《The Book of Time》


 The Drawer

    It had been a while since I had purchased a study table. I bought it online from a second-hand shop, and it was quite affordable. Finding such a beautiful desk at the current market prices was indeed a stroke of luck.


    Back when I lived at home, studying always took place at my table. However, after getting into university, I had to stay far from home. There was no study table here; all I had was a bed. I would sit on the bed and study, but it was never as comfortable or efficient. That''s when the idea to buy a table struck me.


    There was one peculiar feature about the table: its drawer was unusually large. If you stretched your legs inside it, you''d fit completely. However, it didn''t seem to cause any trouble; the problem lay elsewhere.


    From the moment I bought the table, I started having a strange recurring dream. After I went to bed at night, I couldn''t tell exactly when, I would find myself concealed within the dream like a phantom. To put it simply, I was paralyzed. I could only see through the corner of my eyes.


    A humanoid creature emerged from the drawer, moving excruciatingly slowly, almost like a tortoise with measured steps. I could sense it was struggling to offer something; it appeared to be a painful endeavor. Nevertheless, it gradually approached and eventually made its way to the center of the room. Then, it came to a halt. It sat down, crossed its legs, and remained still. There was no further commotion.


    What made it even stranger was that I could understand what this creature was doing by looking at the corners of my eyes. When the morning light breaks, it seemed like it had received some signal. It would slowly return to the drawer, struggling to fit inside. However, the moment it entered the drawer, the dream would abruptly end.


    This bizarre dream became a daily occurrence. The enigmatic creature, struggling as it slowly emerged from the drawer, made its way towards the center of the room. Each time, I lay there concealed, just like the night before, paralyzed, unable to move.


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    Now, as I stand in front of my table, I wonder. During the day, everything is explained away as mere illusions. Can the story I''ve spun be anything more than an extravagant explanation? Is it not simply an embellished tale? Perhaps, the humor in it is more in the narration than in the actual events.


    ***


    Even today, I find myself witnessing the same incident in my dreams. The creature emerges and moves slowly towards the center of the room, still concealed. I am paralyzed too. My mind is active, but I remain motionless.


    Suddenly, a loud "ding-dong" sound breaks the silence as my mobile phone, placed near my head, starts ringing. Someone has called me at this hour of the night. Oh no! I have forgotten to put it on silent.


    I can hear the sounds of movement in the middle of the room. Not everything was a dream? The creature seems to be moving, and it appears to be taking notice of me. What was happening? The morning light has not been broke yet.


    In my concealed state, I can feel something approaching me slowly, step by step. I have no strength left, and I am unable to move my body. It is as if the creature is gradually inching closer to me.


    The growling grew louder, more distinct. Its intensity was increasing, and I was beginning to discern a note of aggression in the creature''s vocalizations. Something was going horribly wrong.


    I can clearly hear the sound of breathing, growing increasingly intense. If the intensity of the sound is any indication, it is getting closer.


    ***


    In the distance, the faint call to prayer at dawn can be heard. Morning light is breaking out. I received the signal and must return to my own world. I have to left this place. I received the signal and must return to my own world. I lift my head a little, struggling to do so. I feel a force within me, and my body slowly turns towards me. My body feels heavy.


    Giving away the struggle, I finally succeed in placing myself beside the creature. I can clearly hear the sound of labored breathing. The intensity of the sound keeps increasing.


    It had taken quite an effort to reach this point. The purpose was singular¡ªthe drawer! The elusive drawer I had been yearning to reach for so long. Despite the challenges, it was the only goal.


    Epilogue


    Niyaz stands in front of the new table he bought cheaply. It''s good looking, but, has an oversized drawer. Apparently, the previous tenant in this place was a university student who fled without paying rent. So, the landlord sold off all his belongings.


    Niyaz is happy to have found the table at a bargain. But there''s one problem¡ªever since getting the table, he''s been having strange dreams every night.

 Wants to Know Your Story鈥擯art 1 (Violence Alert!)

    "Sir, do you know, I''m a psycho?" said the man with a mischievous smile, setting down his coffee cup after taking a sip.


    Although I should have been surprised, I''ve grown used to hearing such bold statements from people who tell stories. Listening to such sensational tales has become a routine for me over the years. I, too, have a knack for concocting a dramatic narrative to make a story more engaging, a skill I''ve honed in my long history of storytelling.


