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CONFLAGRATION: An Arnav/Khushi Fan-Fiction NOTE Pg 3.(October 3, 2014)

napstermonster Goldie

Joined: 06 November 2008
Posts: 1405

Posted: 02 October 2014 at 8:22pm | IP Logged

I know I owe you guys Perfection, and that is coming up as well, so please don't assume I am starting something new with the intention of distracting you all with smoke and mirrors, and not finishing that!

I have been working on Perfection --- But you guys know how the Muse works -- she is a total b***h when it comes to on what, and at what juncture inspiration chooses to strike us hapless writers. So this story, sprung to my mind completely fully formed, literally two hours ago, and I  was not pleased with the timing. At ALL. If you get my drift.

So I tried to dutifully ignore it, and in the end, I sneaked into the living room with the laptop and a deep sigh. Its going to be one of those stories, I can tell--one that I have to pen down, like I had to do for "Love Story on Page Three" or "A Girl Named Khushi," my other short stories. I guess, I figured--it will be less painful to just write the damn thing out so I can get some moments peace!

I anticipate this one will be done relatively quickly. The concept is set, the story line is in my head--and I just need inspiration from my readers, so  here I am,  giving you the Prologue...

Please comment and like, ladies.. Are you with me on this Conflagration?


ANADOLU HOSPITAL. ISTANBUL, TURKEY -2016-___________________________________________

Shattered panes of glass, each with a fragmented image, a moving tableau that he could not fully see.

Confused swirls of patterns, splashes of movement, half remembered sounds, cacophony and smells that assaulted his trembling, still-recovering senses.

And the face.

The colors changed and swirled in a kaleidoscope, the lights behind his closed lids alternating between brilliant explosions and velvet shadow. The time of the images changed from day to night, from bright afternoon light to saffron strands of dawn. The unknown people shifted impatiently in his mind, their mouths opening and closing, as if in the middle of forgotten conversations with him, their bodies moving,  undulating within those broken shards. The backgrounds on every glass shard changed, now a mandir, a mosque , a baroque boudoir filled with puce and purple silks or an austere chamber in somber wood.

They all changed, every time.  

Every person, place, smell, image. The shards reformed into new jagged edges as they pierced him in places he did not know he could hurt, drawing blood that he did not know he still contained within his battered heart.

They all changed.

All but the face. HER face.

If it had just been a different face, even once ---hell--- if the expression on her face changed, even once,  then he could have been sure that he was not going mad. For how could her face be the only fulcrum, the one still point in the maelstrom of his mind? How could she that...every time, in every setting, background, time? how could she be imprinted, and still be a complete blank slate? How could this be?

The doctors had said this would happen--- that the gaps would fill in, places, dates, times, events, people--- they would stream back in. To be reabsorbed into his mind, to be recreated into a complete crystal mirror that held his secrets, his hidden truths. The kindest of his shrinks had advised him, gently, to not rush the process. To let his mind heal, to let his unconscious reform the jagged shards into a pattern in its own good time. The mirror of his memories would reform. He must be patient, and he must not, absolutely must..not force it.

Retrograde amnesia was like that. The harder you chased it, the faster it withdrew and the less your own mind and memories came to your beck and call. But if you ignored the broken images, like an slighted, pouting lover, the memories would return, cajoling and begging to be touched and re- lived by you. It was an apt description of his state, even a poetic one. He rather thought he was a man who liked poetry, liked reading the honeyed imagery, the mellifluous words and savored the perfect apt phrase. So he had allowed this description of his condition to stand, and tried to listen, to hope, to adhere to their medical plans. For his physical health, and for his mental one. He wanted to believe them, believe that he was recovering.

And it did feel...It DID feel as if he was recovering. In every way, but in the one way that seemed to matter, in the one way that he could not understand ... his fear, and her face.


For months, he  had listened to his doctors and therapists with a docile acceptance that he knew, in his gut, was not his real nature to show. But a weak body, recovering from attack, and a mind left fogged in bewildered confusion does not allow a man to exert himself when he needs to re-learn how to live. And he would live, and he would return to his life. He just needed to get better first.  He was pragmatic,  coldly rational--- and ruthlessly determined to get back his control, his life. He did not like losing control. This, too, became apparent to him, and to his doctors as the months went by. The face in his mind, the confusion, the pain... it was too strange, too distracting. it...hurt.

So he suppressed the memories that made him mad with unnamed fear, and decided to let go of what he could not control, and work on what he could. He was ferociously committed to getting better, as if there was something out there forcing him to just recover, just be whole.  He sensed a prickling under his flesh at the thought, a tightening of skin, a hammering inside his chest. He suppressed it. He knew, vaguely, that he did not like, and would not tolerate any weakness, any fear within himself.

So first...recovery.

