(This first person frictional story is about a schizophrenic woman who wakes up and doesn’t recollect anything. As she divulges her past and learns about herself, things take a drastic end.)
The salient, brisk smell of disinfectant invaded my nostrils. I vaguely scrunched open my magnet-like latched eyes to bear the blistering light of the bulb, while pondering my existence. My hands were roofed with bruises, dressings and IV tubes. I tried to move my hands, but alas, I couldn’t. The room was eerily as tranquil as a grave. Not even a squeak or a rasp, apart from my dreadful heavy puffing, and the rhythmic beep-beep sound of the machines. I strained to focus on the blurry scenario, trying to comprehend how I came to be here, while frantically peeking at all over the misty and pristine clean room. The walls were just white and blue, with random picture frames thrown in for good measure. The gloomy cloudy sky was unleashed by the window panes with draperies hanging hopelessly. The room felt like a dungeon, with its monotony thrusting me into depression. I was alive, but felt dead and empty. “Why am I here? I snatched open the ventilator from my mouth and struggled to get up. As soon as my feet touched the stone cold floor, I slid backwards with great force. My body seized and throbbed in pain, and I screeched in an oculus wail. An elderly nurse slipped in through the creaking wooden door. “Please calm down.” she said as she glanced at me, concerned. On the spur of the moment, a low-pitched and croaky voice murmured and rasped in my ears urging me to slay her, choke her neck and stab her stomach with a knife, because she had abducted me. “Why am I here?” I shrieked, with sheer bewilderment. “Some gentleman dropped you here, while you were out cold, covered in blood.” she gently padded me back, “He found you by the lake.” “How long have I been here?” “Three days.” She put the ventilator on again, “Relax. Everything’s fine.” “Do you know which year it is?” “Umm…1947?” I murmured with brittleness. “Nope…it’s 2008. Do you remember your name, ma’am?” The same voice rasped like a shot, this time brassier, urging me to poke her crinkly eyes. I paused for ten good seconds. I turned to her, as if I was going to really utter my name, “I…I…I don’t know.” “Don’t worry, ma’am. It’s normal to get chaotic after comma. We have found your ID and will discharge you as soon as you improve.” I deliberated in my mind, “Comma?” She strolled out fast, and I was left all by myself, again. “You should’ve slaughtered her, moron.” the voice silenced away. I closed my eyes in chaos and tears rolled down my cheeks moaning my tale of frustration and bafflement. They discharged me a week later. A taxi drove me over to the address etched on the ID, which did have a picture of a woman, with serious gawking eyes, curly black hair and pale skin, signifying that it would be most likely me. I stumbled across the apartment room. I stepped in. It was familiar, but low-spirited and void. The drapes were tucked in everywhere, stalling the outer view, and everything cluttered. Few books stacked upon the coffee table, the bed spilled with coffee and its bed sheets on the floor. As I stared at the room, it jolted me back with its foulness and chaos. Every step was engulfed in dirty clothes and papers, flying like the Harry Potter scene. With each movement something new came to my hand, a minuscule fragment more of the furniture and antique junks took form, and I could discover more and more mysteries from my own past. I sat down on the bed. Just simply sitting. Taking blood, sweat and tears and trying not to listen, all at once. But, the voices grew louder. They were overlapping, growling, screeching and moaning. Arguing with me, threatening me, telling me their grossest secrets, telling me to commit things I can never think of. “Leave me alone!” I moaned, scraping my ears, “Please, get out of my head!”. But they won’t go away. They never do, do they? Something caught my eye, out of the blue. It was on the coffee table. I froze and chills run down my skin. The voices hushed away, abruptly. It displayed a photograph of someone. Apparently, it wasn’t me. It was a woman in her fifties, with lovely dark curly hair, a kind smile, olive skin, and friendly eyes. Her face spoke infinite tales before I could say a word. I was taken aback by her splendour, for the warmth and placidity I felt and the tranquillity she exuded. The deep ceases on her cheeks told the ballad of a face that gave away care, best wishes and smiles. “It’s my mama!” I exclaimed to myself. A rotten odour emanating from the bathroom interrupted my moment of peace. I took the frame in my hands, turned around, slowly paced towards it and opened the wooden door. The foul smell grew unbearably deeper, that I had to claw my nose before winking my eye. I saw a few dark red spots of blood dotting on the floor. I slowly looked farther, trying to push away thoughts of what might be there. I froze, my blood rushing cold, and my breath becoming trapped in my throat as I fought not to gag. A dead, pale cadaver of a lady lay in a pool of crimson blood, with a deep, dark, bloody stab on her belly, blood on her curly hair, and blood all over the room, spilled like a murder weapon. It was the same woman from the photograph I was clutching. As a matter of fact, I dropped it, shattering its shield into chunks. Everything was pacing in my head, in pictures, making me realize everything. “Did I do this?” My heart screeched in pain, while throbbing in my ears, “No, mama!” “It’s the end. You did this to her. It’s all your fault!” The voices growled at me. I couldn’t endure the agony and sorrow any longer. They were taunting me that life isn’t worth living, that I can’t keep up, that there’s no need. As the walls of blood squeezed me, I felt the world drift away into solitude and serenity, and myself shrink and my thoughts shoved into an invisible, hidden corner, with evil voices ripping my ears apart. A frozen finger grabbed the knife lying on the watershed. They were making me do it. I didn’t want to, but the knelling of their amiable voices were taunting and shouting at me to get over with it. They made me enclose my fist around the cold knife and slowly pace it towards my neck. And there I did it, sliced a cut deep enough to soak my white top with crimson blood. Now, I could feel it- they are no longer here. The voices have silenced finally, forever.
By: Mahisha Ahmed
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