The Scream Of Death

By Ananya Mittal

An agony,

Heard of, only in books, The kind that,

Has the power to ruin anyone, Just by simply being near it.

It told,

A tale of death.

A song of despair,

An impossible unending inferno.

It first began, with an infernal, silent scream.

Nothing too big, nothing too impactful.

It was a time when that was all women could do, Even then,

It had to be a secret.

An undiscovered painter, a prodigy, Who was being forced to reel in, The loudness, the stubbornness,

It was too much for the other women, And had to be quashed.

I asked just for a paintbrush, And nothing else.

Much to their dismay, I wasn't the little girl,

As girls were meant to be. The corsets, the knitting, The silence, the weakness. To be endured,

Across Lifetimes.

That paintbrush in my hand,

It meant a lot, from being leisure, To being survival.

I held it tight, to save myself. To save my identity.

Worlds, and people, Anything I could imagine, I could create.

No one cared, though. But that was okay.

As long as I had it, I could escape.

I was forgotten soon, Starved at times,

Grimaced at, Punished.

I wasn't normal, you see. I had a disease.

I could speak.

The paintbrush,

It pulled me out from the darkest corners Of my heart.

It silenced all those who, Spat at me,

Made me the object of their hate. Through everything,

The paintbrush,

It pulled me through.

Through colorless landscapes, Through the gaze of a girl born, When I wished I wasn't.

Everything was without color, Bitter, hollow, shell-like.

I shuddered to think of how,

I could become, if it was to slip away, Not to be found.

I would be all wretched and bitter, Like the sun on the

Hottest day of summer.

I held it close.

Near to my heart,

As everything fell apart.

The drapes fell away, They turned to ash.

All the ladies, whimpered, Until they all morphed.

They became paintings, Trapped in canvases,

Unable to speak,

To show their wickedness.

It turned into a place, I'd never known.

Maybe also a time, That I never did.

I saw myself through another's eyes, Wandering around in innocent delight.

I felt cocooned, Safe and sound, Felt at home,

Nestled in the arms of one, That was known.

I looked in aww, at who she was,

The most beautiful woman I ever saw. It felt serene,

As I looked around.

I was being painted, By women all around. Me and my mother,

A cloth wrapped around.

I smiled in delight,

As my mother looked at me, With love in her eyes,

And the most tender touch.

A common hatred of men, Was all around me.

For they were absent, In all this serenity.

Not a word was spoken, Silence spoke,

These women were surviving, Just like I was.

A bruise on one, A scar on another, Hearts broken,

Cold smiles.

These were women, Torn apart by love.

I smiled through all the pain, And they seemed to breathe, Just for a bit,

And giggle and laugh, And hate their men.

But alas,

The sound was too loud, As loud as me,

When I used to be A little girl.

As loud as the sound,

That led to the death of a girl, Who dreamt of her masterpiece, To her death.

Doors burst open,

Lights smashed apart, The serenity was broken.

Fear and Pain was cast around. Screams all around,

Blood gushed about,

Only of the women though, Like all the other times.

I saw three,

Before I was hidden,

Tucked in a cloth,

Held by my mother. She fought those three,

Trying to save herself and me.

They tried to take me,

A small child of a few days, A girl,

There was no indulgence for the mother, For I was a child being brought up,

In the rebellious times.

And I would grow up to be the death of them all.

Caught up in my drapes, My mother didn't relent, She had to save me.

From the most heinous death. Rage filled her face,

As she smashed the heads, Of the three in my drapes.

My mother, She saved me,

The brave woman.

She smashed and smashed, The rocks on their heads, As long as I cried,

A blood child.

That rage,

It saved me.

My cries grew silent, My drapes bloody.

They never touched me, My mother saved me.

My body grew still, I went cold,

My face mirrored those, Whom I saw before.

So many women, With violated minds,

bodies,

And a broken smile.

I faded away, Into the night, Saved.

Safe and Sound, Nestled in light. The glass cracked,

As I heard a scream, A voice too familiar, A voice too sweet. A voice of agony, And pain,

And rage.

It was a scream, Too strong,

Too much,

It wouldn't be quashed down. By the women,

By the men, By anyone.

A scream of a mother, Who lost her child,

A small soul,

With no fault of her own.

It rang in my ears, Till the end of time, It will ring,

For all my lifetimes.

As I faded away,

I saw through another eyes, The agony of my mother, Painted through my eyes.

The childlike wonder, The horror,

The safety.

I saw myself,

A grown woman,

Holding a paintbrush, Honouring the sight. My masterpiece,

Would be the last of my art. For I was,

A child.

Yet again,

Forced to change, To be a woman,

To be frail and small.

I finally left,

My child, My woman,

and my soul.

I woke up,

In a time all too familiar, With no sense of purpose, No strength to fight,

A flame of revenge, Lit in my heart.

A way to speak,

Needed to be sought.

How can I survive, When I have lost, All that was me,

And all that I could be.

I tried and I tried so hard, Yet I couldn't find,

That paintbrush I lost.

By Ananya Mittal