The Realistic Fiction – A Memoir

One of the other gloomiest nights wears on to a morning. She rolls her fingers over her already half-opened eyes and pulls her husband’s arm softly aside to get out of the bed. After a while, she was fastening the laces of her pink Nike trainers and ready to jog ! She knew, she’d run so hard today that her feet would feel wounded and her legs would hurt like hell. Her breath would feel irregular for hours and her heart would beat in her ears for long. And after all that, she won’t still stop. She’d jog until all the energy inside her body would be drained out. And today wasn’t different from the other days that had been creeping slowly.

Why such torture on her own self ? She had no concrete answer.

With his head filled with confusions, he turned the page. He had started reading this fiction written on a beautiful white leather covered diary but after reading only the first page, he felt some things strangely familiar. As if, he actually knows the heroine of this story…. As if….

May be, to trick her mind into thinking about her tired body rather than her ruptured heart full of fears of the future and guilt of the past. May be, to get rid of those painful anxiety attacks and depression disorders. Or maybe, just to distract herself from her own self. Sometimes, the un-satisfying reasons you give yourself are not important enough.

“I can’t have a child. I am not able enough to bring a new life into this world. For all my life I have done nothing but to hurt my loved ones. I can’t be a parent I am a total mess”

For years, these small sentences were often followed by painful cries while she’d go to sleep at nights, with needles tingling all over her body and rapid breaths getting out of control. Her husband would sit aside holding her hands and pushing her head against his chest. Sometimes, silent presence of a loved one is better that a thousand empty words. He was her doctor, her friend and her faith.

The day when their baby was born, her eyes smiled while staring at his eyes with pride. The pride of winning the battle against anxiety and depression while fighting together, the pride of loving and being loved innocently and purely — and most importantly, the pride of being a Mother !

He couldn’t find himself strong enough to read another hundred or more pages. This fiction was not a fiction, as this diary was not just a diary. 

————————

I am sitting in my bed today watching Mother’s day programs on Tv. He comes rushing towards me and hides himself  in my embrace, as he used to do when he was a kid.

I love you, Mama ! I won’t be able to thank you for the priceless love you have given me in all these years, and I want to tell you that you are important to me more than anyone in the whole world. Everyone loved you mama, they just didn’t express their love the way you needed. I don’t want to be like them

Saying these words, he hands me over a copy of this famous magazine. I open that half folded page in curiosity and there I see, my 25 year old story published in a neater version with my name.

I recalled, I was scared of writing diaries because the thought of getting exposed and judged frightened me. That’s why I started giving my daily anecdotes a color of fiction.

He understood my ‘fiction’ when nobody could. I wonder, how many more strange habits had he taken from his father ?

Inspired by The Daily Post.

Advertisements

An Excruciating Spasm Of Guilt

newborn-mother-hand-pa

Lies inside her silvered heart

A golden memory wrapped in layers of mist

And a guilt torn apart

Tiny finger wrapped in warmth

Of embrace of her graceful Mother’s hands

As she teaches her to walk forth

Having lunch on the first day

At school, feeling touch of her mother’s hand on bread

Smiles the shine in her eyes grey

While kids play with toys, she pour

Her innocent wishes to her Mother’s mind -laying in her lap

As her Mother teaches her to endure

Having a single meal that day

She Glances at her Mother sleeping peacefully- and recall

She had nothing but water today

As grains of sand slip through hand

Time flew by, fading her childhood in mystic wraps

Now she was a girl strong enough to stand

Cherished was the ethereal time

Befallen under shadows of her Mother’s Love Divine

Problems dimmed by the wind chimes

With a flash her world shattered

Broken was her Mother’s heart, by her words angry and harsh

-She left with tears flooded

And came back on a stretcher

Wounded-Lifeless her Mother’s lies on blood filled white sheet

With a brand new shawl there

Woman who walked with her mother;told

She bought this shawl for her beloved daughter

To make her anger cold

Mind paralyzed and confused

She looked at her Mother’s feet- and Remembered she had

No money to buy shoes.

A post written in response to The Daily Prompt.