On the Kill

She had her hands on his neck; he had his hands on her neck, not in a way to form a loving embrace but in a way to suffocate each other and free each other from each other’s life. She had blood in her eyes; he had blood in his eyes, they both wanted the blood of each other to adorn and color their hands in red drawn from each other’s skull. She was groaning in pain; he was groaning in pain, but the groans of each were falling in the ears of the other and were pushing each of them to go further and bring the ultimate wish true – the death of the other.

Blood was already flowing before the penultimate match began, she had ruptured her lips; blood was spewing out and had colored her mouth and her teeth, making her look like a lioness after a mighty kill. He had cracked his head; thick, dark blood was flowing down smearing his face as if a clown with a colorful face is up on the stage for his last performance.

Like every war, the world has witnessed; like every fight, the eyes have witnessed, this war, this fight was no different. It was replete with destruction, with devastation, with loss, with stubbornness, with arrogance, with pride, and a point of no return. Everything that was created by their hands; the love, the bonds, the home, the beauties and even their most prized possessions has been destroyed by their fighting hands. His best ever gift from her, the twelve string guitar is in pieces and beyond any redemption and restitution. Her best ever gift from him, the painting of Salvador Dali has a gaping hole and oddly splashed in color of red.

Like every small and big landmarks of their lives they had Pink Floyd played for themselves. No different was this gravest moment, Pink Floyd was lucidly playing at its best. They met when Pink Floyd was playing at a concert in London, they dated when Pink Floyd was played at a Bar in India, they made heaven and alongside Pink Floyd was played and now when they are making Hell Pink Floyd is again played. So much is the contrast that the greatest ever Pink Floyd song is being played now, “Wish you were here”, fitting to their lives, where David Gilmour sings –

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil? ....

Now that everything is lost, there is nothing more to lose, only a trifle that is life, is needed to be lost. This will be lost too, in a moment’s time. The life of each is firmly in the other’s hand, it is just a squeeze away. The grips are tightening, the faces are turning paler, the brains losing sight, muscles starting to twitch, there is no breath to breathe, the chest is empty and the hearts are beating faster and faster and making its last leg of the run on the mile. And with perfect co-ordination, with perfect timing, with surgeon’s precision, and as if they were on a countdown they pull out the life of each other at the same time.

With Pink Floyd still singing in the back, slowly was soothing their departing soul. Nothing could have been more perfect than this. They sang each other this song when they were away and now when both of them away forever, the same song is being sung. Nothing could be more perfect than this. They lived for each other, they died for each other, and they died in each other’s hands as they had wished. And now when there is no life in the bodies, there is rigor mortis setting in, they had fallen in a loose embrace while making their final fall.

And I sitting on the high chair, the creator of the contest, the sole witness of the contest, await for their souls to come at my cove.