MODERN AGE – KALI YUGA

Inceptive happenstance is a myth as we always exist on a continuum.

It is an evening like any, but it is not. Sixteen years ago, the joy that came with my birth in my parent’s life didn’t last much longer. Life, in general, is sucking happiness away. Father is always busy, leaving my mother unhappily alone.

Around a year ago, her white blood cell count went mysteriously up. Every test came back negative, saying there was nothing wrong with her. The final but questionable diagnosis – Muscular Atrophy. Her persistent starvation habit of staying thin must be the cause of this ailment, not genetics.

Unlike my mother, beseeching the Afreet, I pay Ibaadat to the Dargah I live in – my body. Worshiping the sanctity of my temple, I treasure it every day. Just so I don’t inherit or pass on any memorized diseases to my children. It is too late for my mom. Her limbs have given up. My father’s sadistic love for her stopped him from spending his overflowing wealth to seek an experimental cure for her. My spineless mother’s candor for my father made her accept her fate.

I pull an idle breath in and give the crowd gathered to celebrate me a once over.

Greeting the guests, my mother glides around in her markedly decorated, newfangled, voice-prompted mobile. Accepting compliments from all who are swooning over the food tailored by a mysterious lady. Her catering talent was recommended by my father’s acquaintance. I eagle eye how her son is helping her like a good boy.

All of my classmates are binging on his foreign accent and fetching looks. I am not alarmed by their symptomatic flirting. My graphic perception goes beyond the obvious, while theirs blend with the rest. I scope out what others can’t even begin to take a read of. My sensitivities harpoon past the material level, deconstructing matter into energy.

The ordinary is thin on the ground to secure my attention. Only he is the bountiful angel to my succubus devilry, leaving me intrigued. His differentia calls me from a distance with the consummate power to preside over my impurity. I get a breadth of view of what many consider hex craft. A gravitating center deep within him discharges an extraordinary vitality visible to me alone.

Aided by the inner tormentor from hell, I have forever destroyed everything. My ever-changing desires worry me. I pray to Diablo to not let him see the real me. For it may scare him. Then I beg the Tempter he would. For I wish to see him terrified. But cocooning my adaptive mojo is my obligation so that it continues to sanctify me with dark prowess. I crave to know everything. And then be it.

The Navajo may call me a Skinwalker. The scientific community may brand me esoteric. I am neither discarnate nor incarnate. Who am I really?

I am a model shifter.

Excusing myself from the crowd, I stand leaning on the center island. My reflection clearly falls on the French door for anyone entering the kitchen. It is a determined move to show myself only just and test his readings for me. As counted upon, he soon gets thirsty and comes for a glass of water. I hold my breath, awaiting his proximity patiently, only barely.

Before I lose the desire to exist, my messiah halts with force, contaminated by my image on the transparent glass. The savvy obsidian in me can tell he is forsaking control from his discern side and passing the lever of his authority over to me. Tumbling further into my amaranthine glow, he wants to leave. But also continue to be. He is in limbo.

The inner voice that everyone ignores as crazy tells me what to do. I turn around with speed and lock my eyes on him. The Demon in him overtakes him, making him abandon the idea of disregarding me. Instead, he sets out to approach me. Extinguishing any light that creates duality, he feels disposed to be eclipsed.

His dominating vitality will burst my Supernova into its entirety. Turning all the concentrated energy inside me back into matter. Creating a brand-new Universe.

“Love, could you refill the deviled eggs?” His mother breaks the spell I unknowingly cast on him.

My insides recoil at this hiccup. Darn, the deviled eggs! I swear at the innocent dish. Thank the earthly nature of a mortal body, for he is indeed thirsty. I dispense a tumbler filled to the brim, holding out for him. He accepts my offer, guzzles down the water, and places the empty glass on the island. The mistake of looking me in the eye is dodged this time. Wiping away his lips with the back of his hand, he indulges in my shapely figure.

“It is my birthday,” I gently report the fact he so sinuously ignores.

A diminutive turn of silence troubles me as he turns away to retrieve a tray from the cooler. Then… he speaks in a thick drawl. “Penblwydd hapus, Blodyn Tywyll.”

“Sorry?”

“Happy birthday, Dark Flower.”

My neck snaps upright, hearing my alias. Now that I have been called out, do I not need to hide anymore? At least from him, I hope, for it is tiring to conceal my authenticity. “Thank you. It's just a birthday, not a happy one.”

“That’s tragic.” He places the tray on the counter. “Can I do something to make it a happy one?” He runs his watch around my lavish home. “Doesn’t look like you need anything.”

I reply mutely. It sure feels like I have nothing. I notice how he chooses not to drown in my eyes by lip-reading me. “I have been born under a lucky star, blessed with supernal beauty, and living a charmed life. However. Can I still ask for one thing from something? So that you can make this a happy birthday.”

“Diawl bach!” Folding his arms, he leans on the counter. “You are self-infatuated and materialistic.”

“My materialism has helped me turn into matter that can destroy itself. I am courageous in the face of this corroding irony. My infatuation is reasonable. Wouldn’t you say so?”

A reluctant chuckle revs out of him. “Da. Your existence is totalitarian. You think you want something modestly when you greedily want everything but ironically don’t need anything.”

“I need you.” I cannonball an explicit request.

“Rwyt ti eisiau fi!” Laughing mutedly, he mutters remarks I can’t understand and runs his hands through his hair. “You didn’t even know I existed until a few hours ago.”

“Now that I do, you are all that I want.”

“I feel objectified.”

“Then, friends?” I desperately try one more time.

“We are not in Asgard, and I am not Odin, nor will I be entered into Valhalla by being your friend.”

“Are you pointing to our social disparity?”

“Aye, tywysoges.”

I am the wealthy one here, so how come he is refusing me. My humanity goes blank in humiliation. I reel into the shadow to save my leftover dignity, coming up with a worthier trade. “How about you give me something that money can’t buy?”

“Then ask for what you need… not want.” The words are profound, but his tone is casual.

I call for something ambiguous since he has refused my most specific demands. “Promise me you will rescue me from the worst?”

“You’re a charming nutter.” He heaps scorn on my wishes, bracing the counter with his hands. “Iawn. Consider it done.”

I giggle, blushingly. “How will you know? You don’t want to be friends even.”

“I never said that. And do you not trust in destiny?”

“It is also known as doom. Always ends in the death of our inherited identity. So I’d rather be unprincipled and rely on freedom of choice.”

“Then I’ll dare divinity and defy time and space to fulfill my promise to you.”

My lips curl into a smile again. “Then I will wait for a catastrophe like it is salvation.”

“Only a freak can call calamity a blessing.”

“If that is what it takes.”

“What a suicidal despair, but fair enough. Remember, creation is cyclical, resetting our life for a fresh start. Hwyl fawr.”

My maven leaves, gifting me a vague guarantee, much like TriŚhaṅku’s heaven. Staying put on my spot, I ponder. My conversation with him was odd that in itself held no meaning. As if we were playing games. It sounded like I was a demonic devotee that destroys, and he was the supernatural being that preserves. In reality, I evolve to eternalize, and he devolves to recycle. It makes me wonder if he is capable of what he promised me. I guess I will know in passing.

When he recedes into the gathering, I want to run to him. Alas! My spirit is pressed under the formal necessity to behave like a lady. The Vought family has a reputation to uphold. And I being the only heir of this empire, have to be proper. Always. I am uncertain who made this rule. Nonetheless, following it is my only choice. Hence, not a choice at all.

Now I wait for the most terrible of times like an obedient ebony. Or I could sculpt the world on my terms. Hence, I have a choice, after all.