    Since the last book fair, I''ve been caught in the writer''s block. On one side, I''m struggling with plot issues, and on the other hand, I can''t seem to write anything. Another book fair is approaching, and the publishers are asking to give them new novel. To write something, you have to read a lot. I''ve read extensively, but nothing seems to materialize. Creating a compelling plot has been a challenge for me.


    I''ve been pondering for a long time about how to fill the void in my plot. Then, a brilliant idea struck me¡ªwhy not take inspiration from someone else rather than relying solely on my own imagination?


    You might have noticed or not, a prominent newspaper in the country had an advertisement on its last page, saying, "Wants to hear your story. Storytellers will receive due recognition." I was intrigued, but not overly optimistic about it. I haven''t reaped significant benefits from such ventures before.


    Since then, occasionally, people have approached me with their stories. They share tales of different tastes, different genres, and sometimes even events from their own lives. I don''t turn anyone away,


    don''t hesitate to give due honor and reward for their stories with due respect based on the content.


    It passes my time well. Nonetheless, I have discovered a unique way to write my novel, and I''ll discuss that later.


    "Let''s listen to your psycho story." I also smiled a little after listening to the man.


    "Why are you telling it a story, sir? This is a true incident." Hearing my words, the man was a little depressed.


    I smiled to myself; said nothing. Will he be an exception from the rest? Not supposed to happen, I guess.


    "Well, okay. Tell me your true incident then," I replied.


    "Sir, my wife was the first person I murdered. Before that, I was a normal people like everyone." The man started.


    I was a little surprised this time. Didn''t the man say that naturally? My interest increased a little. "Tell the whole incident."


    "What can I say, sir?" I have come to tell you about my biggest regret. I don''t know if I can tell. However, sir. The story is too long. Will it be your time? You don''t have much time left though.".


    "What do you mean? I don''t catch your last words."


    "Never mind, sir. My wife was like a fairy. We had a three-year relationship. Those three years were the best time of our lives. We both studied at the same university. Her family was well-off, and they never pressured her to get married. We enjoyed our time together. We even dared to fall in love.


    After graduating from the university, I found a job. Fate was on our side. I sent a marriage proposal to her family, and they readily agreed. My family was good, I was good person and working in a Govt office; after these inquiries they didn''t hesitate. My wife also played some role to earn their acceptance. Haha!"


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    "Even after love marriage, this situation happened to you?"


    "Sir, in every family, there are some disagreements amid all the happiness. We also had our ups and downs. Our life was going fine. But, sir, I believe fate doesn''t always favor everyone. Out of nowhere, I bumped into my childhood friend, who I hadn''t seen for a long time."


    "Your childhood friend! What has he done here?"


    "Keep listening, sir! You Know the eye of the vulture? My friend kept a vulture eye on my family. He was known as a playboy since childhood. He was more inclined to seduce girls. Despite growing up, the nature has not changed a bit. As he was my childhood friend, I didn''t bother much about these either.


    Before he got to know my wife, everything was fine. The real problems started a few months later. I work in a government office, and I have work ten to five everyday. I''ve never done anything unjust in my life, and I''ve always carried out my responsibilities faithfully. I never even thought about neglecting them.


    After work, I would come home exhausted, feeling physically drained. If my wife found any small fault, she would start a fight, as if she wanted to argue. I was also tired, so I didn''t engage in these issues. I had never been in the habit of arguing with her about such matters, and I never discussed them with her. But gradually, the limits of tolerance were being pushed.


    The distance between us kept increasing. I had torn apart our relationship. I was so absorbed in my work that I couldn''t give her time. I had plans to go to Cox''s Bazar in December, but it never happened. But I didn''t realize the real thing. She was growing more and more exhausted, and she couldn''t reach me, even though I was so close. Two people are living like a dummy," then the man stopped.


    By now I understand where the story will turn. This time seems to be a waste of time. I have nothing to say in this regard. I can see I feel that time is running out, and I have nothing to say. Seeing my silence, the man himself started talking again.


    "That day was a Monday. I was feeling quite unwell, but I had never earned leave from the office due to illness. That day, I was feeling very unwell. I got a leave from the office.


    As soon as I left the office, I was caught in a sudden downpour on the street nearby. I got drenched willingly. I remembered the rainy days of my childhood; how many times I got drenched in the rain back then. Yet, the rain that falls in my city can only be compared to spitting. Getting drenched in the rain reduced the pain in my head a bit.


    My mind felt better. There was a flower shop by the side of the road near the office. As I walked by it, I paused for a moment. I saw many jasmine flowers there. Jasmine was her favorite flower. I bought many of them from that shop.


