Grief: My Sciamachy- OS Collection

3- Alone

ALONE:

Monami drew the curtains back, light filtering in the room. It brightened up her room, and she took a step back, inspecting her lit things. They glinted, and her eyebrows furrowed together.

Why didn't they glint as bright as before? Was it because she wasn't there to smile at them, smile at her? Was it because the happiness of her laugh wasn't echoing in the halls of their house? Did the house miss her too? Did it mourn her too?

Her eyes traced over the lit up things, pausing at the photo frame. Her legs moved. She picked it up, the material like lead in her hands. Of course, it was heavy. It contained the weight of her memories.

She ran her fingers over the glass. She couldn't touch the picture. Just like she couldn't touch her mother ever again. Just like her mother couldn't touch her again. This was all there was now.

Photos. Memories. Things that were special because she had touched them, she had loved them.

Her vision blurred. Her eyes stung. A lump pained her throat. She was crying. She brushed the tears away, moving to the mirror.

She stared at the mirror. Did she look like her? Her nose? Her eyes? Was she her mother's daughter, or was she too much like her father? She wanted to be like her mother. Was she?

She glanced down at her vanity. She picked up a lipstick, opening it and staring at it.

'Monami, bacche, wo drawing ke liye nahi hai', she scolded lightly, picking a 6 year old her up, the lipstick falling from her hands. She reached down, and her mother tickled her, making her giggle. 'Aapke paas crayons hain, na? Go, use them.'
'Mumma, yeh aap ke liye', she said, picking the drawing when she had put her down.
'I love you, Mumma', she read out aloud. She smiled, leaning down and kissing her forehead. 'I love you too, baccha.'

She stared at the mirror, her lips painted red. She closed it, keeping it down. She sat down on the chair, opening the drawer. She paused as a bracelet stared up at her.

'Close your eyes', her mother whispered. A 13 year old Monami excitedly slid them shut. Her hand was lifted, and something cool was set on it. She opened her eyes, staring at the beautiful bracelet. Her eyes widened and she stared at it.
'Wow', she said. She turned it over. 'MERI JAAN' was engraved on a side.
'Happy birthday, baccha', she said, kissing her cheek.

She fastened the bracelet, turning it over and staring at the words again. She brought her wrist up, closer to her mouth, gently kissing it. She didn't kiss her mother's cheek back that time.

She opened the perfume, the sweet, fruity fragrance spreading in her room.

A 9 year old Monami took a deep breath, sniffing the perfume. 'Aap bahut achha smell kar rahe ho', she said, pulling back from the hug. 'Mujhe bhi wo perfume chahiye, Mumma.'
Her mother chuckled, ruffling her hair. She reached over, spraying some on her and she sniffed herself, before sighing happily. Her mother handed her the bottle.
'Ab yeh tumhaara.'
'Aur aap?'
She smiled, ruffling her hair again. 'Rakh lo.'

She sprayed it over herself, closing her eyes. Her hands rubbed her arms, and she hugged herself, pretending it was her mother that was hugging her.

Her arms were hugging her back, her head resting on her chest, and her mother's hand gently rubbed her back, the other on her head. Her heartbeat was steady under her ear, a comforting thumping.

She opened her eyes, staring at herself in the mirror.

There was no one else.

She took a deep breath, standing up. She picked up the wrapped box, walking over the door.

She stared at the doorknob. Smile, she told herself. It was awkward, at first, but a few seconds later, it didn't feel as weird anymore.

She wished she could say the same about the pain.

She pulled the door open, her shoes echoing lightly as she walked down the stairs.

The house was empty.

Where was her father? She frowned. She placed the box on the dinner table, a note catching her eye.

'Important conference hai. I'll be back in two days. -Dad.'

Did disappointment bubble in her chest? She couldn't quite tell past the constricting feeling in her chest. What was that? It wasn't quite as painful as grief, nor quite as heavy as disappointment. Loneliness. Was that it? Emptiness? Perhaps that described the feeling? She never knew a void could be that constricting.

She crumbled up the note, letting the paper roll down her hand to the dustbin. She opened the fridge, bending down, and pulling out the box. She set it down on the dining table, pulling the chair back and sitting down.

Her gaze lifted to the clock. It was 11:59. She watched the seconds tick by, opening it up, and staring at the cake inside when it had struck 12.

She lifted the knife, making a single cut. She closed the box again, standing up and pushing it inside the fridge again. It would taste bland anyway.

She sat down on the chair again, staring at the note.

'To my dearest baccha, Happy 20th Birthday.'

But it was in her handwriting. Of course it was. Martyred people can't write notes for birthday gifts.

She opened it, staring at the cup. 'My beautiful daughter' was printed in big, curly letters and she smiled at it, passing the cup from her left hand to her right. It was her mother giving it to her, she pretended.

She caressed it gently, before setting it down on the dinner table. She rested her chin on her elbow, staring at the words.

Her eyes slid close. She swallowed the lump in her throat but it persisted. It didn't disappear. Quite like her pain. She took a deep breath, a sigh escaping her.

A breeze ruffled her hair slightly, caressing her cheek, and her eyes snapped open. Mumma? Did she just kiss her cheek?

She straightened up, looking around. The hope drained away. She slumped, sighing.

No one was there.

She was alone.

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