Cornucopia3 mins 208 3 mins 208
"It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life."
- Jack London, WHITE FANG
The ceiling and exhaust fans roared overhead in unison. The vivifying cyan glow of an old bulb descended upon the girl's restless self. Zealous outbursts of anger and tears remained confined within the four walls of her cell. Resistance was futile – slumber would not visit. Are hallucinations bizzare manifestations of thoughts from a disturbed traumatic past or the fear of death itself? Couple that with frequent panic attacks, a constant sense of a face beneath your skin & a few voices in your head probably composing a requiem on the gravicembalo col piano e forte. While Mozart subtly conducts an orchestra of pandemonium. You just got a taste of Alessandra's 'good' days. Why? I don't know. Maybe 'cause I haven't been a rape survivor since four at the hands of my father with an occasional festa of seven or more men in drunken stupor. I haven't had cigarette butts put out on my bosom. Or scarred with whiplashes all over my body for resisting the atrocious act with muffled screams engulfing the eerily silent night. Due to this excruciating torture over a decade and two abortions, she had become the infamous "marital bed' for every male in that village. Yet life is under no moral obligation to give us what we expect. Even a painless death in some cases. One day, while traversing though the market streets, she collapsed. Woke up in the hospital two days later. The supervising doctor, another one of her frequent visitors, explained the terms "cervical cancer" and "sickle cell anaemia". When discharged, her outraged father tied Alessandra's neck with a rope to his tractor. Dragged her to a brothel in the nearest town. Sold for 1000 rupees, Alessandra didn't take much time in adjusting her mindset to that of a courtesan's for the remnant of her lifespan. Every day she felt death was just a mere blink away. She waited with an uncomprehending muteness for the culmination of all terrors. Five years passed by. Now she knew the 'cancer' act was an almost gentle way of ridding an old & worn-out toy which everyone was tired of playing with. Hope, faith, ambition- all seemed to be "stuff dreams are made of" - well suited for those aristocratic clients. She had nothing to lose or gain - except for a tainted, dull and void existence whose very rendition would have any civilised human being probably terrorized of living. But then arose from the subatomic precipice of despair a tide of an almost infectious zest. A magnanimous adrenaline rush of resilience aimed upon a singularity - "KILL!" She bolted out of her room and stuck a broken beer bottle deep into the corpulent governing mistress' neck. It tore along the entire length between the mandible and collar bone. Alessandra clawed her eyes with satin hued nails. She ran into the onset of torrential downpour. The massive cumulonimbi overhead bustled with thunder and lightning. Her legs ran towards the horizon where the majestic blue banner of heavenly glory kissed the infertile soil. On the way, she found a railway track - an exhilarating invitation to the next world. A fitting goodbye of virtuous patience offering a gentle transition. Funny thing is, the train never came. Six months later, a tourist looking for a place to urinate in a nearby jungle found her decomposed body.
"She died from the starvation of despair" said the coroner.