Till Human Voices Wake Us: Last Part: Page 175 - Page 16

Sookie I really love that you update everyday! Keeps the reader ever-more hooked! 😆
Alright I have so much to say...but..I think I'll just keep it to myself! 😃
I hope we're getting Vikram's statement soon!!

I have no idea where this is really heading too..I am not really worried about it coz I am liking every bit of this journey so far... this story sends chills down my spine and I read it biting my nails.. the plot thickens and you say the worst is yet to come.. we need to brace ourselves up to feel more creepier ... I am really loving it.. and can't wait reading it.. it's like I wanted to borrow your brain for a while know the entire story then I shall be at peace.. need i say..I loveddd it!!!!!!!!!!!!!

awesome ... superb

Wow.. the plot is getting interesting day by day.. I feel bad for geet who has to go through so many things.. She didn't answer the question on why did she move out of Mal's place? There is something related to it.. Did she move out of Mal's house just after the supposed stalker committed suicide? I want to learn more abt Mal's n Anjali's relationship? As geet said that some of the pictures were missing from her room, it is surely her stalker or someone who would know about stalker.Did Anjali know abt Geet's past? OMG so many questions.. Give us another update pls..

waiting for today's dose 😃

So I watched the Movie Samay...It was an excellent movie...the characters were well portrait. Sushmita Sen was top notched. The ending was shockingly sad. There was a point I felt she does not have any protection for her daughter. The hints were all around.

I have to go back and read all the chapters and see if I can understand in a different angle now...

Sookie, I'm loving this ff!!! Very intriguing!!! Plz add me to ur pm list. 😊

Interlude I:

The room has a thin layer of dust settled in the dimly lit apartment. It looks like a grained photograph taken from a second hand Polaroid. There are odd signs of living- a horribly stained used kitchen sink, unmade bed and a wall filled with newspaper clippings, photos and few art works. Air is pungent and is thick with secrets. A lone figure is scrawled on the floor, asleep. The person wears nothing but skin and the cool floor seems to be acting like a healing salve to the burning skin; or so it seemed.

The wall is the most interesting part of the room. A human size charcoal sketch of an angel is drawn in one corner of the wall. The angel is shedding tears of blood and bears a heartrendingly sad expression. The blood still hasn't dried on the wall and slow descent of blood tear from one of the eye can't match up to the dried tears on the artist's eyes. The artist had been sketching for more than thirteen hours ensuring that the sketch was perfect. There is no movement on artist's form as the cold floor offers the comfort which the bed has severely failed to.

Somewhere a car tyre bursts and the sound makes the person scream. The scream resembles to that of a wounded animal. The silence that follows of the tyre burst doesn't calm the person down; the tyre burst has made the heart pound and blood roar in ears. The eyes then look up and see the finished sketch.

Eyes become hooded and a smile breaks.

Saturday afternoon warmth floods into the room from the half open window after a breeze swishes away the dark purple curtain. The sudden heat gives the feeling of sweetened sedateness in a glass jar of jasmine buried deep in soil which has been fermented for three seasons. The smell of charcoal on hands adds fuel to this building feeling of euphoria, taking over the pain.

The pain from self-inflicted wound is for a worthy cause. The sketch on the wall stands testimony to an artist's patience and a person's perseverance to reach a goal that was shaped in a dream. It pains even more when the charcoal and the blood wash off under running water mixing and matching to various shades of black, grey and red.

The dishtowel is dirty and doesn't seem very hygienic. Yet it's gently tied around the left palm to cover the cut. There is already a blood stain on the dish towel. The person runs a finger on that blood stain. The knife that was wiped on that dishtowel lies very close to the sink. It is twenty nine, no, thirty cuts old.

On a second thought the person reties the dishtowel; the old bloodstain now covers the palm completely encapsulating the wound in itself. The pleasure that runs through the spine is almost erotic. A sigh escapes from chapped lips.

The person walks towards the angel sketch and gently runs finger over the face.

"Bloody who*e", the voice whispers in angel's ear, leaning over.

The eyes are however fixed on a vibrant photo of Anjali right next to the sketch.

To be continued.

Note: Unwell today. Unsure if I am going to update tomorrow.

Here comes the killer.. and all I need is a A to Z encyclopedia of serial Killers! 😉
So, I ask... what makes the killer tick?

~If killing those women made you an artist, the things you did to them after they were dead, what does that make you? I mean, really, it doesn't seem very artistic, does it?


ps.. Feel better :D!