Wistful Echoes 2

By Vaibhava

Beauty was from within but he was beautiful in and out. The silence was deafening. The empty chambers that echo my guttural cries don't seem to soften the blow of his demise, even though we spent our lives loving each other here. All that is now left are his clothes and his cologne I spray all over my bed. Earthy scents help you sleep, they say. All they seem to do is darken my sunken cheekbones and eyes. A third of your life is spent living with volition, if that. But none of us know ourselves fully. To be sure of oneself is a blessing few possess. He was one of them. And despite me not being part of the lot, he chose to pursue me. To love me for who I was, wanted to be and was becoming. Beauty is from within but he's beautiful in and out. I stare at the empty night sky with a sombre grimace etched deep into my features. Will this all that be? Will this be all that stays? Darkness, misery, and misfortune? My husband said that he would love me for me. That even if I was no more, he'd love what's left of me. Now here I am, whole in flesh, yet void in soul. My soul blackened three months ago, and is now one with the mist. 

The fireflies light up the little spiderweb on the corner of our porch door. He was my firefly and now he left me all alone in this cold dark world. I have forever felt the need to be one with him. Like being next to him wasn't enough. Being entwined wasn't. I needed to be one with the darkest deepest part of his soul. And he let me. He let me bathe in his scars, his lows, his failures, his flaws, his ugliness. They were all mine. Our souls were one. And now a part of my soul had been forcefully ripped away mercilessly and trampled upon. I feel myself vaporising. I feel it in my bones. I am my own witness. I feel my demise in real time. Death has his lustful eyes upon what's left of me. Now all I am doing is waiting for it to lasso me in. At least then, I shall be one with my husband. 

My heavy lids droop close as I feel my wet cheeks dry up gradually. I lay on the ground praying I don’t live to see another day. 

I felt a tug at my chest followed by excruciating despair. I look down to see a thread made of dark smoke coming into my chest. My whole  body stiffness and my heart tightens as the thread wraps around my soul. I can't see it, but I feel it in me, deep and true. If this is the way I go, so be it. I feel the thread tug. Tug. Tug. Harder and harder. My lungs compress and my throat collapses inwards. I feel it all happen in real time, and in slow motion. Like I'm witnessing it from the outside, only -- I feel every single thing. I struggle to inhale and heave. My eyes go dead as my soul is pulled, trying to spring free from inside the middle of my chest. I don't fight it. I don't scream. I don't even look at it. I stare up at the sky with dead dissociated eyes. What is left to live for? What is left to come home to? What is left to fight for? What is left to look forward to? Death will be merciful. 

By Vaibhava