A woman with the potential to make it big. It is not that she cannot: she simply will not.
The closest anyone has come to being an adopted daughter.

Monday, August 4, 2014


Disclaimer: The idea is not an original one. It is loosely based on a cartoon I had come across a few days back on Facebook, so please do not mention that in the comment.


He stood in the dark, next to the swimming pool, gripping the expensive glass filled with auburn liquid with the whitest and finest of gloves. He sighed. He did not like crowds, but this was a masquerade he could not avoid.

Her masked face did not give away her identity, but the braids that failed to exert any sort of control on her waist-long curls did to people who had seen her once.

She was one of her kind. But so was he.

They had both been adept at mesmerising people of the opposite sexes. They had swept them off their feet; they left parties and pubs with their targets in anonymous taxis; the victims were never found again.

Everybody knew them. But then, so did nobody.

She measured up the males in the room: she was almost bored; she did not even seem to be as much as casting a glance at them; in a way she was like a big cat on the prowl, smelling her way through the expensive perfumes and suits to find her victim for the night.

He preferred to stand alone, waiting for women to come his way. He had almost got bored picking up young, unsuspecting women, but he still got a kick out of touching warm flesh till it turned cold, very cold, almost frozen; he loved the sight of horror that lingered on to the women’s eyes for hours after they had been stabbed.

Was it he who sensed her presence first, or was it him? It does not really matter.

It did not matter. She knew she had found him; and he knew this was her. Things were getting a bit mundane, both of them thought. It is time for a challenge.

He made his way towards the light, ensuring she had a clearer view of hers. She almost looked up at him, her crimson lips pouting in the way that had never failed in driving men mad.

“Can I get you a drink, mademoiselle?” she shivered slightly at the richness of his voice; there was something in the tone that had always made women go wobbly in their knees. She was not an exception. Almost.

She nodded. This is going to be fun, she thought as she saw him put down his glass and disappear towards the counter.


The taxi made its way through the busiest of streets to one of the busiest streets in town. She had agreed to accompany him to his place. A smile curled on her face.

She preferred it this way. Kill the victim at his den: ransack his house to find the right instrument to eradicate any proof; walk out in the wee hours of the morning and walk her way back, her head light, her heart pounding, her blood smouldering; it was the perfect way.

He preferred it this way too. Kill her at his residence; feel the flesh throughout the night; take care to eradicate all proof the following morning. It helped that he stayed alone.

At the same time, they could not help but feel differently for each. It was different this time. There was a sense of attraction neither of them had sensed before. It was not erotic: they had crossed the limit of eroticism ages back; nothing less than death interested them.

She was furious with herself when her small hands almost melted into his gloves. What is wrong with you?

He was livid with himself as well when her perfume made him crave to bury his nose in her rippling hair. Be firm.

The taxi-driver thanked him for the change and left.


The stone mansion stood in its vast greyness, almost outrageously in a locality with houses that resembled colourful little boxes. She smiled. She liked the feel of stone.

He’s my kind, she thought.

Is cannot be a coincidence that our names are so similar, he thought.


It seems like a castle. Do they still make houses like this?

The chandelier lit up at the flick of a switch, bathing the humongous hall in dazzling light; she did not flinch; trivialities did not affect her anymore. He did not notice her indifference.

He poured out crimson liquid in two goblets that were probably made of brass. Despite her expensive tastes she had never seen wine breathe in anything but glass:  this was new to her; she nearly disliked it.

He finished his goblet in a single gulp. She pretended to look away, but could not suppress a smile.

They kissed. He had taken his mask off, but she had not; so she’s a tease, he thought; if only she knew...

His hungry lips made their way to her near-bare shoulders; it was the first time a man had made her moan in ages; his teeth brushed her neck with an expertise she had never felt before; a shiver ran down her spine as she could feel his tongue inside her ear, whispering nothings at the same time.

Why does he not take the gloves off?

The straps fell off, revealing her inadequate brassiere. I’m getting weak, she thought. This cannot go on. I do not want to have sex. I want him dead. Let us get done with this.

He was too busy to think; thin fabric of his gloves was so thin that she could almost feel his fingernails running along her spine; she shuddered; he felt her shudder.

This was not what I had brought her here for, he thought.

Kill her.

Kill him.

The struggle seemed to be eternal. She squirmed in ecstasy; his frantic fingers made their way through the elegant gown that had hugged her body for so long, letting it drop on the floor.

She groped for something. She was not even sure of what she groped for, but she did nevertheless. He went down; her slim waist hungrily clutched in his grip, feeling her left hand hold the silken mass of his hair.

Now or never.



Midas took his gloves off to touch her with his bare hands; he looked up to see her transform; it was then he saw Medusa, her mask clasped in her right hand, staring back into his eyes.


Here is the cartoon, if anyone is interested. Thanks, Mlvk.


  1. This was SO brilliant! :D
    I loved how you don't reveal who the characters really are till the very last paragraph...
    Write a full length novel. I'll be looking forward to that.

    I love this short story :D

  2. Very nice :). I hadn't seen the FB post, so it was very enjoyable to read!

    1. I have added the cartoon just below the story. And thank you.

  3. Replies
    1. Remember the one where a couple used to pick up people for kill and finally they ended up with Parashuram!

  4. Replies
    1. You've never hooted, have you?

    2. Because this was building up to a rather interesting plot. Too bad mythology interrupted. :/

    3. Hmph. I scorn at people who hoot at mythology.

  5. A question though- What are his gloves made of? (If nothing sticks to Teflon, how does Teflon stick to the pan?)

    1. Skin taken from another part of his body, courtesy some extraordinary plastic surgeon.

    2. Decidedly extraordinary, since he did not turn to gold himself (surely, his surgical instruments turned to gold. That would have been a suitable fee for a surgeon so extraordinary).

    3. He may have done it himself. Alternatively, he must have got a surgeon with the most precise of hands.

  6. Wow. That was Intense. I loved it. Welcome back.

  7. Just wondering.. How about each of them not wanting to do it and the other, ignorant, does the honours? There will be pathos overtaking the initial vindiction. They were getting emotional, weren't they?

    1. No. They were getting lustful. What is an emotion?

  8. Super. Ami ki lucky je tui amar bondhu :)