𝙂𝙖𝙞𝙨𝙖𝙡

The Road of Concrete

"I'm sorry."
I couldn't help but laugh a bit as I finished the last sentence of my tattered suicide note, which I found hidden within the depths of my bag, crumpled into a ball.

I was just seventeen. It was a time in my life that I chose not to remember much of. I have decided by now that it is better to forget and leave behind that phase. The only sight that does cross my mind once in a while isn't as pleasant and wholesome as you might imagine. The fiery light from the bright raging fire shone upon my mother's face, revealing an unexplainable and ghastly facial expression in the dark, which can be best described as the reaction of a slave held in captivity for all her life when she loses her cursed chains. The slave is free at last, but those crooked metal chains have left such a lasting impression on her once soft skin that she cannot bring herself to move on anymore, to be truly free. These scars would continue to haunt her for the rest of her miserable life. She was free, yet enslaved. A slave cannot imagine persevering through the vast maze that life is without the guidance of her master, for the master's terrorizing yet requisite whips are what had guided her for her entire pathetic existence. She can no longer survive in this inescapable hell, she's an impoverished soul bound within the values of subservience, she has lost her very purpose in her life the moment she lost her master. Not even another bondsman, with whom she shares the lasting impact of the cold and merciless metal chains could comfort her.

She gave in at last, the same horrid look on her face remained consistent till her imminent demise. I almost gave in to the pain as well but I could not do so, for I had a little bit of miniscule hope left in me. That little girl who lived inside of me, who dreamt of aspirations that went far beyond the limits of the sky was slowly disappearing into thin air, she faded away gradually with time. When she finally left without a wordly trace, I had to be completely honest with myself, I was too much of a coward, I was afraid to die. But at the same time, I was absent of any form of significant or meaningful hope that could have provided me with a purpose to continue my wretched existence, hence I was not able to survive satisfactorily and in peace either. Just because I could not dare to cut deeper into my skin, I had to make an attempt. I tried to get a stable and mediocre job, leaving my education aside. However, this period of stability did not last long. My qualifications are not that high, any form of drastic physical labour was out of question due to my physical health, and after all my mental well-being was deteriorating rapidly. I could not seek any type of professional help, not because of monetary issues as you might have thought, but rather my inability to portray my emotions in a proper way such that they could be well assessed by an expert who specialises in this field. I believed that my emotions were my weakness, that they were the reason why I am this miserable, and I could never be comfortable with them. I wanted to get rid of my emotions completely. Adding fuel to the fire, my surroundings aren't really the best, or rather habitable. Environmental and societal factors did have a huge influence on me. My scars have become a topic of casual gossip and degradation among the parasites of society, not of sympathy or solidarity. Soon enough, these scars changed their nature, they saw a change of perpetrators. When I was a little girl, I took a lot of interest in art and craft, although I was not appreciated much for it. Out of all, I mostly liked to carve some designs on hard surfaces with knives and other sharp objects. They told me that it was way too dangerous for a girl like me, but I did not care. If they were forcing my mother to remain bonded with the kitchen knife for all her life, what crime had I done? Soon enough, I left my obsession with art and craft, neither can I cook dishes for myself, hence the leftover knives here in the small room I live in served only one purpose. No one, not even a single soul passing by cares to look at me with a compassionate smile and ask how I am feeling. No one sees me in a positive light, rather no light of any kind shines upon me. They walk past me with complete ignorance, and you don't really recognise this stone cold feeling till you have nobody in the entire world, no shoulder to cry on. I had a lot of goals and aims as a child, my aspirations now at this stage are not to be a world renowned artist or a talented writer who captivated the minds of souls all around the world with poetry that touched the deepest corners of the heart, rather I would choose to disappear into the pitch black void without leaving a trace, I would rather want everyone in this world to forget who I am, who I was, pretend that I never existed in the first place. As I already mentioned beforehand, I am a coward, a huge one, I cannot dare to bring a knife to completely penetrate my body, I can only bring myself to cut through my skin a little, that too in excruciating pain and agony, accompanied by incongruous laughter. Yet, within all of this chaos, there lies a distant and fading voice at the back of my head whispering to me with a voice so angelic and otherworldly that there exists a flower, so pure, so beautiful, growing in the middle of a wretched concrete street with all difficulties as one can imagine, and that she would sacrifice all her gracious petals, all her products of endless perseverance, if it meant that I would finally get to experience the bright and heavenly side of life and wander freely in the limitless shining green grass that covers each and every portion of the world's most beautiful garden without a care in the world, growing upon the once existing road of dull and grey concrete. Tears and silent screams came out at once as I dreamt about this otherworldly flower, without caring for the few drops of blood that slowly covered a section of the dirty white bedsheet.