The Lullaby - By Alessandra Jade

Written By: Alessandra Jade

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Alessandra Jade invites readers into the raw and emotional world of "The Lullaby," her evocative short story submission for the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This poignant entry delves into themes of grief, longing, and introspection, capturing the essence of a heart wrestling with loss. The competition, known for celebrating powerful literary voices, offers a platform for pieces like Jade's that resonate deeply with universal human experiences.

About the Work

"The Lullaby" is a haunting exploration of a soul consumed by sorrow and self-doubt. Alessandra Jade skillfully crafts a narrative rich in vivid imagery and emotional depth, reflecting on the remnants of love and the shadows left behind by a loved one's absence. The story’s introspective style poignantly conveys the protagonist's internal struggle and the pervasive sense of longing that permeates their world.

The Lullaby

Original Submission by Alessandra Jade

The Lullaby

Alessandra Jade.

I know it’s stupid of me to be saying all this. I know it’s been months now. I know that I can’t do anything to bring you back and yet still I sit here waiting.

I can’t help the way I remember you: that light in your eyes, the curve of your jaw. Sometimes, when the moon bares her light through the window in the kitchen, I pretend that you’re with me – that I can see you, feel you – and of course you're not there. How could you be when you don’t exist anymore?

Every night I lay alone, my body, cold, clutching the sheets we’d entangle ourselves in if you were still here. The ashtray you left behind still sits at my bedside. Alone and untouched just as you’d left me: ever collecting dust, ever fixed in position, ever unneeded. The remnants of the last cigarette you smoked lay there splayed out and disheveled; the last thing to touch your lips.

I lie there awake, equally splayed out and disheveled. How could I bring myself to fall asleep? How could I allow myself the satisfaction? I don’t deserve it. Good people aren't punished this way. They can’t be. That’s what makes me so certain I'm bad. Why else would it play out this way?

The night drags on dark and humid, each agonizing moment amplified by fleeting visions of you in the distance. There is no physical distance, but an enigmatic one made from my mind. I can’t seem to gauge how near or how far you are. Lucid enough for me to touch you, but so abstract that you’d dissipate the moment our skin made contact. In moments much like this one I can see the air around me, viscous and syrupy, and interspersed amid the haziness is my impression of you. I’m not sure if that really makes much sense. I’m not sure of anything really.

Morning comes as it always does; gray-yellow twilight casts sickly rays through unopened windows. The air is thick and suffocating. Lately I’ve found myself dreading the daytime. It’s easier to keep myself up at night telling myself the story of us over again than to laze over cups of bad coffee in the daylight. I still don’t know why you would do it. I’ve spent days analyzing those seven stupid words you etched into that plasterboard wall. Hours spent turning them over in my head looking for something more. But what more could they mean? It all very plain and simple. “i can’t do this anymore i'm sorry”

I picture you there, sprawled across the bathroom floor carving your footnote. You used the same blade to carve out the intricacies of your veins. I use that blade too now when I paint pictures of my impulses into my skin.

I catch my mind drifting, wandering if anything would've gone differently if you just talked to me – apart from the message on the wall, before that. It’s almost laughable how easy it sounds: “just talk about it.” If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be here anymore in this decaying apartment curled up on the bathroom floor where you once lay bleeding – in life and in death; in pain and relief.

Nothing is easily done. Not even doing nothing is easy anymore. And now I’ve made it worse with my paradox. If nothing is easy, then nothing is easy.

I couldn’t care anymore. Though of course that’s a lie. Of course I care; I really care. It’s stupid, believe me. This whole thing is stupid and irrational. Everything is just stupid. Sometimes I wish I could stop myself from caring anymore. I care too much about stupid things and find myself withering away like those stupid flowers you got me on my stupid birthday almost a year ago. They’re still there in their vase by the way – long dead and dried out. I couldn’t bare throwing them away. Lately I’ve found that they bring me a sort of comfort. Mayve it’s more of a sense of familiarity if not something that makes me feel less crazy for keeping a jar of rotting flowers for ten months. “Don’t think of me crazy but” – she posts as she tries to make an excuse for keeping decaying plant stems to someone who’s been dead for months – “they remind me of myself.” It’s stupid, I know – at this rate I should lead everything I say with that – but I see myself in those parched daisies. I am very much like a dead rose, and I feel like a wilted stem of chrysanthemums anyway. Just as they once did, I too flourished.

