A/N: Inspired by several stories and mainly by iAndromeda's story 'Of Polaroids and Red Streaks'.
Also, some prompts and phrases have been used.
Written for luvcidduodosti. And because I miss Dareya so damn much, it hurts!
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:: Nowhere To Go ::
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Sunrays glide their way in through a tiny slit between the window and the smudged blinds, bragging about their splendour, signifying the culmination of yet another night. I squint my eyes again today – now, it's more often out of anguish rather than mere discomfort. Anguish of being compelled to witness another day, live another moment.
I want to grab the nearest thing I can and hurl it at the blinds. Or better, seal the gap once and for all. Darkness is really an entity I've made peace with, you know that well.
Or what I'd like to assume. Just as I've been assuming so much about you, since you've been gone. Pondering if you know what I've come to endure, everything that you've left behind. Everything that still sustains your presence. Even after all these years.
You made me promise I'll survive. That weak, delicate hand bearing the brunt of your sickness; I feel your fingers brush through mine. I shudder – something I have no power over anymore. Those eyes, albeit pale, conveying a thousand emotions, I can still feel them pierce into mine – once brimming with bliss, now they just scan around absently, despondently. Your voice was feeble, words struggling to come out. Now, they ring clearly. Everything seems vicious. Everything sounds cacophonous.
It was never a choice, when you took that promise and left. When someone dies, they just leave, people say. The ones left behind, their worlds are crumbled. It's not that simple, I say. When you etch a part of your soul into every single thing around, into the person who loved you so deeply and then one day, you leave expecting a promise you know will never be fulfilled. It's never a choice.
You were that. Impaling your love, your soul into anything you could find. Back then, it didn't feel a thing. The scars are excruciating now. I wish you'd have taken them with you. But then, I kept them transfixed on to me so it wasn't really your fault. Now you're gone, and the blood continues to seep out.
The mirror on the wall is rusted; thick blotches of grub settled on to it. I hardly look at it now. Whenever I do, I want to shatter it with my bare fist. But something stops me. There's enough blood already, I remember. I don't need any more of it; you wouldn't like that. All my life, I've seen a lot of blood – of injuries, gunshots, stains, accidents. Now, the thick red colour repels me. I don't want to go that way again. Ever.
I leave the mirror as it is. I know if I wipe a section, it will propel the memoirs of all those happier times it has witnessed. More so, it will flash your face instead of mine, and that will make me break it into pieces. Maybe this is the thing that stops me.
Crimes, people, hardships – we have fought everything. Together. When the world turned against us, we fought. There were times when I was forced to fight all alone. But it came easy knowing you are there. For me. Being my strength when I was exhausted. Being my weakness by walking into my life and securing that irreplaceable section of my heart.
You were my strength even at your weakest self; even when you lay counting the last few breaths of your life. But during all these times, you were there.
It was never a choice, I repeat. Because you never really left. Those times when I couldn't muster the courage to say how much I loved you, when I found myself so lost I wasn't sure if I could ever keep you happy, when I was the one combating death and when you were diagnosed with that wicked disease. This was not war. This was us. You were there, every time we were forced to withstand difficult moments.
And you are here now, in every single one of those memories. I am the one who has disoriented.
The doorbell rings, a bit too harsh. The person behind must have been waiting for quite some time, I don't recall for how long. The house has ceased welcoming guests now; I give a suffering sigh as I proceed to answer. It's our daughter, a gloomy, patient look on her face. She might have known I needed my time to open the door.
On either side of the door, we stay for a few minutes and the silence starts crawling on our skin as I usher her in. She greets me with a woeful smile which reflects the sadness in her eyes – your eyes. Her features resemble you so much, like it's you standing before me, years younger. It feels appalling. It's not supposed to, but it does.
She's grown into the same caring girl you wanted her to be. You've raised her well, for all that you could do. You'd always wanted to embrace motherhood, I recall. Because the one thing your eyes revealed before you left was the pride that burned in them. Pride of being a mother.
It's all so vivid, it pricks like a million needles.
We both know pleasantries are not a necessity. We don't exchange any; there's only this unspoken truth that we need each other right now. More than we need anyone else. We don't know what to say to each other anymore. Words are etched on our souls, not knowing how to find their way out from our lips. And we no longer find it wrong. It's just that I want to tell her I miss her so much. I wish she'd visit more often, I wish she'd never have grown up, I wish I'd never have had to watch her leave. But then, I wish for so many things.
A crumpled piece of a dead leaf is stuck in her hair, I tell her.
After a while, she leaves, taking along a part of you and leaving behind another. Like every other time she visits.
Once again, I'm compelled to await the end of yet another day and find comfort in the sheaths of murk; the nightmares have become customary now. I wait for days to culminate and nights to set and eventually, in perpetuity. But now, there's this only choice I have and I abide by it. As the darkness sets, I look up at the stars and smile. And every night, I see you smiling back. It's become a ritual.
Outside, the wildflower sings of its pain, ambushed in crevices and dandelions share their secrets with the mahogany leaf as it plummets; none of them want to stay. Everyone wishes to traverse to an abode where peace prevails. But at the end, we are all here trampled beneath the confines of what we choose to believe, holding on to our feelings that have long been decayed. Of what we cannot escape.
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:: The End ::