The Loop of Her

By Jyotirmoy Garain

Chasing chains screeched,

The red room, indeed.

Scrunched glasses, bewildered sheath—

Each glass piece wore a naughty smile.

Each smile hid an avenge isle.

Is this you? But you are in exile.

You’ll understand in a while.

Hands smooched, lips quipped—senile.

What is trust? A time's lie.

He broke her chains, swords bled,

Lifted her crotch—his shoulder, her shield.

In a wavy walk, she blushed in heat.

She asked, “Why peel away from it?

When your exile was always my feat?”

He hissed, “You know too little about it.

Our moves are trapped in the loop’s pit.

We spin inside time’s cryptic bit.”

She shuddered at her fallacy’s writ.

A final investigation—trust me,

To break the loop is the exit key.

She breathed—deep, inevitable grief.

Things had slipped too far to keep.

Their hands clutched in quiet plea—

She saw her past like seeping tea.

All happened for your father's need.

Your actions? His experiments’ seed.

Everything was planted—his deed.

Do you recall your mother’s final seek?

You remember only wounds and heel,

No past—just anger you couldn’t feel.

“How do you know this much about it?”

“Because I am you—a dual character twist.”

She blinked—like a wind-blown seed.

His scratch, her bruise—same pain, same bleed.

Her tears fell—no remedy freed.

“To escape, we must merge.”

He led her to her room’s verge.

Her house was empty—a beam surged.

“Go, Shreya. Be the free bird.”

She stepped forward.

She pulled him—“Only one will live,” he urged.

Suddenly, she felt the pull of dirt.

She screamed—her longing surged:

“I loved you… always, in every splurge.”

His voice in her dream blurred.

She woke up—in coma, numb and stirred.

“Where is my father? I want to meet.”

“In exile for his deed,” the doctor speaks.

“But I need answers—clear and complete.”

“You’ll get them,” the constable sneaks.

Red-rimmed eyes—secrets leak.

Her father turned—face hiding heat.

“Yes, it was my experiment seat.

Your past—I built it, piece by piece.

Dual character, your love, his exile—a feat.”

The same naughty smile began to repeat.

She fainted—heartbeat lost in police beat.

Morning—her room, her bed tight.

Her mother’s breath—real, alight.

“Are you okay, my girl?” she cried.

Shreya blinked—denying truth inside.

“Letter,” the postman sighed.

“It’s for Shreya.” A quiet reply.

An image of him—her tears replied.

A paper slipped out, message inside:

You are again in trap. You’ll know in a while.

“What’s the letter, dear?” — “Nothing,” she sighed.

By Jyotirmoy Garain