Eight months after we met, he disappeared. We were exchanging texts that evening. And I couldn’t contact him the next day. By late evening, I was panicking more than I ever had.
Initially, I was worried sick that something horrible must’ve happened to him. I cried and prayed. But what happened after that phase was the worst nightmare.
His friends were equally clueless about his disappearance. Surprisingly, all of them didn’t know him for long either. Just like me, they only knew him for around twelve months.
The police didn’t seem to be taking much interest in finding my missing boyfriend beyond basic questioning that was initiated days after the complaint. It was his friends who helped me look for him the very next day. His home had already been rented by somebody else. Nobody at his office knew where he was. They were shocked because it wasn’t like him to not show up for work.
My pain, anger and confusion were making me wild. So many unanswered questions!
I broke down completely and had no control over any aspect of my life. My parents feared I was turning into an alcoholic. Even with the help of a psychiatrist, it took me almost a year to stop spending insomniac nights looking him up on the internet or searching for his face in crowds.
Basically, I felt like a fool. How could I have fallen in love with someone I knew only for a few months?! The worst part being that I still couldn’t hate him or accept that he was a guy with some secrets, who needed to disappear.
In my mind, I hear my friends joke about the whole thing behind my back. Sam would say, “His disappearing act was his best magic trick! Way better than the ones with the cards he always did.” They’d all laugh and maybe Tina would say, “Hey, don’t make fun of him. He probably is some kind of a secret agent protecting your ass right now.”
Well, maybe they didn’t joke about it. But over thinking is a torture.
And then came that fateful night. Going out was out of question. The storm had brought fresh snow and the roads were blocked. The snow outside and my dimly lit living room created the perfect atmosphere to paint away and guzzle creamy hot chocolate like it was water. It seemed like the brush had taken over the canvas that night. I had no control or knowledge of what I was going to paint, which is quite unlike me. But letting out freely is a good sign, says my psychiatrist. So I did. When my hands stopped, I eagerly stepped back to see it. After a long time, I felt excited about something. The dim lights added that magical museum like effect to the painting.
I had painted him, bleeding, lying in a hole in the ground. In the background, I’d painted my bicycle, parked in its usual spot in my backyard.
And then the some dim memories came rushing, broken at places but not indecipherable.
We were going to move in even though it was too soon because we were madly in love. It felt right. He had even given the notice to his landlord. But then, he observed some (“weird” was the word he used) things about me that were completely new to him. He wanted some more time before we start living together.
So the argument happened. Very speedily, driven by rage and totally out of my control, my hand extended to grab my dumbbell and threw it at him, not expecting that the blow would be fatal.