A mixture of the worst

I was never that fragile. Nor did I look like the one who would easily break down. The way I would walk with my head held high, people would turn around and whispers would erupt.

Hey, look. She's the girl in the army. 

Mommy. How many pounds can she lift? 

Oh My God. So much has happened and she didn't let a tear fall. Now isn't she strong.

The last one was quite true. So much had happened. Perhaps, too much to be endured by any other 25-year-old. 

But then again, that too, was true. Because what was happening was quite unbelievable. The first tear slowly makes its way down my cheek. And for some reason, I don't find that shameful. Only, I don't know why I was crying.

I shuffled through the glossy pages of my table calendar, each bearing one red circle. One on February the 26th. Mom died right after the plane crashed. 1st March: my sister succumbed to the injuries. 6th of June: the day I got divorced.

So basically I lost my family. And Dad? I probably didn't even know what a calendar was back when he passed away. The memory of his face, and voice too, is a faint one. But Mom tells me I was two when he died.

I produced a red pen from my drawer, sobbing and wiping the tears away wildly. Another red circle was on its way: the day my best friend died.

I have always examined myself closely. I don't have black fur or whiskers. Then why am I the black cat? Why does everything seem to fall apart wherever I step?

But there is just so much going on, the whirlwind of thoughts seems to confuse me more than anything. And as another tear falls, I realize, it's not just one thing that keeps squeezing them out of my eyes. It's the whirlwind as a whole. A storm called 'the mixture of the worst'.

It keeps growing as it gobbles onto every tragedy until you can take it no more and your eyes explode with tears. It's the storm...but you are never aware.

Ignorance

No eggs at home? Oh I can fix this.

A fractured arm? A little worse but I can fix that too. 

Life seemed quite...fixable. With all the new ways time and intelligence brought with it' everyone seemed to be one's own Bob the Builder. Until that day...the day I heard what was once impossible to me, yet too easy to be made possible. All it needed was one mistake and then began what I call helplessness.

I'm sorry. We can't fix this. And I'd suggest you tell everyone before it's too late.

With that thundering sentence, life seemed like it was a rollercoaster speeding towards a deadly cliff: it was unstoppable.

I can clearly recall how I would overlook everything with those four easy words. Only I'd never been intoduced to their deadliness. 

A headache? I can fix it. A bad cough? I can fix it.

And then the worst happened. If only I hadn't given myself away to this vey sentence, I wouldn't have been on my deathbed right now.

Ignorance had lead me to this. And now it was too late. Too late to do anything except for waiting to make my way peacefully to the heavens in my sleep.

All because of ignorance.

Staying unanswered: letter from the curious one

Hello the someone who's reading this,

Here's my story,

"I'm sorry", she closed the file gently, "But it's just not good enough."

This was the 30th time I was witnessing these very words being hurled at me.

"But why is this 'not good enough'? I mean, there must be something which disappoints you. And I promise I'll take care of it." I watched her unchanged blank expression "Please. Don't do this to me. I came here with a lot of hope." I pleaded.

"I'm sorry. But this is a publishing house. Not a counsellor's office. Now if you may," she gestured towards the door, "because I have more much important things to do."

I heaved myself and turned towards the door. Each footstep felt like a mile away from my dreams. It appeared as if I had come too far now. Too far to look back and find a way to where I began. It was saddening.

That night, I cried as I went through each and every word of each and every page. Funny isn't it? The fact that you read comedy and then you cry?

"You don't waste a syllable, honey. This might lead you somewhere."

I asked my teacher what she meant that very day. But she never told me. I remember how she replied, again, leaving behind clues I couldn't quite follow. 

"Just do what you like." 

I thought I had the desired reply, but the night of the 30th rejection, I finally had second thoughts. Maybe I was too silly to understand. Maybe she meant something else. 

I had so much to ask. To my teacher. To the publishing houses. To a lot of people. But the pile of questions kept increasing until I could bear no more. And these are the last words you will ever read from me.

Goodbye everyone.

Love,

Bella