THE LAST PUPPET A MIND. AN ANGEL. A HAVOC.

ANKITA KULKARNI

Copyright © Ankita Kulkarni All Rights Reserved. This book has been published with all efforts taken to make the material error-free after the consent of the author. However, the author and the publisher do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. While every effort has been made to avoid any mistake or omission, this publication is being sold on the condition and understanding that neither the author nor the publishers or printers would be liable in any manner to any person by reason of any mistake or omission in this publication or for any action taken or omitted to be taken or advice rendered or accepted on the basis of this work. For any defect in printing or binding the publishers will be liable only to replace the defective copy by another copy of this work then available.

To every soul, who is at war with something! To Ira, who caught me long before I fell!

Contents Preface

vii

Acknowledgements

ix

Prologue

xi

Summary

xiii

1. Chapter 1

1

2. Chapter 2

8

3. Chapter 3

15

4. Chapter 4

25

5. Chapter 5

29

6. Chapter 6

42

7. Chapter 7

46

8. Chapter 8

55

9. Chapter 9

75

10. Chapter 10

77

11. Chapter 11

80

12. Chapter 12

87

13. Chapter 13

89

14. Chapter 14

98

15. Chapter 15

108

16. Chapter 16

117

17. Chapter 17

124

18. Chapter 18

131

19. Chapter 19

137

Angel

139

v

Preface Where did I get the idea from? Where did I get the inspiration from? Well, From the red moon hiding behind the ancient tree. From the twinkling star breathing beyond the unseen. Who whispered the tale into my ears? Perhaps myself from another land. Perhaps the land itself where the stories are forged, from smiles, from cries. Perhaps the wind was singing this song I overheard. Perhaps it was shouting those hymns since ages. It didn’t stop until I picked up the pen...

vii

Acknowledgements A million thanks to my mother and father, grandparents. To Gods and the angels who watch over me. To Supriya, Chaitrali, Mansi Didi, Jitu mama, Neha, Danish, Aditya. Your amazing words will stay with me forever, keep my faith high. To Akshay and Mr. Amol Puranik, without them, this would be just a longlost thought in my countless memories.

ix

Prologue “That’s how I lived; a bit by bit. There were days when I didn’t want to leave this place, ever. There were times when I wanted to die, before HIS blood-filled hand reached my throat. There were years when no voice reached my ears, ever. There were moments when an ANGEL whispered into my ears; a smile forged in fire cannot be burned.

”

-Patient 9

xi

Summary The slaughterer will return for the last puppet he left behind. A gripping fairytale of a nameless man and his lost angel. His life takes a bizarre turn when the only ray of hope goes missing. Will he be able to protect the angel who once took an oath to protect him? Where will he run to hide from a shadow? In the Darkness? His feet don’t stop at one turn, not until he can’t trust his own senses.

xiii

CHAPTER ONE

There is only one person I can trust, and it’s not ME. I tilted my head a bit to get a view beyond the cracked ashen glass; the insanely narrow corridor is still at standstill. My frantic, sleep-deprived eyes lingered around the door, for the doorknob to unfasten and witness an Angel in walk in. Silvery like a whispering wind, Snowy like moonlight’s dream. The wounded and fretful neck returned to the black clock on the wall in front of my bed, the ears refusing a gaze away from the corridor. Time is dawdling. I stare at its glossy black second-hand, is it stirring? The minute hand of the clock is yet to land at the right time. The 11.00 AM. The time of my angel. Only if life were a bit easy, like the clock, I could dive into it. There is only going onwards. I cannot go backward. I wish to. It’s winter, chilly enough to roast my wounds, hot enough that blood in my thin veins doesn’t boil. The only movement in the lifeless ward is the lush-green curtains swinging to the ends of the roof, where the window and the roof meet without an end. The giant glassy windows try their best to thwart the icy frigid wind inflowing, gushing in its territory; the cracks on the glass betray them. Cracks…. There is a crack that runs on the backside of my skull, right above the neck. I rub the neck, my skeletal fingers try to erase it, knowing, it’s not going soon, probably never. It has 1