Amulya Sharma

Abstract Tragedy

4  

Amulya Sharma

Abstract Tragedy

Death Bed

Death Bed

2 mins
249



The hospital feels like a mortuary, as everyone around me is full of despair and remorse. The air reeks of rigor, representative of my half-dead, rotten innards.


The nurse changes the flowers in my vase, with a new bunch of white lilies, yet my skin looks way paler and un-lively than the week-old flowers she renders dead and withered.


I swallow my pills with some water, yet my tongue feels like a pickled gherkin. My organs slowly turn into rotten meat, as if the onset of rigor mortis has happened even before I actually died.


My aunt tells me all my ailing is because of not praying to the deities enough, or for being "impure", as I get flashbacks of rubbing the vermillion off of my forehead, like a killer would wipe off the blood of their victims. But here, I was the victim of my own culture. Like a flower being throttled by the soil, it grew in.


I can still feel the piercing gazes of those sheep-skinned hounds, from when I left my husband and came back home. I still remember how it no longer felt like a home, but an empty, cold house.


I lived alone, yet the murmurs followed me everywhere. I barely slept/ate/breathed, thus here we are, almost a week away from my funeral, though it already feels like I've died. Multiple times.


I left my husband after 3 years of marriage, for he left me with scars all over my body, as well as my mind. Yet it still is my fault, somewhere, for I didn't stop him earlier and let him get out of that faux sheepskin, for I gave rise to an abuser.



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