The Last Wish

23. Imagination over boundary

She puffed, waving her hands in the air, frustrated. "Fine. Call me-"

"-Isabelle."

"-whatever you want," she finished, looking annoyed that he spoke before she finished. "Hey! Let me atleast finish."

He shrugged, "your bad." He stood up, with his empty bowl of cereal and headed to the kitchen. He was quite satisfied from the conversation, not knowing the pure reason, whether it was because he had atlast unraveled the name of his mystery girl or that he had got the upper hand of the talk, or maybe it was both.

Isabelle, he thought, smiling stupidly. Nice name for a stupid girl.

As he entered the sunlit kitchen, his smile impaired to a thin line. His mind had been preoccupied with the new revelation of his new house mate, temporary one to be precise, had told him that had made him completely forget the events of last night and the little evidence it had left.

The shattered remnants of the broken beer bottle, the liquid splashed around the trillion glass pieces had blotches of dry blood mixed here and there. It looked like diamonds bathed in a sea of blood.

He whistled lowly, "that's a mess now."

"Isabelle?" he called out, surprising himself of how normal it sounded. Like she was just another old friend who had decided to come over for the weekend.

"Yes, Matt," she said, emerging from the hall. Though she tried to conceal it, she looked evenly surprised as him. He motioned at the bloody mess and her eyes, following his line of sight, widened a fraction.

She looked at him with , "is this your way of showing how much of a serial killer I am?"

"No," he said with an eye roll. "It's my way of saying clean up the mess."

"But-" she started, but he already knew where this would end.

"Those who stir the shitpot should lick the spoon."

She gaped at him, as if he was some kind of a mythical creature popping out of a Shakespearean story.

Before she could say anything, he handed her shovel, a broom and a pair of gloves and said, "don't want you cutting yourself, now."

Her eyes darkened, her facing turned somber almost immediately. Without another voice of protest, she crouched down and started picking at the bigger shards of glass first. He was taken by surprise at her sudden change of mood, did he say something bad? He was merely kidding, obviously he wouldn't want her doing all that work.

But he didn't stop her, just stood behind her, watching her small pale hands reach for bigger and then smaller shards and put them in the shovel mechanically, tenderly as if it would pain the broken glass.

"You can stop glaring atom bombs on my back," she said, not turning behind to look at him, "I'm already feeling the radiations."

For the second time that day, he was surprised to find how sharp she was.

"I wasn't glaring," he defended. "I was merely observing."

"Sound beguiling to my deaf ear. Carry on then."

Ignoring her sarcastic reproach, he took another turn and re-geared the conversation to a safe zone.

"So, Isabelle," he started and stopped, waiting for a reply and continued when she nodded to go ahead. "What...brings you here?"

He cringed, knowing that statement didn't go well.

Nevertheless she answered, "I don't know." Doesn't sound very hard for a question. "Maybe fate."

"No," he shook his head despite she wouldn't be able to see him. "I mean...that night, at the, ya know, the Bridge?"

She laughed softly, "which one precisely, Matt? There's too much of a story between us and bridges."

He realized it with shocking wonder as she pointed it out. Too much of revelation in one day.

"Golden Gate."

She stiffened, her hands freezing midway in reaching a somewhat distant piece. Gently placing the last of the glass on the shovel, she turned around in her crouched position and looked up at him. He successfully masking his unwanted curiosity with a straight face.

"Don't be a sissy, Matt," she said after sometime, smirking. "Come help me. I don't want to taint my pure hands in your blood."

He rolled his eyes, despite having maintained his straight face, he still failed to cover the disappointment. He was almost sure she would have spilt the beans.

Obediently, he crouched beside her and started picking the glass shards. "Tell me something about you," he blurted, having had enough riddles playing in his mind.

"You know curiosity killed the cat," she said, soft and slow.

"Don't vex me, Isabelle," he gritted. "Tell me some bloody thing or two 'bout you. For God's sake, you'll be living here till God-knows-when."

He was sensing her uncertainty, the fear of having to open up to a total stranger was beyond difficulty to a young homeless girl, he could understand that much. But having to deal with his criminal-like brain trying to decode her was stressing him. He didn't expect her to wash out her past starting from her great granduncle's story of how he met his dear one, all that he wanted was simple information. Just something, anything.

She didn't reply, as if contemplating his statement. He tried again, trying to be less harsh this time. But she stopped him this time.

"My name is Isabelle Martin, as you already know," she began and continued. "I have two siblings, healthy parents, father a football coach and mother, a florist. I lived in LA, until 6 months back when I came here for my education. I'm majoring psychology at Harvard's, the sole purpose of my present self being here," she stopped. "Is that enough?"

He looked at her stunned, he was one hundred and one percent sure she just told him a part of her story, maybe the size of a pea in a football field. But this small piece of information had him think of his life. How much she contradicted to his, he would do anything to have her life. She was literally dwelling on Heaven. But, there was something.

"So, why are you trying to die?"