Shadows of our mind
Carmelle sighed, easing back from the letter while setting her pen on the table. She rubbed her temples and looked towards the window. The pitter-patter of the raindrops against the windowpane dispelled the quiet within the room. Her eyes followed the raindrops, which were washing away the grime from the window. If only it were so easy, she thought. The storm had knocked out the power and the room was dark, but for the candles.
She closed her eyes and stayed still for a while, seemingly asleep, but then started. She had found sleep hard to come by, but even more so on the days Mark was at home. It had been one such night when he had come back home, drink in his breath, and found her sleeping. She stopped knitting the tiny sweater, which was half done, after a visit to the clinic the next day.
Carmelle rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and looked at the sweater she had abandoned then. It was now almost complete. The candles flickered, casting shadows on the empty walls. Battling demons of their own, she imagined wryly.
She picked up the pen and continued writing the letter to her mother. She wouldn’t get it, of course, because Carmelle never sent them out to her. The last one she had mailed was on the day before her first miscarriage. But that didn't matter now because Carmelle knew it would be read by her in the place she had moved into now.
“… some days, he didn’t even return home. Those days are few and far between now so one would say that he is getting better. We are trying to have a baby again, Ma. He still feels guilty about that day. He swears he will stay on the wagon and I believe him….”
A gust of wind rattled the window, breaking her concentration. Carmelle craned her neck towards the door and stared. A few moments passed before she looked away from the unmoving lock. She stared at the words and her lips quavered. The words came easily but the tears should have been easier still.
The flames hovered over the photo by the table, gushing about the time when she had no trouble believing. She was smiling at Mark, who held her heart with tenderness. Her heart, bundled in layers of blue, slept through the idyllic moment. Now all that remained was bundles of rag and a piece of gloss trapped under the suffocating plastic.
As she forayed further into the letter, her hand ran over the bulge on her stomach. She winced as her fingers slowed over the stretches of her past and the raw oceans of blue. Pearls of time slid down her cheek and formed a necklace of emotions over the scribbled paper. She knew that she was no longer the captain of a boat that was being tossed perpetually over the waves. They had finally worn her down.
“…and yesterday, he came back home later than usual. There was the usual discussion about this and he started shouting. It was the first time in a few months he had shouted at me, and whenever he shouts…”
Carmelle pressed the nib once too deeply and the words flooded the paper. Her letter, once full of life and promise, now stood drenched without meaning. Carmelle shut the book and limped towards the kitchen, grimacing at every step. She poured herself a glass of water and tipped it past her cut lips. She had taken a fall again; just like she always did in her eyes. She mumbled in the dark. Her pen might have started to run dry but she continued writing the letter, fearful of letting go of the only friend she had.
Hope.
Carmelle slid into bed and her head hit the lumpy pillow. The breath came slow and steady but there was no rhythm to be matched tonight. Her gaze wandered over the wall above their bed, flitting back towards the peeling patch of paint that had always been there.
How could I have not seen it before, she wondered.
As her eyes grew heavier and the shadows conspired, the candles flickered for the last time before giving in to the darkness they had kept at bay for so long.
She closed her eyes and stayed still for a while, seemingly asleep, but then started. She had found sleep hard to come by, but even more so on the days Mark was at home. It had been one such night when he had come back home, drink in his breath, and found her sleeping. She stopped knitting the tiny sweater, which was half done, after a visit to the clinic the next day.
Carmelle rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and looked at the sweater she had abandoned then. It was now almost complete. The candles flickered, casting shadows on the empty walls. Battling demons of their own, she imagined wryly.
She picked up the pen and continued writing the letter to her mother. She wouldn’t get it, of course, because Carmelle never sent them out to her. The last one she had mailed was on the day before her first miscarriage. But that didn't matter now because Carmelle knew it would be read by her in the place she had moved into now.
“… some days, he didn’t even return home. Those days are few and far between now so one would say that he is getting better. We are trying to have a baby again, Ma. He still feels guilty about that day. He swears he will stay on the wagon and I believe him….”
A gust of wind rattled the window, breaking her concentration. Carmelle craned her neck towards the door and stared. A few moments passed before she looked away from the unmoving lock. She stared at the words and her lips quavered. The words came easily but the tears should have been easier still.
The flames hovered over the photo by the table, gushing about the time when she had no trouble believing. She was smiling at Mark, who held her heart with tenderness. Her heart, bundled in layers of blue, slept through the idyllic moment. Now all that remained was bundles of rag and a piece of gloss trapped under the suffocating plastic.
As she forayed further into the letter, her hand ran over the bulge on her stomach. She winced as her fingers slowed over the stretches of her past and the raw oceans of blue. Pearls of time slid down her cheek and formed a necklace of emotions over the scribbled paper. She knew that she was no longer the captain of a boat that was being tossed perpetually over the waves. They had finally worn her down.
“…and yesterday, he came back home later than usual. There was the usual discussion about this and he started shouting. It was the first time in a few months he had shouted at me, and whenever he shouts…”
Carmelle pressed the nib once too deeply and the words flooded the paper. Her letter, once full of life and promise, now stood drenched without meaning. Carmelle shut the book and limped towards the kitchen, grimacing at every step. She poured herself a glass of water and tipped it past her cut lips. She had taken a fall again; just like she always did in her eyes. She mumbled in the dark. Her pen might have started to run dry but she continued writing the letter, fearful of letting go of the only friend she had.
Hope.
Carmelle slid into bed and her head hit the lumpy pillow. The breath came slow and steady but there was no rhythm to be matched tonight. Her gaze wandered over the wall above their bed, flitting back towards the peeling patch of paint that had always been there.
How could I have not seen it before, she wondered.
As her eyes grew heavier and the shadows conspired, the candles flickered for the last time before giving in to the darkness they had kept at bay for so long.
This entry was posted
on Sunday, February 05, 2006 at 6:27 PM.
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