𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐘

Chapter-15

••••

I don't trust them.

There is a gaping hole in my memory and yet it scorches me from within. I lack something. Something I need to withhold because time is not at par.

•

I don't trust them.

I keep forgetting the things I feel. It's like a kite in my hands, within my palm and out of my reach. There is darkness everywhere and I can't see beyond. A white bed that I'm sitting on without any indication of how I reached. Why am I here and not at my home? Is this my home? Since when have I been here? My gut screams this was not where I was neither brought to or do I belong here. This shift in my surroundings is surreal and serene. Clean. Somehow I remember being in filth.

Two small girls came a few hours back to change the sheets. In the far corner is a steaming pot of water and food. It smells delicious. Too delicious, it makes me wary. On the left side corner is a small chamber. So small no more than two people can fit inside. Bath and other necessities are provided for.

But they won't let me see the sun. They won't let me feel the moon. I need help. Need allies, need— need— I need what I lack.

•••

I don't trust them.

Someone keeps leaving a blank paper and a charcoal pencil inside my chambers. On days I find them hidden beneath my bed, on others I find them stuck at the outer side of the bowls they bring in. I try not to eat, I do. There is something in the food. I keep forgetting the days as they pass by.

My eyes are always on the verge of tears, my heart in pain and there is a strange heaviness in my shoulders. I'm covered in white bandages from arms to toe. Moving is a death wish, but there is an urgency blooming inside.

I cannot remember anything.

••••

I don't trust them.

Have been my start note for as long as I remember . I do have the fortune in the first place because of the notes I hide beneath the bed stand. I've learnt to move the heavy thing without causing much noise. Sometimes I eat them. When my words flow too well, I eat the paper in fear of anyone else getting a hold of them.

Doting my notes is the only way I remember the time. Single means dusk, double means noon, triple for dawn, four for night. Now that I've lessened my food intake, my senses are more alert. I throw the rest through the drain. Fathom not these men who are so keen to drug me will definitely throw a fit if they don't see a clean plate.

This newfound alterness is what helps me know that it is not the strong wind that opens the single window at the far corner. It's the paper keeper.

I tried looking for them when I first felt it. There was no paper or pencil that day. Again, I kept my eyes open and body still waiting for them to approach.

Who were they and what were their intentions?

Clueless I lay still. And yet they entered and vanished. That day again, there was no paper.

Since then I've stopped being sneaky. This is the only piece of sanity I can gatekeep and I'm betting my life on it.

••••

I don't trust them.

When will I remember everything?

Something is calling for me, and I can't for the sake of the Suns recall why am I so torn from inside.

Who am I?