Climax of My Short Story- The Toss

Rahul took out the lucky coin from the valet and remembered the previous judgments delivered by it. He played with it without grudges and grievances. ‘I know you won’t tell me a lie.’ He spoke to the lucky coin and smiled. ‘Head for tearing it into pieces and tail for gifting it to Moly.’ He decided. He set the coin on the knot of the thumb and the index finger, flung it up without curiousity or desire. The coin flew high above his head. It went across many images that now had been reduced to simple objects. It flew across the translucent watery vapours rising above the painted bank of the river on the oil sheet; it flew above the thick water blued by a dead brush without making an elliptical shadow on the pigmented surface; it cut across the curious spaces between the dolphin and the ball without disturbing the attention of the metaphors but no longer living ones; it went past the thick folds of the skirt of the elf on the swing without disturbing the carefully manipulated numbers; it went past the thin layers of the wings on the delicate shoulders of the elf without tearing it into three or four or five. It flew higher and went above the head of the painter and touched the peak. It left behind the altitude of the setting sun and went above to defeat the crescent moon. It struggled a bit hard to surpass the height of the sliced moon on the oil sheet and reached the peak. It was still in indecision for a second, like the painter’s heart that forgot to beat and took a new course of action with great promptitude, unlike the painter’s heart. It began to come down but through a different medium. It was a fall; a fall from one world to another; from existence to death. It came spiraling down the violent melody of the rebellious falls with retarded velocity of a defeated soldier. It came past the seductive whispering behind the rocks of the Angel’s Resort. It was a fall; a fall from one world into the other. The coin, the lucky coin, swam down the basketball ground leaving behind the impatient dolphin hopping curiously for a glimpse of the tireless player. It cut across the curious space between the dolphin and the player without disturbing the attention of the metaphors that were no longer painted ones now. It spared the watery flames on the painted surface that marked the origin of the sedative whisperings and made its way down to the wooden surface of the table. The coin, the lucky coin reached the surface with an alarming noise and Rahul covered the revelation with his right palm. It was not a brown patch of the Burnt Umber and Yellow Ochre with occasional green, but a rough palm of the painter. Rahul looked at his own palm and smiled; he looked at his masterpiece and smiled. He remembered Moly, he also remembered Gaurav and Toyota Qualis and smiled. He thought about the result.
‘What will it tell me?’ He mused upon the possibilities.
‘Will the masterpiece survive?’ He questioned himself again.
‘Can I dare remove the palm?’ There was a new birth in his mind.
Rahul drew his palm along rough surface of the table and meticulously tied his fist so as to avoid a look on the verdict of the coin, the lucky coin and kept it carefully into the valet.