he threw the egg up in the air. it travelled a distance upwards but fell to the ground with a sickening crunch.
he threw the next one at an unassuming bald old lady, sunning herself in the delicate winter sunlight, playing an imaginary piano. it splattered into a thousand little tiny microshells that glistened momentarily, before gathering as a shoddy mess in the old lady cotton front. the ones that remained on her head seemed to stick out like miniature versions of highway restrooms his dad took him to, when they drove away for the weekends.he ran across the length of the terrace,burning the tips of his toes and his soles on the squelching tarmac. he stopped momentarily to smile at his newest(and ironically oldest) target and then pressed it between his lips.
the next egg found its way to the freshly pressed laundary room. he splattered the yellow yolk all over the stubborn white. the white seemed pious in its virtuous brilliance. he spread the yolk with his stubby fingers, dividing it equally over all the enire army of bedsheets and pillow cases, judicious in his execution.he then proceeded to laugh at all the detergent advertisements. he grimaced at the faint smell of raw egg that was beginning to travel up his nose and build permanence there.
the third egg went towards a sadistic attempt to mash it into the barbie dolls' blond hair. his sister had just washed her dollies, combing their tangled plastic hair with a tiny blue brush. instead of leaving their hair in shambles, he twisted and turned them into tiny, neat buns, matted with yolk. she would smile, atleast at first, as he let out a dry laugh. the laugh hollowed through the pink plastered room, bouncing off all the lilies on the wallpaper and hit his own ears. he was startled. he looked around and saw himself in the mirror. his reflection seemed grown beyond its years, almost like an adult, with the first sign of grey wrinkles. he hurried away, the smell of rotten egg now overpowering him, always a step ahead.
his father's new tie, his mother's green satin, the maid's best apron and his dog's bowl. the yolk seemed to coagulate and conjugate to form tiny and large patterns over everything, drawing inferences of the wisest men. and there was always that stench, that seemed to have caught him unawares, and invaded his mind. so much like blood, he thought.
ofcourse they didn't appreciate his art.
he protested. when they seemed bent on punishment, he took the last egg in his hand. almost ritualistically, he crushed it between his palm. the yolk trickled down his arm as he generously conditioned his red t-shirt with it. and he protested," See..i'm no different!"
it didn't amuse them. he didn't think it would. and as he walked away towards his room, he thought to himself, tomatoes.shampoo.wires. smile.
