Departure

The moment passed slowly, as if in a dream.

As the door swung towards me, what I saw was like a series of frames, moving slowly, as if suspended in the jelly-like past.

The paper snowflake hanging above my single bed. The faint marks from when I painstakingly turned the ceiling into a glow-in-the-dark starry sky. My small, white desk and the funnily shaped lamp on it. The dent in the wall where I once hurled a Jawbreaker against it. The purple-red flourish on the warm yellow wood of the chest of drawers, from the nail polish flying, swooping out of the bottle as it broke. The faint ink stains on the marble floor from when I used fountain pens to write. The books lined up on the shelves in ascending alphabetical order of the surnames of the authors. Rectangular, blurry halos of blue on the balcony floor, a side product of a spray-painting spree. The round cane chair by the window, where I lay curved against its back, mechanically barreling through books when I couldn’t take the world beyond the window.

In that moment, I wanted to lock myself there, in my room, my refuge through eleven years of my life. I wanted to curl up in the chair by the window, surrounded by my little scratches and dents and my pieces of the world that I had obsessively arranged around myself.

The door swung shut on those blue walls and the green, rain-washed world beyond.  As I wheeled my little red suitcase down the hall, I pictured other halls, hours away, and red brick smothered in green ivy. I lifted my suitcase to carry it downstairs. It felt surprisingly light.

Sheets

It is dark, intensely so. With their lights off, the houses on the right are nothing more than large, geometric shadows. Down below, on the left, the stream murmurs, whispers, shifts over the rocks- ceaseless white noise. The moon is smothered by clouds, and the wet, rain-washed road before me glistens dimly in its weak gleam. Leaves are scattered in my path, green and brown, damp and leathery, like a frog’s skin. My flashlight casts a grey-white antiseptic halo on the road. Everything beyond that circle of light disappears.

I walk down this deserted street barefoot, in my nightclothes, a white sheet wrapped around my shoulders.

I’m scared. My skin prickles and jumps; something, somewhere in the wet, clogged cotton wool of my mind, tells me that this is unusual. I live on this street, and I do not usually feel afraid outdoors, not even on a cloudy, moonless night. All the night sounds- crickets chirping, leaves rustling, the odd hiss from the bushes- are expected and familiar. There are no rattling windows, creaking doors or bedposts to collide with. Outside, there are less sharp corners and oddly shaped shadows, and I feel safe.

But I feel afraid now. Afraid that somebody, anybody, will materialize out of the dark and walk into me – me in my nightclothes, wrapped in a sheet.

I gasp quietly, and my feet freeze, my sore, bare heels smarting. One of the shiny leaves slithers and glides into the grass fringing the road. I watch it disappear, then walk on.

The gate to my house finally appears out of the grey-black gloom. It is bolted from outside. I slide the bolt noiselessly. The spaces between my toes feel gritty as I step into the garage.

For a few seconds I can’t find my feet and the world is aflame as the fluorescent sun glares off my glasses. My vision returns to find me peeking between the bars of the garden gate. There is a river in the garden, and a man swimming in it, his arms breaking the water rhythmically as he slides against the current. I shudder at the grotesque bulkiness of his muscular shoulders.

My feet slip and slide over the slick marble as I mount the steps to the house. The cat slips in from between my legs as I open the front door to go inside. It whizzes about, a brown blur. I bolt after it, flying up and down staircases, taking the steps two at a time. I finally catch it, burying my fingers in its fur, and carry it towards the back door.

Approaching the kitchen, I glance down at the furry ball I carry. A young girl, at least five years old, but frail and angular, rests in my arms instead.

She reaches up with a small, white hand. A cold, horrified quiver chills my veins as she runs a thin finger along my jaw line. Her voice is soft, and oddly clear.

“You look different from this close.”

I wake up.

Revelations

I was nominated for a blog award.

 

 

 

 

My blog? Seriously? Which consists of exactly one page? I don’t even deserve an award.

Anyway. I thought it was a good chance to indulge in some shameless narcissism as I paint myself to be the thing dreams are made of.

Haha. I kid. Inside, I’m all, “Yayness! This is Awesomeness!” Plus, it will make my blog a leetle more colourful.

Thank you for tagging me, Momina. 🙂

Behold, as I bleed butterflies.

Eleven Facts About Myself.

(Eleven?! Okay, I’ll try.)

