She Who Consumed his Mind

March 18, 2014 § Leave a comment

13th of October 2013

His eyes fixated on the ceiling as he lay on his bed with thoughts unraveling in his murmuring speech. A soliloquy, it seemed, since he was alone, and his back rose as his shoulders bent and he sat hunchbacked, with his feet touching one another, mimicking a frog, as he held them and bent towards them as a child. It was his way of spilling the thoughts after he spoke to himself, like a tea pot. After a minute, he rose again with his back upright and stretched his arms to the furthest it can reach as his hands and fingers moved slowly forming a fist which further unknotted into a welcoming form of a hug.

He held his head very firmly, as though imprisoning all of the thoughts he set free into his head once more, and let his hands go. It has begun, another day, another morning, the long routine: once more. All he could think about was what she told him the other day, “I thank you, for your kind gesture. You are why I am the way I am today, I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. Thank you.”, he gave in a comforting grin as his eyes shut for a split second and thought, “You don’t know how wrong you are”.

He recalls the way her eyes glow when she speaks of her love for painting, the way she brushes the colours on the canvas, ever so smoothly, making it seem like the lightest act any one could master. Yet, when he tries, he doesn’t but struggle with holding the brush just as his heart pounds and body trembles when he holds her hand. He can write, he wrote her a poem once, but he was eleven, and back then, “I hate you, you’re a girl” was his form of expressing his appreciation towards her, which was far too untrue and naive. Now, he’s thinking of writing her another one, it has been six years since then, and he only deems it appropriate to do so.

He struggles, once more, “Should I write about her laugh, that I am blessed to listen to, every time I make a fool of myself? Or her hair?” -the red strands which flow from her skull up to her hip, curled as the rides in a water themed park, auburn and brown, some strands are orange and others are a shade darker. He knew why it was her favourite colour, and why she loved the fire; it was like her hair, that which covered her skull, layering her thoughts, her mind, and it was her hair which protected her, or at least, that is what he would assume. She would cover it most of the time, but let it flow below her hat, or cap, or scarf, or beanie, or whatever it was she wore that day, to imprison her thoughts, as he did with his.

They would meet behind open doors, she would skip school and he would take another day off work. Once, her father was about to find out. Alarmed, she broke down crying, “My friend was at the hospital! She was at a mental hospital! I had to go! She was going to kill herself!” when in reality, none of that had happened, and if anyone were to go to a Mental Hospital, it would be her. She got away with the lie, as usual. Only he knew her state of dismay, the pills she had taken, and the amount of times she had slit her wrist; the only person blessed with the ability to calm her while her vision blurred and monsters constantly reappeared vividly beside her, and he would hold her tightly, “Don’t worry, it’s me, I’m here, I’ll never let go. Don’t worry, Habeebty. I am by your side.” She found comfort in his words, despite never believing him, she never believed anyone for that matter, including her own self.

After a hot shower, his mind fixated on what to write about. He dried his hair and wore his glasses and began typing, until he noticed a red light on the side of his screen. It read, “I cannot do this anymore. I hate them. I am going to kill myself.” He felt the diaphragm that defined his chest sink closer to his lungs, and quickly scrolled down to read the following messages, “Fahad. I cannot do this. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I am so so sorry. It is either I kill them or kill myself, and I’d much rather die and get out of this hellhole as soon as possible. They are not letting me go. I hate them. I am so sorry. Tell my little sister that I am sorry. Tell her I traveled. Make up something. You know how to lie. You’ve lied to me many times. Good bye. Good bye. Do not miss me. Hate me. I am horrible. Bye.”

He found his fingers typing away, “ARE YOU THERE!? REPLY TO ME. PLEASE. DON’T DO THIS PLEASE. REPLY TO ME. DON’T LEAVE I BEG YOU PLEASE”, he has never begged anyone for anything before, let alone beg them to reply. Tears were streaming down and flickering below his chin, on to his thighs and neck, it was either he could not feel anything, or that he felt too much. It felt as though he had woken up without staring at the ceiling first, as though all of his thoughts were escaping the prison bars he had confined them in, and others were entering. Chaos. His legs shook up and his fingertips pressed her name on his phone to call her more times than he can recall, he called, and called, and his feet ran, out of the apartment, drove his father’s car, despite not having a license yet, with the target of reaching her.

Thoughts flooded his mind as a tsunami, slow at first, then all at once, fueling the blood in his fuming veins with escalating temperature and open sweat glands. It was sudden.

He was too late.

18th of March 2014

I am that boy. I have loved you since my eyes glanced at yours, a blink, you looked away, but my glance lasted longer, a stare, until you approached me. I remember the golden ribbon tying your hair, and the black dress you wore, with the red shoes. As beautiful as always. I write this now, certain that your eyes will not see the word which follows this one and the one preceding it. It has been a hundred and fifty six days since you left, and I love you, as I always have, and I will continue loving you, the thought of you is enough for me, it is an ineffable feeling. A lady confessed her love for me a few weeks ago, and she said she was envious towards you because you are all I speak about, just as I would when your body was moving above the soil. She insulted you and I never spoke to her again, and I never will. I cry everyday now, I remember when that used to be your ‘thing’. Maybe we switched places, I don’t know why I haven’t ended my life yet, I want to meet you again, as soon as possible, and that seems to be the only way. But, I feel your presence, beside me, within me, deep inside my chest, where my heart lies. I love you. I write this and I do not think of editing it, you always liked things to be ‘true’, you would always read my drafts, before my final draft, and you’d always praise the drafts. I never understood that, but maybe now I do. I do not feel the need to use any ‘pretty’ words, the very topic that is you is more than enough; your beauty is evident even in your absence. You told me to hate you, but I wonder if you meant to love you, as I did, when I was eleven and wrote you that poem.

I am not going to ask you why you did it, because I know how your father treated you. I only wish you had come to me, and we could have run off with each other, as we would from your teachers and my employers.

I miss lying on the green grass beside you, staring at your eyes as your pupils widen when you speak of what you love, with your hands unraveling as mine do when I wake, and your hair spread carelessly as a pillow for your head to rest on. I remember forcing you to taste my favourite pizza topping, you spit it out and we laughed wholeheartedly. These moments seemed insignificant back then, I would think that the nights when we would open up to each other mattered the most, but it took me twenty seven days after that Sunday to realize that every moment with you was of significance. I write this now and it is as though I am conversing with you, and I dream about you every night. I wrote the poem, and I buried it by the window in your bedroom because I worried that if I placed it by your grave it may fly away before you read it, and if I were to dig it where your grave stone lies It may touch your skeleton, and you have always seemed too delicate for me to touch, unless you would ask me to, and I wish to see you one last time, so I visit you every day. And I wish that you could hear me now, but I know you do when I tell you about my day every time I visit, except now you don’t reply with your voice. I know this all, and maybe if I end my life, I’ll be certain.

I’ll meet you in a few hours.


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