Dire Dilemmas Of Love.

His death didn't matter to her. After returning to her apartment, she saw that note lying on her door. She picked it up and kept her grocery items, first on the table, neatly and proceeded to read it. It said nothing more than, "He is dead,” and it was a note signed by one of their mutual friends. She stumbled on a memory for a second, sighed, wrote a big R.I.P. on the sheet itself before leaving it where it was: on the threshold. It was on the threshold where he had left her years ago. In the train. He said he would see her soon, but he didn't even turn back to look. That day she had felt uneasy. It was almost night and they had had a heated debate on what he just did to her. She told him jokingly that why was she putting so much into that relationship while he was only attracted to her. Only an attraction. He made a face that tried to say no, that was insulting, but why it was really offensive was because it was the truth she had uttered though she herself didn't believe it, or perhaps knew it but couldn't accept it, just like him. Anyhow, as she started to chop the veggies for dinner, her finger bled. Yes, they had shared blood, saliva and other fluids. It still angered her, a truth that she had struggled with and wanted to avoid the memories that had marred her forever: the memories of being raped those two days by the man she loved. She had not done anything against it. It was silent. She remained silent. She had shouted at him then. But she had come to know she was only a body to him. There was a certain pleasure she had come to know in not belonging to and with anyone. It had been twenty years of her lone existence. She didn't know how to come to "move on" from all of this as all her friends had suggested to her then. She thought she had moved on in life - living it for her family, devoting herself to her career and the kids in her street she taught. But relationships were not for her. Not after that December night and the odd conversation just before Valentines day that ended everything. She didn't say much to him after that. She knew he didn't care, it didn't matter to him. She had kept silent all these years. Her anger and sadness had seethed inside her for years now, silently killing her. But she was quiet. She did not say a word now. That Sunday she did walk to his funeral, reading about it in the city newspaper and looked from afar at his body being carried. He was a godless man but how they uttered god's name all the while they carried him! It was ironical. He was the first and the last man she had ever prayed for. She didn't know why she walked out to his funeral that day. No body knew her, except his closest friend but she was sure that he wouldn't recognize her. Why was she there, she thought to herself as they laid him down on the funeral pyre. A tear rolled down her eyes - was it for him or herself? For the memory of love, the scars of that crime or for humanity's sake: the reason she had given to herself to go and attend his funeral. She had often fumed thinking about what he had done to her but when he was set to flames, she couldn't look. Nearby stood only his family. The girl she knew he was dating wasn't there. But she didn't care. She told herself that she didn't. She shouldn't. Later as she was leaving the place, a voice called out to her. It was his sister-in-law whom she had met once. She was surprised, "Seen you after so long." She said, "It is good that his friends from so long have turned up. Especially as he had been betrayed: killed by his own lover." That shocked her. How could she? That was ridiculous! As the flames burnt and burnt, she kept looking, not knowing what did she actually felt for him now. Was she avenged by God in her curses which accompanied the nightmarish reality of her rape? She knew all of this was a problem. This was not the way to think about it. She knew she was acting crazy, retaining the remnants of a love that had remained untainted for her all these years by what had followed it. Like that night when he had said he felt guilty that it was a rape, she felt now: guilty for the love that sought to forgive the unforgivable. Guilty for a death she didn't commit, but had wished for in her rage.