanded; words he’d never uttered before flowed effortlessly from between his lips, just as blood flows out of an open wound.

A constant fire of anger and hatred blazed inside him; at times so intense it burned right through him, escaping in a string of vulgar words and violent ways.

Knives sparked his interest; the way the blade shone in the sunlight, the way it glimmered in the darkness, the ease at which it caused damage ignited such unfamiliar emotions within him that often it left him breathless.

And when the first tiny pill slipped down his throat, the thrill that rushed through him clarified that it definitely wouldn’t be the last. It seemed to take away the guilt, the frustration, the sadness; everything, so easily, so completely.

But the higher you go, the harder you crash, which often happened to Meez as the sun rose; painting the sky in various shades of different colours, and, on other days, in the early a.m.; when the sky still twinkled with stars and the moon shone high and bright, the darkness of night seemed to wrap itself around Meez.

He had become like a jigsaw puzzle; one with missing pieces, with pieces that didn’t belong in that box, with pieces that didn’t go together, leaving the puzzle just like that -in pieces, unmade, broken – and the puzzle builder confused and frustrated.

And Tuesday came faster than he’d liked…

Hey. Hi. Hello. Salaam. Bonjour. Salut. Ciao. Ahoj. Bog. Marhaba. Ola. πŸ˜€

Guys, I’m sorry the post is shorter than usual, but I’m really struggling to find time to sit down, clear my mind, and type a post. Let’s hope I get some free time soon, so that I can put up the next post.

Remember me in your duaas. Β 

Much love,

Troubled Illusioner. ❀


8 thoughts on “One Hundred and Twenty Seven

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