SILENT STRUGGLES

CHAPTER THREE

Ewla pov:

My birthday loomed, one thing for sure was that calling home twisted my gut like a knot of snakes. The managers’ insistence to call home was a siren I couldn’t mute. He just couldn’t understand how much of an odyssey it was for me. I was not ready. Conversing with them was like a trial by fire, words like shackles, tightening dire. Each syllable a thorn, each pause a throe in the garden of discourse where only brambles grew. I had found comfort in distance. I didn’t want the devils that haunted me back.

September with its dread was here. A month with which along with it came all the sharp sting of memories, each being a deep s***h to my soul, deep ugly scars on my arms and the deepest of tempest in my life. It was my birthday month and also my mother’s departure from this world, a cruel twist of fate I know. Most times, selective mutism was an option. I was at school after all. It felt like if I opened my mouth everything in me would collapse at once. I just couldn’t. I just wanted the pain to be taken away.

The managers’ voice, being a distant echo through the speaker forced me into the corner I had long avoided. At last, I couldn’t run away. “Hello, how’re you,” my father said. Nothing out of the obvious, yet every time he said those words it felt like a sword being forced through my skin because of the hypocrisy behind them. Tears betrayed me, carving rivers down my cheeks.

To many, they were tears of happiness, but only my heart harbored the secret behind them. I despised the fragility of my composure. Couldn’t I just hold a normal conversation just like others without having to break down? Why had I to be such a weak, pathetic creature who couldn’t express herself? I hated myself.

However, knowing my father for being quite an overthinker, I couldn’t bring myself to hang up otherwise he would think I was unwell, which was not far from the truth. I was not well, but I couldn’t trace a time I had been well in my memory. We talked a little about everything until the breaking point…

“Happy birthday,” was the word left hanging in the air like a noose, without a proper goodbye. I was not sorry. What was I supposed to say? Thank you, a lie? For me, it was never and never will be. It was a day like a double-edged sword, marking an entrance into the world and my mother's exit.

Her last words to me weren’t of love and comfort. They were like daggers thrown at my fragile heart. Not a nice birthday wish, but with her farewell being,

“Get away from me”

Was I still supposed to feel the same after that? With those being her last words for me, was I supposed to move on? How? When even your own mother didn’t want you near her in her deathbed. The words were out how was I to live past that. When those words rang in my head every freaking day, from sunrise to sunset. How was anyone supposed to tell me that everything would be okay? Could I blame anyone for not wanting to be friends with me when not even my own mother wanted me? Was my presence that much of a nuisance?

Running through the hallways to find solace in solitude, she only dominated my chaotic mind. She, who had brought me to this world only to reject me on her deathbed. She who had risen me up but had dropped me as if I had never mattered to her. Couldn’t she just pretend. Was I that meaningless to this world? Would my absence be that insignificant? I craved for an escape from the pain that clung to me like a second skin. I just needed to be alone. I needed my headphones or a razor blade; pulling on my hair was not enough.

My heart was beating like a drum, each beat frantic and fast, with each pulse a reminder of a turbulent past. I could feel the world shrink down to a singular point, crushing a depth my soul could not anoint. I was drowning. My lungs burned due to lack of oxygen. I just wished everything to end at once. I can feel the pain from my head to toe though it was all in my head. Why had this day come. Couldn’t I just be normal?

Mother's love and acknowledgment was all I needed. Was it too much to ask for? To give me her blessings instead of me feeling like my existence was a mistake. Didn’t I always read bible verses in front of the church? Didn’t I always wear dresses like she wanted? Didn’t I always do everything she wanted? Were my flaws that unforgivable? Why couldn’t I be like my brother? Didn’t I always love him like she said I should? I hate myself. I just could never be what she wanted. Such a simple thing. I’m useless. Who would want to be around me?

The corridor to the dormitory stretched before me, each step heavier than the last, as I sought an escape from the engulfing pain. The washroom appeared as a beacon of solace, promising a temporary shield from prying eyes. Behind its locked door, the dam of my composure finally burst. Confronted with my reflection, I saw the one who had been my constant comforter, the familiar face in the mirror. She had been my unwavering confidant, the silent listener to my tears. In the solitude of my mind, she had been a steadfast presence, dissuading me from the brink of despair with gentle reminders of the pain that would follow. She has been the nurturer, urging me to eat when I had lost all my appetite.

She had been the voice of affirmation, telling me I'm beautiful in moments of invisibility. She had been my anchor, always reinforcing my worth in her eyes. She had never abandoned me, even as the rest did.

To me, the image that transcended in the mirror wasn’t a mere reflection; she was my guardian. Unwavering in her support, she had never cast judgment but had stood by me through every trial. She was like a kin to the wolf companion of a werewolf, ever-present and fiercely protective. She embodied my inner child, offering comfort when healing seemed beyond reach. Even as my breath grew scarce, I was glad that she was the enduring vision that graced my sight before the world faded into bliss. In her presence, I found inexplicable comfort.

CHAPTER THREE (ii)

Latty pov:

The washroom's solitude was shattered by the sound of the door opening. I stood alert waiting to get a clue of the events happening outside the small cubicle, only to hear the faintest sobs follow. As I hesitated to open the door, the sobs persisted. They were the echoes of a familiar agony, reminiscent of my sister's own despair before she committed suicide. I couldn't stand idly by, not again.

Emerging from my solitude, I was met with the sight of a young girl, her petite 5'2" frame lying motionless. I recognized her as a junior from our company, her cheeks marred by tears, eyes swollen from crying. She lay there, unconscious, stirring a well of concern within me.

With the privilege of seniority and the impending debut granting me access to a phone, I didn't hesitate to dial for an ambulance. As she was gently lifted onto the stretcher, my mind raced with questions about the sorrows that had led to her tears. Her beauty was undeniable, even in distress, a thought that chastised me amidst the gravity of the situation. The manager offered to accompany her, but I had felt a compelling urge to follow. As the ambulance doors closed, a silent prayer escaped my lips for her well-being. In a world rife with suffering, no one should endure such pain alone.