“You’re so boring.” She said, not even looking at me. I would have retorted, but since of late I simply did not even feel the need to do so. I did not even look at her, though she lay down just inches next to me. I did not feel the need.

To be honest, I agreed with her. I am boring. I have no interests, no hobbies nor do I even have a life. I suppose she must be feeling frustrated now, since she was such an outgoing young thing. I suppose she will leave me soon, just like others before her. It did not really matter, since there would always be some more to come in the future.

You see, that is simply it. There is always something coming up in my life; and it is so predictable. Life, in short, is so boring for me. There is nothing new. Just the mindless repetition of the same process of compilation and disintegration of all things. The cycle seemed to never cease.

“Look…” she began again, trying to incite a conversation. “This is not how I want to do this. I can’t… I mean… this is not fun for the both of us. All you do is… nothing now. I don’t understand… I think… we should stop doing this… This isn’t working…”

A futile attempt at inciting a conversation. How could I possibly contribute to this flow of thought?

I could feel her turn around; she put a hand on my shoulder now, gently.

“I want to make things work…”

I knew what she would do next; she would try to incite my lust.

Another futile attempt.

I got up and went downstairs to my little workshop. My father built this so that he may attend to his wood work. He was gifted with excellent craftsmanship. I, however, was not amused by this all. But I did from time to time come down here to clean the tools; perhaps to honor his memory.

I could hear her crying upstairs, trying to be quiet, muffling her sobs into her pillow. Poor girl. She does not deserve this. But this is what she chose.

The tools look great in this light, especially my father’s old carving knife. It was a plain knife, but well sharpened and well maintained; partly due to my own obsessive efforts. I picked it up and watched the light bounce off its steel blade. My face was reflected in the polished metal.

How sick am I of this face? The same face I have had for so many years. It does not change. Just like everything else.

A slash. Crimson blood flows down my hand. The pain is a welcome diversion from my placid state. I look in the mirror that I had hung up in the corner. My face was no more perfect. The cut was bloody, and large; it ran across my face vertically.

Another slash, and then some more. The pain was intoxicating. The blood was beautiful. I should have tried this earlier!

In my joy I had forgotten to listen to the crying. And suddenly now, covered in blood I noticed that the crying had stopped. I heard a gasp behind me.

She was standing there, her hand in her mouth. Tears streamed down her pretty face.

“Hey baby.” I smiled.

“Oh God…” she whimpered “what have you done to yourself?”

“I’m sorry baby… I was bored.”

She ran up to me, wrenched the bloody knife from my hand and threw it away. She held me tight and apologized profusely for reconsidering her decision to be with me. She promised me that she would never leave me.

After we wiped the blood off my face and dressed the wounds as best we could, we had the most passionate evening on our bed. I felt new energy, new life. All traces of boredom had vanished. She moaned, laughed and cried. She screamed my name and told me that she would be mine forever. Good for her.

Yet, as she slept beside me, with a content smile upon her face, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. The scars were healing now. Soon they would be gone. A feeling of familiar dread mixed with overwhelming apathy crept into my mind. I knew that boredom will return again.

But how would I get rid of it next time?



~ by Prageeth Thoradeniya on March 17, 2011.

One Response to “Boredom”

  1. Like it!

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