    My house is quite far from office, it would take a solid two hours to reach there. If you get into a jam, there is nothing to say! As it was not office break time that day, there was no traffic jam on the road, I was able to cross in two hours. I could just think of giving my wife a pleasant surprise.


    However, perhaps not returning home that day was a good thing. But what I saw when I did return..." The man let out a long sigh, pausing for a moment. He seemed lost in thought, gazing into the distance, just trying to reach his memory.


    "Please, continue?" I spoke. He snapped back to reality hearing my words. The man seems a little sick, breathing frequently. Who knows if it happened to remember the old memories! Twenty minutes have passed since the beginning of our story.


    "I saw in the bedroom that they were indulging in physical intimacy, like he was running on top of my wife. I couldn''t understand what was going on.


    I don''t know what was happening in my head at that moment. I saw the panties and bras scattered all over the place. I, too, enjoyed it for a moment after standing there for a while. Neither of them saw me...


    I slowly went to the kitchen. I tried to find something there. But don''t know what I was searching for. Suddenly, my eyes fell on a knife. Next to the knife, there were some chopped vegetables. I picked up the knife in my hand. Then, I slowly came back to the bedroom.


    The first stab was on my friend''s neck, but it didn''t land properly. He was just screaming like a slaughtered cow. My wife, too, was very afraid and had hurried to hide. I gave her few stabs also, with a smile. She died very soon. Poor thing!


    But my friend was still alive, screaming. I gave him peace at once. There is a river near my house, it was no problem to tie two people with rocks and drown them in that river.


    To be continue...

 Wants to know Your Story鈥擯art 2 (Violence Alert!)

    I was trying to cook up a little drama. I myself went to the police station and reported my wife as missing after 24 hours. They also investigated for a few days, made inquiries. Since I was the prime suspect as the husband, I knew I would be suspected.


    But they couldn''t find any trace of a body, so they couldn''t claim any murder had happened. Meanwhile, their investigation revealed that my friend who was also missing. I knew the police had somehow found out that he would often visit my house when I wasn''t home. Seeing all this, the police had no issues linking the two and two together.


    One day the police officer explained the matter well to me. They had looked into my friend''s shady past. I too admitted that the boy was no good. Later, the officer told me that such extra-marital affairs are on the rise in this country. He commented that the nation''s morals are deteriorating. After his remarks, I cried for a few moments.


    Sir, but those were not crocodile tears of acting. I was genuinely feeling bad for my wife. I loved her dearly. The case remained filed as an extra-marital affair in police records.


    But sir, my thirst for murder hasn''t diminished. When I see people, my hands still tremble. If I find someone alone in a secluded place, well, need I say more?"


    "What do you mean?" I was startled by his words.


    "Before that, sir. I am wondering where do you learn to make such excellent coffee? I have never had such good coffee in my life"


    "Thanks. I haven''t married yet, as you can see, and I often stay alone at home. Finding a good cook is challenging, so I experiment with cooking. Consider this coffee as a product of one such experiment," I said, and with those words, I froze for a moment, realizing that the word " alone" was resonating with the ominous tolls of danger in my mind.


    The man smiled as if he understood my attitude. He finished the rest of the cold coffee with a sip.


    "Listen to the rest of the story, sir. After those two murders, I have committed three more murders. The victim of my third murder was a small child. He was playing with a ball on the street, alone. Must have been about 1.5 years old.


    I saw no one around. I slowly went near the child. I grabbed his throat tightly, he struggled hard to breathe but I didn''t let go. Rather I increased the pressure on his delicate windpipe. The bones of little children are soft, with a dull sound it broke. The poor child didn''t even realize what had happened. Hee hee!


    However, I didn''t personally commit the fourth murder. But I''m certainly responsible for it. As soon as I got off the bus, I saw a commotion brewing in one spot. People had gathered in a circle. Pushing through the crowd, I understood that a pickpocket had been caught red-handed. The pickpocket was a teenage boy. He was being tried by the people.


    Needless to say, the public was already agitated. They were just waiting for an opportunity. As soon as I shouted, "Death to the rascal''s mother" and slapped the boy hard across his face, it was enough to break the dam of their restraint. People in this country don''t really like pickpockets. A public beating began.


    After beating him to death, no one felt a shred of remorse. Actually, there''s no difference between them and me, I saw the thirst for murder in their eyes. They just haven''t had the opportunity yet, otherwise, they would have become like me. Such is human nature.


