Krishna Kumar
Darkness embraced me like an old friend. I shuffled through the space with a familiar sense of knowing. Moonlight streamed in through the only window in the ceiling. A chair stood in the centre as if waiting for its occupant. In the corner was a table with papers fluttering in the air. The door locked behind me. I walked to the table and peered at the words scribbled on it.
“I wish I could die. I could think of a hundred ways to kill myself and end it all. But you need me.” I read the words aloud, unease rising within me like a low tide.
Was anyone here? What did the words mean? The pages slipped from my grasp and landed on the floor. I dashed to the door, my squeaking joints crying for help. With a twist of the knob, the steel frame escaped my unsteady grip. An eerie sound arose, and I saw that darkness was closing in on me. It wrapped me in its arms like a mythical demon devouring the village.
At the next moment, I found myself on the chair, no tethers binding me. I was free to go, yet unseen bonds restrained me. Looking up, the ceiling window seemed to beckon me. Vines climbed over it, its tendrils swaying in the night breeze. As though driven by an impulse, I stood up, climbed on the chair and reached for the window bars, my agility taking me by surprise. They were like the distant grapes luring me, teasing me yet standing safe out of my reach. I stood on my toes, and using every bit of my strength, I tried again. I fell. My knees hit against the floor, the bones crackling. The muscles throbbed with pain, blood oozed out of my head, but my resolve stood strong like a kite steadying itself against the desert wind. I climbed onto the chair again, but paused on noticing something unusual. The ceiling appeared a few inches lower. It was as if the ceiling had descended a few inches. I looked around and saw that the walls had moved closer together. The room appeared visibly smaller. Thoughts tangled in my mind like the wires of an earphone. The chill from the floor seeped through my skin as I sat with my legs stretched awkwardly.
Fear clawed at me as the night’s silence deepened. Exhaustion held me tight, like a toddler clinging to their mother, as I attempted to break free, only to fall with a heavier thud. I watched as the walls and ceiling inched towards me, this time with increased momentum. I crawled like a crab, searching for a safe space. But the walls barreled towards me like a wild tempest unleashed. I crouched, buried my head between my creaking knees that cradled against my chest, and hoped I would survive.
A sudden, wild, rattling sound ripped through the air, echoing like clanking iron gates. I lifted my head and saw the ceiling spiral downward. Within moments, I was buried beneath debris, bricks covering me like a grave. An iron rod was lodged in my stomach, and blood gushed like a stream. My pulse dropped, breathing became laboured, tiny dots formed before me, and I collapsed.
Streaks of sunlight fell on my face as I opened my eyes. I lay on the bed, wrapped in a duvet. Grabbing the bottle from the bedside table, I drank the water in one go. It was a dream. But it felt real. The pain, suffering, and near-death experience felt real.
Dr. Kalpana
He opened his eyes, squinting at the bright light.
“Since when do you get this dream, Mr Kumar?” I asked.
“For the last two years. Your medicine for anxiety works, and I sleep, but these nightmares leave me fatigued,” he said.
“I’ll change your prescription and let’s see if that helps,” I said, writing on a notepad.
He thanked me and left the office.
Blood pulsed through my body, surging with vengeance. My extremities turned cold, my hands trembling as I adjusted the room temperature.
I saw the departing figure through the door that was ajar. Anger that simmered within me now boiled, its bubbles scathing my soul.
Images of my exuberant and empathetic self floated before me for a fleeting moment before my mother’s words echoed in my ears.
“I wish I could die. I could think of a hundred ways…” The words she had written, locked in that dingy room while carrying me in her womb, reminded me to destroy Krishna Kumar, the fiend who ruined our lives.
If he had only taken a moment to check the saree he used to hastily wrap me before abandoning me, he would have found her letters and been free of his nightmares.
The medicines I prescribed will make sure he suffocates every night, the shrinking room he hallucinated about turning into his grave. My heart, that once only held love, now burned with unrestrained fury and folded in on itself, slowly one bit a day, with a promise to collapse, sooner than later.
