Melodrama

The street was a long, interminable stretch of agony, lit sporadically. At one place, an old tungsten bulb lit the gravel pavement, hanging outside an equally old house. A few paces ahead hung an ancient lantern, flickering and dying in its yellow radiance, outside an equally dilapidated shack. Adjacent to it stood a magnificent bungalow that glowed in brilliance under dozens of its lustrous white lights. Nothing of its emanating glow made it to the portion of the street where it stood strong and proud. Somewhere ahead, a shuttered down, closed house had a white bulb lighting its threshold, contributing its part of illuminating the street. It was an unusual street. There were no other smaller streets extending from its main course. It was narrow and claustrophobic. It had no beginning, no end. The buildings that lined its boundaries were all connected with no interspaces. The ending wall of one house marked the beginning of the other. At some places, magnanimous, extravagant structures stood right next to dilapidated, decomposing abominations masquerading as cottages. The street and its objects were engulfed in sheer deafening silence, utterly preposterous. The night seemed to offer no solace, no resource. Either its inhabitants were invested in a deep slumber or they were non-existent. Nevertheless, the street was not to be deserted that night, as it had never been before. Someone always turned up to offer company. Today's guest was a middle-aged man. A low, slim male figure. An unfortunate soul. He paced steadily, methodically forward. Although he looked straight ahead, he absorbed every little detail of that narrow street. The man developed a loathing for that place almost immediately like all others before him, yet he did not turn but continued his walk that progressively required more energy with each step. The night sky was a pure black velvet of glittering stars and a haunting moon that seemed to mock the only lively object below. The man continued making his way forward; piercing through portions of the street shrouded in sheer darkness when there were no sources of light, and meeting occasional illuminated spots otherwise along the way. He could sense his fate. He could smell his tragedy. He wanted to spit on the doors he went past. He longed to bang on them and scream his heart out; produce a low deafening throttle that would rupture his throat, render him voiceless, resonate and explode the very brain of his. He longed to let out a loathful, damaging shout. He wanted to hurt. He wanted to curse and yell. Yet he showed no alarm; outwardly a calm peaceful apparition; one and the same with the street; taking steps that now required the last ounces of energy left in his body. He longed to sob, scream and cry. He longed to kneel down, look above to heavens and shed tears, volume of tears. Yet he did not halt but moved ahead quietly, embracing every cursed step. He longed to sit in those bright, illuminated, brilliant portions of the street; stretch open his eyes wide and welcome every little ray of light, and smile for a while. He longed to dash, escape and skip those hideous, sickening, diabolical portions of blackness and liberate himself off this misery. Yet nothing changed. What had ever changed in that street? He still trudged ahead with a constant pace, welcoming each bright and dark interval with equal indifference. Long before more could be said about his multitude of desires, the last atom of energy in his body was finally exhausted. He fell face ward on the street. As soon as his lifeless body met the gravel, the impact produced a low, deafening thud, marking the end of another visit. Now the street and its objects could lay in peace waiting for another night and another visit, of whose occurrence they were certain. Since the street was not to be deserted, as it had never been before. Someone had to turn up, and they always did.