  • I’ve never eaten a Zinger or a Big Mac. I’m allergic to sesame seeds. Fish burgers tend to be very, very boring.
  • I have an oddly strong aversion to the colour yellow. I’m trying very hard to overcome it. It’s supposed to be a nice colour. Except that wearing it makes me look like a badly cooked sunny-side-up.
  • Tomatoes make me happy. Tomatoes are the sexiest fruit in existence.
  • I do not like Juicy Fruit because the wrapper is yellow. Also, who calls a flavoured piece of rubber a juicy fruit?
  • I wear glasses. The kind with huge frames. I look like a bug.
  • I cannot live without tissue paper. My nose has a tendency to launch into Niagara Falls impersonations, unannounced.
  • I almost cannot stand clocks that tick. I once broke a clock by smashing it on the floor because its tick-tock wasn’t letting me sleep. No, I don’t normally break things in anger. Or otherwise.
  • I’m very, very afraid of spiders. I don’t mind any other insects. I’m okay with lizards as long as they stick to the walls and ceilings and do not invade my personal space. There’s a plump, pink, translucent one lounging on the window in front of me as I type. The pink, translucent ones are far better than the dried up, scaly, grey ones. Succulent lizards are better than shrivelled ones.
  • I like to gross people out.
  • I like to stare at the sky at night and then text people to go out and look at the moon. It disappoints me when someone doesn’t seem to be interested in it.
  • I’m not a depressed person sitting in a smoke-filled room, crying while typing out depressing blog posts. Just saying.

There you go. Now, to the questions that I have to answer. Because Momina says so! (I feel so important.)

The Momina Questions.

Favorite quote, and why?

“All generalisations are dangerous, even this one.” -Alexandre Dumas

Because it makes my mind go around in circles.

Also,

“Loving someone means taking the risk that they might fuck up your nicely ordered little life.” – Mark Haddon

That one’s from A Spot of Bother. Because Mark Haddon is a smart man and knows what he is talking about.

One thing about you that people wouldn’t assume by looking at you?

That I’m 5 feet and an inch tall. People assume that it’s five feet. The idiots.

Would you rather forgive something said about you or verbally lash the person who said it?

That depends on what is said, and by whom. At the end of the day, I’d rather forgive. I have a bad memory when it comes to bearing grudges. It can become very awkward when you warmly hug someone goodbye after you’ve yelled at them just moments before for disrespecting you.

Something about you that makes you really proud.

I almost never make spelling mistakes.

A single favourite book you wouldn’t mind reading twice or thrice. Why?

Jane Eyre. I like the bleak, rustic, damp atmosphere of the book. Whenever I read it, I imagine it raining in every scene. Also, I find Jane to be very relatable, in some ways.

I wouldn’t mind reading Pride and Prejudice a few times, either. And I’ve read Love Story at least half a dozen times.

One person whose (God forbid) death would change you? Why? 

Anybody’s death would affect me deeply, in some way or the other. Because I believe that every single person that I’ve ever met has affected me in some way, big or small.

What’s that which you desire the most from life?

For there to be a day when I can look back at my life thus far and not regret anything, and to see that everything that happened, good and bad, happened for a reason.

Your favourite word. Yes, word.

Sensuous.

Also, hullabaloo, hush, pompous, buttery and croissant.

“Give me a croissant, dear”

“Would you like some caviar with that?”

“You pompous fool, who on earth does that?”

“Your sensuous, bespectacled eyes while you eat. Ah. What a hullabaloo in my heart!”

“Hush. Have yourself a buttery croissant.”

Beauty comes from ______ ?

Seeing beauty in everything.

Five things that life is about.

Feeling. Everything, from the night air, to the stars, to music, happiness, love and pain. Sometimes feeling so much that it hurts, because that is how you know that you’re alive and awake, and not dreaming or dead.

Trying. Even when everything seems hopeless. You won’t know for sure unless you try

Loving. It can make life worth living. Everything can be taken away from you, but not love. It’s your own.

Acceptance. There are some things that you cannot change. The sooner you accept that, the easier life will be.

Food.

Words for you are?

Words can do anything. It’s all in how you string them together.

Now it’s my turn to interrogate you.

  • Would you rather gouge someone’s eyes out with a teaspoon or cut his/her ears off with a bread knife?
  • What’s your comfort food?
  • What’s the first thing you would buy (buy, not do) if you won a million dollars?
  • Silver or gold?
  • Would you rather eat a steamed snake or a fried frog?
  • What is your most prized electronic device?
  • You find out that the world ends in one week, and you can go to any one place in the world before everything blows up. Where do you choose to go?
  • What is one way that you do not want to die?
  • Your favourite song, as of now.
  • What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done?
  • How do you react to harsh criticism?

Now you have to do the same.

This is where I have to break the rules. I don’t know a lot of bloggers here, and most of the ones I do know have already been tagged. Could my tiny audience please tag the bloggers they like in the comments? Or you could just randomly answer my lame questions if you like. 🙂

P.S. Yes, I can be very long-winded.