A/N: So finally, here's the story that luvcidduodosti had requested ages ago. My apologies for taking so long; I had absolutely no motivation to write this and I didn't want to write anything just for the sake of it.
Once again, inspired by several stories, shows, poems and prompts.
The poem is a little something I'd written for Instagram a few days ago. Thought it'd go well with the theme.
*TRIGGER WARNING: Self-harm
:: Confronting The Tempest ::
.
The night outside casts an uncanny darkness. Ominous – the kind that veils behind the grim barriers, waiting on its chance to devour you. I drag my strained body inside; the door has been open for a measure of time beyond my memory, ever since the resident has been hauled into a realm of despair and melancholy; a barrage of catastrophes feasting on our scarred souls slowly, harrowingly.
The house is, not surprisingly, plunged into a tenor of tenebrous despondency, a hairline of silvery twilight fighting its way in and landing smoothly on the figure perched on the floor. My sunken eyes make yet another failed attempt in scanning his face – to my credit and his, I've been deemed the sharpest tool in the shed while reading that face. But today, it forsakes me what dwells behind the façade that appears so serene yet I know, confines a stream of wretched emotions. The silence is eerie, it pricks like the edges of a rusted emerald. Yet, it all sounds so cacophonous, so deafening.
All these days that I've been visiting, we hardly talk. Emotions so overwhelming, words elude us and we're certainly not trained to withhold them. It propels a kind of pain so deep, it halts our senses like the first time we were pulled into that sinister world of murk, in an evil, fortuitous turn of events.
My eyes settle on to that face, like there's an invisible force dragging them toward it, even before my body can advance any further. There's a tinge of blood on the spot beside him, but now it no longer appals me.
Hope. A word that carries an eternity of weightage around it. We as human beings never cease to hope. For things that fetch pleasure, for moments that offer bliss, and in some instances, for things that bring pain. The kind that acts as gateway to the corners of emotions left unexplored, questions left unanswered. For some, hope lies in a bed of thorns.
Yet again, he tries to slash a part of his skin simply in the hope that it will retrieve a part of his past, the moments shared, the memories built. For him, all that he has lost – a companion, a confidant, a part of his life inseparable and of the highest esteem – has been etched on to his soul, gushing through his blood and sojourned underneath his skin.
Through the wounds that manifest his decayed feelings, he hopes to weave a poem, a heartfelt letter of affection, of trust and of every single emotion that he has cherished with his best friend over the past two decades. The man who's had his back, who stood by him through thick and thin, who never thought twice before tearing himself apart to save his best friend's life and who did allow his heart to be ripped into pieces and laid his life in front of his beloved friend's feet so that he can continue witnessing the days ahead.
All that oozes out is blood. Dark and red – the kind that agonizes him now; he wants to run far from it, even after having spent all of his life playing with it.
It wasn't his fault, I've tried telling him. It's undeniable that the incessant self-blame is slowly out to exhaust him, with every drop of his blood, with every nerve in his body. The vision of his anguished eyes devoid of any emotion fathomable as he clung to his comatose best friend, escorted him to the hospital and cradled their treasured friendship carefully in his heart suddenly floats through my mind.
The blood of his friend soaking his own clothes fills the air with a vicious stench.
It wasn't as if the bullet was aimed at him particularly. The repentance that nags him is, he knew the door-breaker saw it approaching him and threw his weight in between. He lost a game, with his instincts, with time. Time had defeated him by abandoning him when he needed it the most.
I look into his eyes and they appear something completely unfamiliar to me in all the time that I've known him. Scared. Vulnerable. He's never come across as a soul who's scared of anything. A man of intense vigour, almost incomprehensible to a commoner, he's been known as a warrior with courage impregnable, aura unmatched and resolve fiercer than the blazing afternoon sun.
Now, his features sinking, he looks frail, and I know it will be a long time before he can trust someone again. A man who survived an excruciating ordeal as a memory loss and the unfortunate passing of his mother, and emerged stronger from it now appeals for the pain to consume him. But then, this has been a loss much more devastating and emotionally damaging for him. It shatters my heart but all I must do is gather myself.
I want to wrap my arms around him, pour everything I can muster to appease his storms, but I know he'll push me away. He doesn't want anybody near him. He doesn't speak a word of it, but his heart says so. And I acquiesce.
We let the silence govern our distress for a while before I hear him mumbling something and my body springs itself closer to him. As I speculated, he makes a tearful and grieving wish to bid a farewell to his best friend. For the first time, he looks at me, his eyes asking me if there's any way to arrange for his wish.
"Look at the stars," I tell him pointing toward the illuminated sky and his empty eyes traverse in the said direction. "It's not your fault," I whisper to him once again. All this while I fail to realize my throat has gone dry and my own voice chokes me as I speak.
The agony of our souls gilded with the happier times of our past, we stare out the window and look up at the constellation. "He's listening to you. He always will, and if you want him to talk to you, he can only do so if you're happy!," I say. I don't know if it makes sense at all, but I still say it.
And he does. Closing his eyes, he allows all his emotions bottled in the broken cavern of his heart to flow out. He mumbles something incoherent, but I sit there watching. When he stops, his entire form shivers as he lets his head fall onto my lap for the first time that night. My sobs mingle with his incessant weeping as we keep our eyes closed and hold on to each other, trying to swaddle whatever sane that has left of us.
When we open them, we see the stars indeed shining brighter than usual.
The branches of the banyan tree swing more violently as the wind sways with all its glory – harsh and menacing.
"Will you be fine with this?," he asks me as we continue sitting by the window. I know exactly what he's referring to but he says it anyway. "I don't think I can ever be the same again. The man you fell in love with. That man's gone, forever. Will you be able to live with this?," he speaks, his eyes trying to search something in mine. For the first time, I'm uncertain what he's looking for in my eyes, what answer he's expecting from me.
I manage a rueful smile. I don't think my heart and soul belongs anywhere else, I tell him. I have handed everything within me to him the moment I knew I was in love with him. And I pledge to hold his hand, accept him in any way he will be and walk by him on every arduous path toward our perpetual destination.
There was no other way. There will never be.
I can't say when things will be the same again. If they will ever be. But for now, we'll just stay, holding on to the cluster of notions, of feelings and of memoirs that we have, as we rely on that invisible force far away to watch over us.
..
amongst the constellations,
let's make an abode;
of our merry days and promises made,
we'd weave poems on the Orion
and dip our fingers in velvety horizons,
the lone star so cherished,
whose side we'd never leave;
it'd lace for us
a world of enchanting dreams
while its lustre cascades
through our crippled souls
shielding our sentience,
... and to its comforting lullabies
we'd fall asleep.
:: The End ::