The Roach Is On The Couch

There is a dimly lit elbow room at the very corner of this house. Much like the ones that you see in horror movies with low budget that tend to fail at the box office. And the ones, that have characters with no arcs that are forgotten soon after their release.

And in that room, behind those gray cemented walls is a couch like bed, dragged out of the wall like morgue corpse cabinets. And on that bed, I see myself lying on my back – snoring, or wheezing, or both.

Next, I see her. And she, not so contrary to my amusement is punching my chest while sitting on top of me like Succubus. And also yelling something that in words and sounds, sounds like it has the aggressive connotations of a, “get the fuck up, NOW!”.

Her shrill cacophony or her hammer fisting demeanor is never a spectacular scene to behold. And in all these years of staying together with her, I have got used to the yelling and punching while I am awake. I have conditioned myself to think, that the slow jabs make me stronger and the scratching with polished nails, in a very forced way has the similar effects of an acupuncture session. If I were to put it nicely, I think, she is a feisty and loud talker. But in my sleep, I prefer my punches softer and the yelling non-existent. Sex or no sex, I never yell things. She on the other hand, in her very own little packaged self, is paradoxically intriguing, in that, she is a big mouth with a small mouth. And with her small mouth, she is yelling things that don’t make sense.

I come closer to both of us affixed in a cowboy ride position on that sturdy concrete like bed and try to listen carefully. At this point, my silhouette self is an eavesdropper, but a bad one at that. The one you wouldn’t want to see in a spy movie. But in my defense, her words are jumbled and he vermilion colored lips in the shape of a lopsided “O” is making more sounds and less sense.

“TheRoachIsOnTheCouchIsOnTheRoachIsThereAreTooManyRoachesOnTheCouches,” she yells.

I don’t know what the fuck does that mean. That’s not a language we speak at home. If that’s Dothraki she learned to match her savage like livelihood, I cop out.

So I jiggle my ear lobes like I am trying to get water out of my ears or sense out of her words, but she goes on to yell, “WeAresDeadInTheRoachesIWillKillYouDontFuckingDreamFuckerDontSleep.”

I can’t, I can’t. There is not a single cell in my body that knows how to act right now. I like to think myself as a very active and a prompt responder in situations like these, but at this moment either I am dead or I have a zero frontal lobe capacity.

Her punching is getting louder every second, she is hitting me harder than before, but rhythmically and the whole room, these four walls, are now synchronizing with her strokes in not a very impressive way. If we were in a band, we would be acoustically bombing in front of a super pissed audience. But with each stroke, a part of me is coming alive. My silhouette self, in a frenzy, has stopped loitering around and is compelled to act. The paintings, the bed, the cupboards, the mattress and the couch, everything in and around me is merging into itself, like the sorcery of that sanctum sanctorum headquarters from Dr. Strange movie.

And when I gather myself and heave a sigh of resurgence, much like the aftermath of a scrupulous CPR session, I find her still punching me with no concern for my safety or hers.

“What the fuck?” I punch back this one time, right in her bird like nose, but twice. Pow! Pow!

And when the colours around me come to life and my eye adjusts to the dimly lit room, I see her bleeding from her nose.

“I am sorry. I am sorry,” I say, “but why were you punching me like that?”

Holding her nose upwards and tilting her head backwards like a bat, she says, “I was waking you up. You sleep like a log.”

“But why at this time of the night?” I say.

“Because there are cockroaches on the couch.”

“Oh! So that’s what that was.”


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