I used to be someone who didn’t flinch when exposed to sunlight: someone alive. Now, suffering the same fate, I was cut down, placed in this glass cage, and left to rot in a puddle until both it and me dried up and withered into something unrecognizable. That’s exactly what I am, aren’t I? Unrecognizable.

The incandescent light of the refrigerator burns my eyes as I open it out of habit. I’m not looking for anything, nor am I even hungry, I just need something to do with my hands and scouring the fridge is the only thing I can think of doing. Everything in there is well past their expiration dates and would probably kill me if I dared to eat them. At least then that’s something to consider if all else fails. I say that as if I actually plan on doing something with myself. Instead, I’ll sit alone in a heap in the dark and pity myself, just as I’ve been doing so for the last nine months.

It’s like every time I feel like I’m making progress I’m there again: crying and wailing on the ground over the body that used to be you. Every time I find myself asking the same selfish question – “Why did you do it?” – but that's not what matters though. The point is that you were suffering for heaven knows how long and I didn’t do anything about it. Wasn’t I supposed to be there for you? Wasn’t I supposed to help? I could’ve asked you if you needed anything, I could’ve payed more attention, I could’ve noticed the signs. But I didn’t. Instead, I just let you die. This is all my fault.

But what about you? Did you foresee how it would affect me? Did you do it just to torment me? Was I not enough for you? Why did you leave me here like this? How could I ever forgive you this?

I think there may be something intrinsically wrong with me. Factory defect. Here I am sitting on the floor berating the girl who killed herself for leaving me alone. I really am just horrible. Selfish. A depraved excuse for a person. No wonder you left me here. I just make everything about myself. Serves me right I suppose. Good on you then.

I push past the box of moldy strawberries and the bottles of kombucha that have probably turned to alcohol by now, the plastic swollen to the point that they might explode if I look at them too long. I never even liked tea; they were yours.

A harsh sound from the bedroom startles me: the sound of shattering glass. I hit my head on the ceiling of the fridge as I stand up shaken. I have no idea what to do. Without thinking I rush to the cutlery drawer and force it open – in doing so pulling it completely out of its socket and onto the ground in a flurry of whiny, metallic clanging. A knife is what I need. A knife.

After what seemed like an eternity of cumbersomely fumbling through teaspoons and dessert spoons and all the other spoons, I procured it: a serrated bread knife. Why we even had it I don’t know. I’ve never sliced bread in my life. Clutching it tightly in both my trembling hands in a scene straight from a movie – one of those ones from a horror, where you admonish the main character for being foolish and swear you wouldn’t act in the same way if you were there (though of course I was there and did act in that way) – I bit down on my lip and made my way reluctantly to my room. “Who is it!?” I called, as if I expected to be met by a visiting family member, who thought it would be a fun idea to enter through my bedroom window unannounced. Of course it wasn’t though. there wasn’t even a person at all.

The mangled corpse of a black bird – maybe a raven or a crow – sat crumpled in a pile of glass and feathers on the floor.

I was certain that it was dead, but then it twitched. A sort of damaged convulsion as if to say it wasn’t ready to die yet. It stopped for a measure before righting itself and attempting to fly away, only it was rather off balance and instead of making it out the window, it hit the wall above my bed and fell straight onto my pillow – and this time it was dead. Brilliant.

After getting rid of the bird – and the pillow – I perturbedly made my way back to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. I’m not sure why, I don’t even like tea. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

I don’t know how long I can lie to myself like this. When have I ever known what the right thing to do was? I let go of the cup and let it fall to the ground spilling hot, leaf-infused water onto the tile as it shatters just as the window had. I guess I only did it to see if it would break, to see if it was real. I’m not sure what ‘real’ even is anymore. I used to trace that line so well.

