pot

He loosened the strap on his watch. His fingers came away moist. The gas hissed. The fan whirred. The flames were blue, and slithering. The steel container was gleaming. Soon, it would be covered with mist. Soon. Until then, all he could do was to wait. He was done with all of this. He could not wait for it to be done. But wait he had to. Otherwise, it wouldn’t work. A bead of sweat dropped from his chin. He looked down at the stain on the cloth. Another dropped from his matted hair. The first was dark , fast becoming light. Another. He wiped his cheek on his left shoulder. His brow with his forearm. He could smell the water boiling. Underneath it was that deeper smell. Of something rotten. He looked at the pot and sighed in anticipation. A sip of water. Soon it would not matter. The water had been cold when taken out of the refrigerator a few minutes ago. Very quickly, it was becoming warm. Soon. He sighed with relief. His vision was becoming dimmed. He closed his eyes, and opened them. There, much better. The stone beneath his feet was cool, steady. Comforting. His heart was throbbing painfully in his chest. The fan hummed tirelessly. The gas hissed menacingly. He sniffed. Was he imagining it or was there that rotten smell again? He could almost taste the feeling. So close. And yet, there was some time left. There was a shrouded heaviness inside his head. He rubbed his right eye with the knuckles on his right hand. Blinked a few times. Pursed his lips. He got up, knees feeling heavy, walked the few steps to the pot. A huge sniff. It smelled delicious. Heart throbbing with pain and anticipation, he walked back to the chair that was now wet with the sweat he had left behind and sat down, cross legged. He pushed the heel on top out and felt the stretch in his leg. A huge, deep breath. An itch on his leg. He scratched it and felt the relief it gave him. He looked at his wrist. It was almost time. Almost. He had to time it right. Like a Swiss watch. On perfection. Otherwise, it wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t beautiful. It was just sad and dark. If timed right, it could be all of the above. The part where he had scratched his leg felt red and hot and heavy. He ran his hand through his hair, then wiped the sweat off on his shirt. An itch above his left ear. A heaviness in his heart. It was time. He got up, stretched. It would be the last time he could be so leisurely. The stretch felt good. His knee felt warm. The stone was comforting. Almost soothing. He could not afford to be soothed. Or have time. He grabbed the pot and went outside. Lines and lines of men in manjees. He made quick work and spilled the water directly on their faces. One by one by one. He sat back and listened to the symphony of screams.