Heal the Heart

9.

Saturday and Sunday, I spent in a state of limbo. I went for my shift, worked like an un-oiled robot trying to perform tasks well beyond the limits of my code, and returned to my room, not at all looking forward to the next day of the same pathetic routine.

Sunday evening, I set out with the aim of buying groceries for Deep and Krishna. A once in a while thank you to them for feeding and housing me on occasion. Then, I saw vodka on the shelf and treated myself to a night of haze-filled oblivion preceding a total blackout.

Next day, I skipped classes and thanked the stars I was born under that I had Mondays off. When I woke up well after noon—well after three pm, actually—spots danced in front of my eyes. I waited for the knocking in my head to go away. After an hour of drifting in and out of consciousness, I stood up and with wobbly steps hauled my weighed down self to the restroom, got to my knees, and forced my stomach to let go. The knocking didn't leave even when I sat on the floor and nibbled on crackers to get the bitter taste out of my mouth.

A quarter was still left in the second bottle on my nightstand. I chugged down the remaining and passed out after screaming into my pillow for what felt like hours, crying so much I thought I had wept out the blood in my heart and that stupid organ could finally take a break from making my life so miserable.

Tuesday, I was startled awake by an unbearable ache in my chest. Enough that I panicked and wondered whether I was having a heart attack. I didn't take my meds for two days, and this was the effect? When did I become so weak?

Shithead, it's the alcohol in your system.

I reached for the watch on my wrist. Dead. Probably was for the entire weekend. I turned to my side and brought my knees to my chest, willing for my heartbeat to return to a normal level. My head still pounded like a beast, and even blinking took away precious energy. The long days of silence and stillness and listening to the echoes of all my failures were catching up to me. I had thought the vicious, all-consuming ache would ease, but the more I thought it, the more it metastasised, turning me inside out until there wasn't any corner to act like a safe-haven.

I sent a poorly worded email to all my professors, attaching a fake doctor's report for added measure. There might not have been a need for the latter; my condition was already present in big bold letters in my file as an added precautionary and also a way to bar me from any and all sports.

The pain of losing Arya had made me violently, wrenchingly sick, but with time I knew I could overcome it. The pain of never being able to play cricket? That was an open wound in my chest, pulsing out waves of anguish and shame and regret.

I should've gone alone that day. No one would ever have found out.

I dragged myself to Krishna and Deep's place, with the bag of groceries that had reduced in weight. I had to throw out the milk, cheese, and bread. Turned out perishable items perish faster than light.

Bad idea.

Worst idea possible.

Commentary floated from the living room, muffled screams of the audience demanding a boundary, a booming sound from Krishna yelling Shot! Of all days, why today? I had half a mind of turning and going right back to where I came from.

Had my breathing not gone so haywire, I would've done exactly that, but I needed to sit down, drink some water and catch a hold of my goddamn breath. So, I entered.

Deep immediately twisted his neck to look at me from over the couch. "Hey, man! We thought you died? All good?"

I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, and to hide any signs of tears sprouting. "Yeah. I—I caught a mild case of the flu. Legit knocked me out for the weekend." That could explain away my hoarse throat, red eyes and puffy face.