The Catalyst

  • SumoMe

She, livid with anger, corroded with angst, stormed in that dimly lit basement. The room, as if convening a mating of despair and darkness in an abysmal cross of solitude, stood brazen. She dipped her shaking hands in the paint kept in the boxes clumsily lying at the corner of the room. And then she let her script loose…

His bleeding hand was in a sublime harmony with his mind which was going numb with frustration. Crimson drops of blood, yearning to embrace the keyboard below, rhythmically dripped from his fingers. The blood trailed right from the wall opposite to the mini bar in the drawing hall. Finer pieces of glass from a ’69 Middleton’s bottle still glimmered there in the light from the display. The keyboard soon became a canvas of bloody fingerprints…

It felt like an eternity since her first painting exhibition happened which made her a mainstream artist. “Flawlessly tragic”, the spellbound reviewers said. His first book came a little later and drew a lot of favorable response among the critics and readers. He eventually assumed the title of “Melancholy Czar” in the writer’s community. Neither looked back since – even when their life became an orchestral orgy of colors, words, adultery, arguments, desolation…

Fame came to both of them with a burden of miseries which qualified the degenerated abomination their matrimony became. There only remained a vague reminiscence of sweet memories that had stretched their relationship as far as it did. For the first time in many years, they both looked forward to the day to come as their divorce papers, signed and stamped, were presented in the court.

It took them months to get used to a life without the innate suffering they both were accustomed to at the hands of each other. Their greatest pleasure still found its place in the realms of their art and the glory it brought. With hope brimming their being, both of them realized the opportunity to create something that the world would remember ages after they were gone.

The paint on her hands dried several times before she finally crafted a canvas with halfhearted colors splattered in emotionless fashion. His computer hibernated many times, waiting for a keystroke, before he spewed an incoherent cluster of disconnected words barely even qualifying as writing. They both were rendered empty by the absence of events that sculpted their separation. And for the desire to still be relevant in the world, they were robbed of all the options but one…

They got back together, just like old times – miserable, spiteful and enraged at each other’s painful indispensability in their life. After their unification, a disagreement happened right after a private party they attended. She, feeling downright offended, threw a rare whiskey bottle from his collection at the wall opposite to the bar at their home. They screamed at each other while he picked up the pieces of the shattered bottle and managed to get a deep cut. The hostility and rage was restored in their desperate minds. Masterpieces were in the making…

The purest of the art can have the most deprave origins.

Vivek Katarya

A fiction writer, a published author, an editor for HT Edge, a socially oriented blogger, a city food editor for Zomato, a gadget lover, an adventure sports enthusiast, a computer engineer, an egotist, a thinker and much more than meets the eye.

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