As winds graze through the jungle, the friction muffles the wails of the wolves that can never touch the moon. A hundred miles away, a little girl lays in her bed, aimlessly staring at the yellow light showering upon a patch of the street that leads to the same old city, the city that keeps her parents busy, the world where she doesn’t belong.
The night is her home—her parents sleep, she can swish and swirl and dance without being shamed for her failing grades, and she can talk to her best friend. Tonight, she just wants to hug him tight.
The clock starts ringing; it is time. She runs to her window.
“Mum said you didn’t exist,” she says, in loud whispers, as she pulls him through the window.
“What did you say to her?” He asks, but she doesn’t say anything; she just wants to hug.
“What did you say?” He asks again.
“I didn’t say anything to her.”
“But why?”
“Because it’s no good explaining to her. She might just take you away from me. Just like she took away granny when I was five, or my nanny when I was eight.”
“She’s your mother. She will understand you.” At this, she swivels her head and raises her brows at him, letting out a sigh. “Not all mothers are epitomes of sacrifices,” she says, “and boundless love. Some of them are selfish. And my mother leads the pack of selfish mothers.”
“Promise me you won’t abandon me. Promise me you won’t…like my parents did when I was four because they wanted to focus on their careers, or like my friends when I told them why I lived with my Granny, or everybody on this planet to whom I have ever talked to about you.”
“Please talk it out with your parents. Tell your mom how much your past affects you. Tell your dad that you feel like being hugged and kissed on the forehead sometimes.”
She smirked at this. “As if I haven’t already tried that. I failed. I wept and wept but it did not help. I finally slashed my wrist, but they had to save me from dying even.
I found you, that’s all that matters to me now. You make my life bearable, livable. If I lose you, I swear I’m going to kill myself.”
He wraps her in his arms, as she tightens her grip around him, resting her head on his chest. And the books on her shelf, the fan above her, the bed beneath, the posters on her walls, all watch how she opens up to him. And how she had once opened up to her mother. We’re all lonely creatures, aren’t we? We open our hearts to people in hope that they’ll understand us, risking through and through how much it will hurt to stitch it close again when that doesn’t happen.
“Promise me you won’t tell me that I’m mad,” she says, “that I have Charles blah blah Syndrome.”
“Charles Bonnet Syndrome,” he filled up for her. “But who said that to you?”
“The psychiatrist I had to visit with mum, because she paid my bills and accommodated me in her house, and was the reason why I was living and blah blah blah…”
“Promise me you won’t tell me that you don’t exist. Promise me.”
“I promise!” He said, and got up. She clasped his hand; she knows he’ll do it again. As he starts walking towards the window, her sobs become violent.
“Wake up,” he says.
“Don’t go…don’t go.” She’s weeping now. She clutches her hand as hard as she can, but he jerks it, and…
…she opens her eyes, to a morning and her screaming mother. “Wake up,” she says. “If you miss your bus again…”
Image Credits: Photo by Timusic Photographs on Unsplash
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