"10 + 1"

[Listening to: 'All Along The Watchtower' by Bob Dylan]

She had lobotomized him at age of thirteen (she was his teacher). Her words had always been of warnings, though she herself had considered them to be well-meant advice. It was enough to stop the lifeblood in any boy from running. Even the simplest school activity such as karate had enough symbolism to be cryptic, dark; inappropriate by her standards - her religion. She spoke against it, having learned his enrollment - asked him to leave it immediately. He had learned later that one of the words which actually represented the said art was 'patience': a combination of the characters 'knife' and 'heart' - the bearing of pain. And how ironic that it had become his tattoo since...

Desires tailored from velvet; intricately woven. Extinguished like candle-flame.

Her son was also from the same school - the golden boy who had never returned after furthering his studies. Was seated a few tables away from him, in a bar playing blues, years later in the city. As he tended to an itch below his cheek, an understanding dawned upon him - that her own son could have possibly harbored some sort of hatred, or resentment towards her. More or less what he himself had been feeling for years (unknowingly at first).

He looks well though, he thought to himself. Manicured. Stuffing himself silly with croissants. He stayed where he was, pretending to admire the bricolage adorning the walls, all the while thinking hypocrites hypocrites.

( _")