A life that never did.

He was a normal man. But can a man be normal? Tapas worked in a 9 to 6 job. He wasn't best at it. He knew that. He did not love his job. He knew not what he loved. At an age of 30, he had realized life was not going the way it was supposed to. He knew better things were possible. He knew he could do better. But better at what he knew not. Trouble was not that he didn't think, trouble was he did too much of it.

Tapas loved books. He devoured them. He felt them. He hated the new age Indian post MBA authors. He hated Chetan Bhagat. He hated chick-lit. Books were capable of so much greater. He had read so much better books. He loathed anyone who said they liked these books. He preferred the classics and not necessarily aged books. He wanted to be moved, to be stripped off his defenses, to be reduced to tears. He had cried while reading books. He had cried to Devdas, to Jude the Obscure, to The Last Burden. He hadn't cried though when his grand mother had passed away. He liked her but tears never gushed from their springs then. Stripped of that solace, of that belief in one's own humaneness, he was a shadow of devil. Lurking but not shamed. What sadness is the life of a flower that blooms only once in it's lifetime, but then there are lives that never do.

Every good story is essentially a sad one. Everyone dies, in the end. Of late he had been reading Crime and Punishment. If Rashkolnikov, could do it, so could he. All he needed was the perfect subject, the perfect murder victim. He wanted to kill someone, to know he had the strength to do it, to know he could take live or forgive. For isn't the power over someone Else's life the greatest power. To know the swift movement of one's hand could end a life's story. To know one could undo the great creation of God. He wanted to not just script but perform the greatest crime. The untraceable murderer, the unmotivated murder.