WHAT’S THE TIME?

It hurts when I bend my elbow. They are flabby and they hurt.

' What do you want for dinner?', yells mom from the kitchen.

' Anything would do.'

She shouldn't be asking this. She can make anything and ask me to eat.

Anything would do.

Anything would do.

What is the time?

Anything would do.

It's 8.05 pm. 8.05 pm.

The lights are too bright. I turn them off.

The lights were too bright.

They hurt my eyes. Too bright.

The shadows. Shadow of the table.

Shadow of the wall hangings.

The shadows.

'Will you chop these onions? Eh, why are the lights off ? '

She switches them on and places the knife and tray.

I chop them but the door is open. The door is half open. I lean forward and swing the door shut with a bang.

'Gently!'

You left the fucking door open.

Chop chop.

I give the chopped onions and wash the tray and knife and close the door again. Lights off.

I lie down in the dark. My back hurts at a specific place. I sit again, hands on my head.

I stretch, my eyes closed. I sway to the symphony, like a snake. Gracious yet unsettling.

My eyes are wide open, absorbing everything like an animal.

The shadows, the outlines. My mother. The shadows. My flabby hands. Shadows.

Is the door open an inch? Who opened the door?

The shadows. Mother.

The curved pair of scissors lie amongst the pencils and staplers. I could be stabbed to death by it. Or stabbed to warrant a hospital admission.

I inhale deeply. Silence. The symphony. I close my eyes and sway. Unsettling. What is the time? 9 .01 pm.

What is the time? 10 pm. The house is silent and dark. Mild sounds from the other room as my parents settle in bed. In the morning, they could be found dead on the floor, multiple stabs on their body. Blood on the floor, darker and dry around the edges. Their last thought shouldn't be about me. The bed creaks. My hands are swinging by the side of the bed, fingers bobbing up and down, touching the cold tiles.

A monster under the bed. The imaginary monster under the bed, that I always look for. It was terrifying but it had to be looked for. The bed creaks. I slip down the bed and lay on the floor. It is cold. Is that a face under the bed?

No. No. No. No face. Just cold floor. I growl and wheeze and moan and wheeze. I pull the bed down. Is the door open?

I sit down, head on my shoulder. Eyes half open. The shadows are still there. Pain shoots up my flabby arm.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

Deep breaths and shadows.

There are always greater sufferings. But it is my journey. It is only fair to measure my happiness from my yesterday or in my case, many yesterdays ago.

I want to be a part of those sufferings that turn people's heads and cock their ears. I wish they were dead.

Torrential streams of tears pour down. Sobs break out. Sleep falls on my lap. What is the time?