Mr.Black and HE

HE woke up from a black dream. Black had always been his favorite color; but not anymore. His memories were black, and so were his thoughts. HE had forgotten how he looked. Sometimes he remembered being handsome, but often doubted it. HE must have been thirty years old. Or maybe not.

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1. Mr.Black and HE

 

                  HE woke up from a black dream. Black had always been his favorite color; but not anymore. His memories were black, and so were his thoughts. HE had forgotten how he looked. Sometimes he remembered being handsome, but often doubted it. HE must have been thirty years old. Or maybe not.

                “Do you like riddles?” the other man asked. HE called him Mr. Black. (Thirty five years old, six feet tall, two hundred pounds, dark complexioned, a thick black moustache. Or maybe not.)

                “I live in one” HE answered.

                “If Shakespeare wasn’t born, Kennedy wouldn’t have been assassinated.”

                The door rattled. It meant food.

                “Why aren’t you chained?” HE asked.

                “Why are you chained?”, Mr.Black mocked as he gobbled all the food.

                HE did not realise that two days had passed by. It was a lie HE liked telling himself. A black lie.

                “Do you like jokes?” Mr.Black asked after he finished the leftovers of the rotten rice.

                His stomach was upset with the two days of food it had missed. Answering Mr.Black was the last thing he wanted to do.

                “Knock Knock!”

                “Who is there?” HE forced himself.

                 “Just us” Mr.Black grunted. He knew how to amuse himself.

                 “I would have strangled you if only I could” HE let out.

                 Mr.Black strangled him until he couldn’t breathe anymore. And then he let him breathe. Mr.Black was only half-cruel.

                The door rattled. It meant food.

                “Chicken this time!” Mr.Black was satisfied. Figuring out that the chicken was a reward needed no rocket scientist. Half-cruel was now history.

                HE did not realise that ten days had passed by. It was a lie HE liked telling himself. But the bruises on his body and the missing fingers, delivered to him the moment of truth.

                “Do you like math?” Mr.Black asked.

                “No” HE knew that it made no difference.

                “If you have ten fingers, and I remove eight of them, how many fingers do you have left?”

                “Two”

                “How did you count?” Mr.Black laughed. It was not at all funny.

                The next day was a better day. It was not a lie.

HE was not chained.

                “Shakespeare invented the word ‘assassination’” HE answered.

                Mr. Black tried to escape out of his chains. He couldn’t.

                The door rattled. It meant food.

                

 

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