The Surrogate Story, Part 2 Of 2: A Woman Dies

The Surrogate Story is a short fiction consisting of two parts. The first part can be found here! You won’t understand a thing if you read this second part first. So, I insist you click that link above or leave this narrative altogether.

She was dreaming of a candle light dinner, followed by a magical episode of coital bliss. It was the same bed she was sleeping as she dreamed but she didn’t notice that; she was only interested in the organ stroking her out of her mind. She didn’t remember the face of the man she was riding because Dr. Hari’s looks was why she had agreed for the marriage.

Dr. Hari had fainted in his classroom two days ago and this morning he had left an envelope by their bed. Two or three words in the letter the envelope contained would wreck havoc in her life should she read. And he had no reason to think she wouldn’t. He loved her, but not more than himself.

The sex was fantastic and it was only half done. She was counting her second orgasm, against her usual dream of orgasmic meditation, the trendy fad among her socialite friends. The figure was wearing unbuttoned white crisp shirt and the shoes she had gifted her husband lay somewhere in the room. That’s all she could think of before looking in the mirror fit to the bed. The pace increased two or three notches as the figure had somehow found the G-spot and was about to ejaculate. Her third orgasm had made her stoop over the figure and engage in a violent French kiss. The figure did not hesitate a bit, given that she had performed fellatio seven minutes ago. The warmness had been deposited and she lazed abreast, still in a squatting position. The emotions were in contrast to the image in the mirror.

The face in the mirror was calm with closed eyes and blood oozing out of the mouth. Gasping for breath, she woke up more dead than she was in her dream. It didn’t take her much time to slit her wrist. Blood spewed from her left wrist and a plop managed to reach the envelope, for the pace she had cut was more than that of the stroke she was hallucinating. As Dr. Hari started a new topic for his class, his most important patient lay in their bedroom covered in scarlet.

The envelope enclosed the letter he had drafted after his assistants had reported the condition of one Mrs. Sunaina Hari. Last night, he had confirmed the report and replaced the original report in the envelope with words which would now never be read by the person who it was solely intended for. She was a case of initial-stage, paranoid-type Schizophrenia and the letter was the first element of persuasive treatment.

“I love you, my wife. And I would like to continue being your life partner for the rest of our lives. H.”

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