I am not the person I was when I bought you this mug, and now it lies broken on the floor in a puddle. It’s sort of strangely topical in a way; it’s exactly as I had last saw you. I humor myself.

But it’s a lie and I we both know it. I see you all the time. I see you in those dead flowers, in the kombucha bound to burst in the fridge. I see you in those biohazard strawberries and the ashtray next to our bed. And I see you in the corners of my eyes whenever I walk into that bathroom. I know it’s stupid, trust me I do. I’m just a crazy recluse and believe me I know it. I’ve just thrown a cup of boiling tea onto the ground to prove to myself that it would break.

There is something wrong with me. Something deep within me is tarnished and rusting away – or maybe it already did nine months ago when I had to gather what scraps of dignity I had left and put you in the ground. Thinking of it now I realize that you’re also rotting away like I am, only you’re six feet under ground and I’m two stories above it in our apartment. We always did copy each other.

Our apartment. It was supposed to be our safe place. The one place we could escape to when the world wouldn’t have us. And now it’s become a prison that I can’t bring myself to leave – no matter how much I long for freedom.

By now it’s dark out and so I make my way back to my bed to keep myself awake another night. Blundering through the viscous darkness I step on something sharp and triangular. The bleeding comes quickly and I can feel the pool forming beneath my foot. Scrambling for the light-switch I can feel the glass moving in my flesh with each clumsy twist and stretch. By the time I find it, I’ve done a fine and well job at painting the floor bright crimson and am quite lightheaded. I remove the fragment from the arch of my torn-up foot, and it reminds me of that saying about self sabotage. It never made any sense to me: how does one shoot themself in the foot? Why is the gun even pointing to the ground? I wrap my foot in a bandage made from the curtain in the living room – that’s really just a couch in the corner of the kitchen – and lie awake once more.

The night breeze blows in through the opening of what once was a window. Of course it’s stormy out the same day that the window breaks, it just makes perfect sense. Sometimes I feel like the universe is testing me. Preparing me for something, people say. Of course it isn’t though, and why should I have to glamorize my misfortune? Instead, I let my mind drift elsewhere and now I’m rereading your etchings on the bathroom wall again. Something in those words is just sublime to me. Why did you write so little? I mean I wasn’t expecting a manuscript – not to imply I expected what happened to happen – but surely you would've had more to say, right? Maybe you didn’t have enough time, I don’t know how long it takes to bleed out but I don’t imagine you have expendable amounts of time once the bleeding starts. In saying that, how did you manage to carve anything if your wrists were slit? Did you carve the wall or yourself first? You didn’t even leave a note.

I still remember the pain in your eyes as you sat there hunched against the plaster. I’d never noticed it before but in that moment, it was as plain as pain can be. I still remember how cold you were and how scared you looked. I still remember exactly how I found you there. I’d just gotten back from the grocery store, and it was 3:27pm on a Thursday. I left my shoes at the door like I always did and called your name to announce that I was back. I didn’t suspect anything when you didn’t respond and so I started putting things away: the strawberries and the bread and the four-pack of raspberry-lemonade kombucha. I never understood how you could drink that stuff, but I knew it was your favorite, so I bought it anyway. About ten minutes had passed and you still hadn’t made your presence known and so I went to look for you. When I entered our bedroom, I was greeted by the indentation of your figure in the bedsheets, but you weren’t there to fill the negative space. By this point I had assumed you were playing some sort of stupid game of hide-and-seek, and that’s when I noticed the closed bathroom door.

I knocked on the door admittedly intrigued by the idea of a game of hide-and-seek, but I certainly would never have confessed to such a thing back then. I remember how the knocking became harsher and more persistent with each time you didn’t reply. I remember how the worry set in and how I grew frantic. I remember breaking the door down to find you there. And then there was the wailing and the screaming and all the other raw, unfiltered, unhuman sounds. I remember how I cried so loudly that the neighbors thought I was being hacked apart alive and called the police. I remember how they made me leave. How they took your body away. And all our friends were there that day, and they wouldn’t leave me alone. Something about me “not being stable enough to be left on my own.” They tried to get me to move out of our apartment, but I wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t let what was left of you be destroyed and packed into boxes and forgotten until I stumbled upon them one day far along in the future. I had to keep you with me. I had to keep you.

