A/N: Just a random idea that popped in my head while I was fangirling over iAndromeda's stories. Also, inspired by a particular poem I read on Instagram recently, of a wonderful, wonderful poet whose writing skills I aspire to achieve.
:: Splinters ::
..
An empty bureau always seems an unfamiliar place just as empty hearts do. None of them working there have gotten used to it. To inspector Fredericks, it impacts the most; there does not exist any other soul around matching up to his calibre of garnering and showering affection. And as much as he often brushes it off, secretly, he does take pride in the amount of love that dwells within him.
Closing the case file before him he recalls the events of the past few days. A haughty young woman murders her husband upon discovering his affair with his secretary. The case is cracked and the culprit is being interrogated. She shows no signs of remorse for committing the crime, and from behind the closed door, Fredericks sees his seniors getting increasingly livid by the second. Nothing he is not accustomed to- but it amazes him nonetheless.
During the investigation of another case, a helpless man, probably in his early thirties, steps forward courageously to take a bullet aimed at his girlfriend. The woman, held hostage by a gang of hooligans, yells in dismay as she sees her innocent boyfriend collapsing to the ground. As the team proceeds to nab the criminals, the inspector obeys orders of escorting the dying man and his scandalized girlfriend away from the scene. As he approaches them, he watches the man lying nestled on the woman's lap as they exchange the last few words of the love they have shared, as they steal the last few moments of the dreams they might have seen together.
Fredericks knows the man is about to breathe his last; he lets the woman have the last occasion of looking her lover in his eyes, life slowly disappearing from them. As he turns back, he catches a glimpse of the sobbing woman expressing to her boyfriend how he is the most wonderful man for her and he is the one she will love till eternity. She sings him a teary lullaby as he peacefully closes his eyes in her arms.
In the twenty years of his duty, he has seen it all. People of diverse temperaments, situations grave and light.
Once again he ponders which pieces should he take on his skin today: the nonchalance of the female who killed her husband, the fearless will of the man happily dying for the love of his life, the vigour of his shattered girlfriend comforting him during his last few breaths- or simply the perseverance of his seniors they display while grilling the suspects.
Tiny little shards of every one of them is etched on him, each time a new one, a different one.
.
A café in the middle of the bustling street is where he often seeks solace. He occupies a table in a quiet corner that rewards him with a view of the life outside.
The coffee beans gradually spill their aroma as the inspector witnesses from afar, the events of everyday life; the memories being created, the emotions being shared. Unknowingly, it brings a smile on his face as he takes a sip of his coffee.
In a secluded part of the road, a girl weeps inconsolably, burying her face in what seems like an marksheet. She seems in her early twenties, probably someone who faired poorly in her exams – or might just be going through an unlucky day. Beside her, a couple of friends try to alleviate her, perhaps attempting to ease the tumult of distress off her shoulders. One of them wipes her tears before they lead her across the street to the bus-stop.
On the same bus-stop, a mother carries her son's school bag as they wait for their bus. Fredericks sees them often; this is their daily route of commuting. The mother caresses the boy's hair and he looks up at her with a gentle smile. While they wait, she seems to ask something, probably if he's hungry because he nods his head in a slight vigorous manner and she hugs him closer, giving him an affectionate look. As the bus arrives, the mother carefully takes her son's hand to board, and it is quite a reassurance that while she's there for him, he will never go hungry.
In the midst of the junction, an old couple, perhaps in their late seventies help each other cross the road to reach the opposite street. The pace of the traffic is making it difficult for them to walk to the other side. As they try to make their way, replying on the support of walking sticks the lady holds the man's free hand and they saunter together before the signal turns green again. The man lends a toothless smile to his ladylove and with the walking sticks engaging each one of their wrinkled hands, the free hands continue to entwine each other as they finally walk away out of sight.
Taking the last sip from the mug, Fredericks gives a few moments to dwell on what should he take along with him today: the susceptivity of the girl who finds it appalling to carry the burden of dejection on her back, the catharsis of her friends who attempt to feel her trauma, the tenderness of the mother who is always concerned if her kid is well-fed, or the subtle zeal of the senile couple who know they are enough for each other.
The gun tucked at the edge of his trousers suddenly feels a lot heavier than before.
.
Returning to a quiet, empty house post a long tedious day is rarely what inspector Fredericks looks forward to. Dark rooms and a silent kitchen seems alien compared to the abode he's been living in all these years. He casts a cursory glance around the place and smiles at the little mess that needs to be cleaned before his wife returns home the next day.
The sigh he lets out sounds quite loud in the stillness of the night.
As the egg bounces in the boiling water to harden and the butter is being sautéed in the frying pan, Fredericks wonders how many splinters of varied characteristics do we take on us in our lifetime. The fragments, some engraved on our souls, some falling off, serve as a distinction of what we are made of, of what we are ultimately molded into. And along with grasping on to own identity, these splinters we take on our skin are always imperative.
Traces of his wife's radiant face and her jovial voice resonate in the air even after being away for a whole week, the imaginary tinkling sound of the vessels and the splashing of the tap water rings in his head, forcing Fredericks to reflect on what part of his wife has he kept on him: her rigidity of having stood firm by his side as his better half, the unfailing patience she has donned while playing the role of a cop's wife, the discipline she has instilled in him and their relationship, or the aura she exudes, the essence she leaves behind whenever she exits the house.
The shards of her, Fredericks feels, regardless of the number, have always been the most beneficial of all.
.
:: The End ::