    For the next murder, I exhibited some professionalism. I had crafted a special knife for the kill. It was an extremely sharp knife. To test its sharpness, I checked it on the skin of my own palm. With just a slight scrape, the skin on my palm tore open and flesh came out.


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    I slit the old lady''s throat with that special knife. She was probably a beggar. She was resting in a secluded bushy area. With three strikes to her neck, she died. Here, see this knife still has dry blood stains on it," saying so the man took out a sharp knife from his bag.


    Indeed, there were dry blood stains on the knife. I was dumbfounded. This man is a dangerous lunatic. A complete psycho.


    The man continued, "Sir, I actually have no particular motive or pattern for murder. I kill whoever I find. So, there''s really no chance of me getting caught either. My sixth victim is going to be you. Please, don''t resist at all. The less struggle from you, the less pain you''ll suffer. It''s beneficial for you."


    As soon as he finished talking, he picked up the knife and stood up... I recoiled in fear. Looks like I''ll have to die at the hands of a psycho after all!


    The man is slowly advancing towards me. But he looks a little odd. Seems like he''s having trouble breathing, his hands are trembling quite a bit. In fright, I have curled up on the sofa with my feet up.


    The man took two steps and then collapsed right in the middle of the room. His wheezing has started, and he''s clutching his throat. The strychnine seems to have started working.


    I watch impassively as the man writhes on the floor, his body wracked by violent convulsions. Foam begins bubbling out from his mouth as he gasps desperately for air. His face contorts in sheer agony, eyes bulging out wildly. It is a gruesome yet fascinating sight.


    I know I should feel some pity or remorse at this suffering. But I feel only a clinical detachment, observing the effects of the poison dispassionately. The strychnine is now fully in the bloodstream, attacking the central nervous system.


    His limbs jerk and spasm as if controlled by invisible strings. Back arching painfully with each convulsion. The seizures increasing in frequency and intensity as death nears. A peculiar keening sound escapes his throat, primal and raw.


    His hand clutches his chest while the other claws futilely at the floor. Vertebrae seem to pop and crack under the unnatural contortions. Even in the throes of dying, the body struggles on instinctively. But the battle is hopeless, the ending foreordained.


    With a few final shudders, he goes still at last. Eyes glazed and unseeing. No longer a threat but merely a lifeless heap. I feel nothing but relief. The show is over, the curtain has fallen. It''s Time to complete the story.


    Any poison begins to react, depending on the physical condition of the poisoned person. Usually, it doesn''t take this long for strychnine to react, within 15-30 minutes it starts its work. It took 45/50 minutes to kill this guy man.


    I laughed and said, "While I may be your sixth victim, you are my eighth victim! The coffee didn''t taste so great just like that for no reason. Seven other people have already been tested on before you." But the man is no longer alive to hear these words, white foam has started coming out of his mouth. Fools will be fools, when will these stupid people learn?


    I had mentioned right at the start the importance of plot selection in my storytelling method. This is that method. To the seven sensational murders in the city over the past few months, one more has been added. The stories of these eight murders will be the plot of my story.


    I''ll have to create a masterpiece! Though there''ll be some minor casualties. I''ve thought of a title for the book too - "I Want to Hear Your Story". The book will be somewhat like my autobiography. Looks like I''ll have to complete the book and email it to the publisher today. Maybe the publisher will print the book and readers will graciously accept it.


    Now, I sit down at my desk, energized with new inspiration flowing through me. The story is fully completed in my mind. I know exactly how I will craft it into a thrilling psychological thriller that will have readers at the edge of their seats.


    My fingers fly across the keyboard as I write the ending scene. I describe the feeling of euphoria that comes after taking a life. The god-like power of deciding someone''s fate with your own hands. I want readers to understand the mindset behind the compulsive thirst for murder.


    The hunting and stalking of victims were portrayed as an addictive adrenaline rush. The chilling detachment felt while snuffing out an innocent life is conveyed through vivid sensory details. I articulate the strange hollowness that follows after, then the rising urge to kill again.


    I type the final sentence, feeling drained yet immensely satisfied. This has been my magnum opus, a masterpiece showcasing the creative heights. My best novel is about to be born. But I won''t be alive to enjoy this joy. I''ve tied the noose in the next room.


    The noose I prepared earlier beckons invitingly. But I know my story will live on. That is a comforting thought as I step on the stool and slip my head through the loop, anticipating the rapturous embrace of oblivion. I kick away the stool without regret, finally free.


    "So, reader! Are you ready to buy the book?"