So he exercised his healing body, regaining muscle mass and reforming himself into the formidable man he believed he might once have been. His chest filled out with slabs of sleek muscle, the punishing jogs around the hospital grounds building flexibility and core strength. The ease with which he did all this forced him to realize that he had to be a prime specimen before the event. It did not surprise him, he sensed that being at his physical peak was important, somehow. Why, he did not know. But getting back to that level of fitness--- he did that with single-minded focus.

Every task was approached, and excelled at--- the therapists here at the hospital were pleased with his progress, and once, when asked to disassemble and reassemble a toy gun, to work out the stiffness in his fingers,  he had astonished his trainer, and himself, by doing the task in under a minute. The toy gun, a prop for the male patients reformed under his long fingers with a rapidity that was astonishing. Muscle memory, his therapist had murmured, looking at him with rounded eyes full of awe.

He had shrugged.

The smell of gunpowder was often in his nostrils, sneaking down from his mind in tendrils of half remembered memory. He had accepted that he was someone who...knew guns. It did not bother him. He knew, somehow, that he was not a man of violence, even if he knew about violent things. Another knowing.

As the months passed, as he absorbed newspapers and revealed a didactic memory, as he beat the older patients at chess and easily discussed complex politics and world business with his doctors, the fascination with him increased among the men and women committed to his care. But the awe seemed..normal, pedestrian, even. The same awe he saw everyday in his nurses, as they giggled and tried to baby him, watching him come and go from his cabin with feminine appreciation in their eyes. He  knew he was the center of everyone's interest, and he found his own easy acceptance of everyone's stares and whispers very telling. He had been... someone. A powerful man, one used to both guns and business and chess and women, to being the center of attention, to arrogantly basking in it. Someone of... note.

It was more than his fallen-angel face, or the muscles that gleamed and bunched as he did his daily therapy. It was more than the raven hair that grew in unruly waves across his forehead, that now completely covered the wound that was the path of the bullet that had grazed his skull. It was him. He knew this. But if only someone would tell him WHO he was...! Was he waiting for HER ? The face?

He did not know. As the months went by, the face faded, as more and more new revelations about himself crowded in to take the haunted place she had held in his fragmented mind. By now, he had recovered enough for the doctors to again start a round of pictures in the papers and emails to their colleagues abroad. When the Istanbul police took another picture of him, this time without swollen eyes, broken teeth and a bullet wound in his head, he knew this time he would be found, and the mirror in his mind would reform with everything on it.

He did not know how he knew it, but he felt, instinctively, that someone was looking for him, and would continue to look until they found him and took him home. Like everything else, he did not have any way of knowing why he was sure of this...he just was. 

And so, when seven months after the unidentified Indian man who's almost lifeless, shattered body had been fished out of the Bosporus Sea finally got his identity revealed through the Delhi Police's Missing Person bulletin, he was far less surprised than his doctors were by who he turned out to be. 

Arnav Singh Raizada was back. Now he just had to find out where the hell he'd gone. 


Edited by napstermonster - 03 October 2014 at 5:53am

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sman IF-Rockerz

Joined: 06 July 2005
Posts: 5750

Posted: 02 October 2014 at 8:29pm | IP Logged
Meee first..what a so glad you started a new Arhi story..loved the starting..will stakk the thread frequently :)

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radhvi Senior Member

Joined: 24 February 2014
Posts: 406

Posted: 02 October 2014 at 8:59pm | IP Logged
That was absolutely brilliant!!Clap
The description of an Amnesia patient and Arnav's transformation to his former self was so well-written!!! Just WOW WOW!! 

From the prologue my guess is that Arnav could have been an intelligence officer, probably declared rouge!! 

Very very interestingStar

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-Roshini- IF-Sizzlerz

Joined: 21 July 2012
Posts: 13215

Posted: 02 October 2014 at 9:45pm | IP Logged
Interesting prologue
excited for it :)

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amus5 IF-Dazzler

Joined: 02 December 2012
Posts: 4327

Posted: 02 October 2014 at 10:01pm | IP Logged
quite a start and am eagerly waiting for the FF to move - on (alongwith Perfection, of course Wink )

pls continue soon Big smile

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ramyarn IF-Dazzler

Joined: 21 June 2012
Posts: 2694

Posted: 02 October 2014 at 11:46pm | IP Logged
I am in awe with your writing style .You seem to be interested in narrating characters who is going through psychological issues.
This story has a suspense which makes the readers eager to read the next part..

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...Pwincess... IF-Sizzlerz

Joined: 04 July 2010
Posts: 10899

Posted: 02 October 2014 at 11:50pm | IP Logged
YAY! ! Res

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bkamber IF-Sizzlerz

Joined: 29 October 2012
Posts: 15624

Posted: 03 October 2014 at 12:11am | IP Logged
You have me hooked. 
Love the prologue.
Reminds me of Bourne.

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