This is why I’m still here. Please tell me it makes sense, please tell me there is something to this and I’m not just insane. I don’t know why I keep asking you to respond as if you can, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. I know that I’m not ok. I’ll be the first one to admit it. And instead of doing anything to help myself I stay here and pretend. Pretend that I’m ok, pretend I’m not crazy, and pretend that you’re still alive and will walk through that door any minute and everything will be fine again. I don’t know why I can’t just ask for help. And I can, can’t I? But I won’t and I know I won’t. And you know I won’t because nine months ago you didn’t either and I just want this to be over.

For the first time in nine months, I allow myself to fall asleep. It isn’t as relieving as I thought it would be and I wake up feeling worse than I had before. Even when I try to fix myself, I just end up making it worse. Last night I had an injured foot and some sort of paranoia. Now I have an injured foot, paranoia, a headache, sore eyes, back pain, and an unusual craving for ice cubes. The whole damn package. Every single time it can possibly get worse it doesn’t hesitate to do just that. Maybe I’m just cursed. Why else would I be harrowed in this way? I truly just wish to be done. For all of this to be over and nothing else.

Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of it before? It just makes so much sense. I could just kill myself and it would be over! I stop myself. This is probably exactly how you felt that day, like you could just tap out. But the truth is you can’t, can you? I’ve learned that from you. You taught me it: that it doesn’t ever end; not with you and not with me. Pain can’t be destroyed; it’s just passed from person to person constantly. Through generations and through intimacy. It never truly will be over. It’s just carried henceforth by whomever has the privilege of grieving. Suffering is endless, boundless, limitless and every other synonym there is. All it is is indiscriminate and persisting.

I have to stop myself before I do anything drastic. This can’t possibly be the only way, can it? I need to think that’s what I need. I don’t know why I keep wanting to make a stupid cup of tea. I’d sooner drown myself in a cup of chamomile than drink it. I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. It’s like I’m not even here anymore. Like I’m already gone. And now I’m on the floor spiraling wandering if I ever truly was here – whatever it means to be here anyway.

My hands are holding the extension cord before I even know any better. Tying the socket-end to the bathroom door handle is almost therapeutic. As I ascend the chair in the hallway and drape the plug-end of the cord over an exposed pipe on the ceiling, I can feel my heart thrashing within my chest. I fasten the slip and pull it over my neck. I feel a kind of rush coursing through me. Like a kind of anticipation. Its not like an excitement or a worry or pit in my stomach. It’s more than that. I feel as if theres electricity running through my veins – of course it isn't though, the cord is unplugged. I know in that moment that I’m going to go through with it.

I jump up for the last time ever and kick the chair away behind me. It falls with a loud thud as I stay there suspended. The first few seconds are agonizing; I can feel the cord closing around my neck and my airways closing in turn. Eventually I cannot breathe at all – this is where the panic sets in, that instinctive urge to make it stop. It takes everything left in me not to resist. All at once I feel the pain lessening. Everything around me is fading slowly and my vision becomes cloudy. Not long after that I feel it. That incredible feeling of relief: pure and unrefined euphoria. That cold and uncut, encompassing feeling that the asphyxia is over. And then I don’t feel anything at all.

I’ve done it. I’ve ended my suffering. I don't have to do anything now until they find me.

I stay there in the darkness and sing myself to sleep.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar showcases a diverse range of voices in poetry and creative writing. This prestigious event celebrates creativity and literary expression, inviting participants from around the world to share their unique narratives and perspectives. Each submission contributes to a vibrant tapestry of stories and poems that explore the myriad facets of human experience.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Alessandra Jade for sharing "The Lullaby" with us. Your participation in the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 brings a deeply moving narrative to light, enriching the literary landscape with its emotional resonance. Thank you for your contribution, Alessandra, and for inviting us to journey through the profound themes of love and loss.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.