Ruth: Reimagined

Death

🍁🍁🍁
Death
🍁🍁🍁

Things quickly went from bad to worse, to irredeemable deplorable. The suffering grew vines, its thorns pricking all of them, and drawing blood. That way, all of them could feel it.

The suffering shut them in a tight space, suffocating. That way, everyone was drowning. The suffering grew in depth, in height, it covered every surface, everything that could be shaken, was shaken— and it became hard to remember that there was once a time when they were happy.

The suffering grew.

Chillion had thought that nothing would cut like the death of his father. Yet somehow, someway, he found something that cut deeper. With Elimelek, before his death, they had never known he was going to die. It is true that all the people upon the earth will one day die, but the question is always—How soon?

Elimilek’s death was one deep cut that had changed their lives forever.

Yet, with Mahlon, it was different. He was dying. The different healers they would bring in over the weeks would tell them the same thing. He was deteriorating instead of getting better. Day by day, Chillion was losing his brother. A slow, painful death that took a toll on everyone's health, not just Mahlon.

He would weep, at the sound of his mother's desperate prayers to Yahweh, praying his own, as well, but it was hard, past the blur, the pain, the anger.

As the only working man in the house, the burdens fell heavier on his shoulders, the pressures built by the second— every night, as Oprah would massage his shoulders, and back, she'd comment on how stiff they were.

It was harder to concentrate at work. He'd get aches, in his muscles and bones, from the way he exerted himself. He went through a series of panic attacks– to which Orpah  was the witness of two of them.

At times, a lightheaded feeling would fall over him. For a split-second, it would go black. He'd stumble, after that, catching his breath.

At night, he'd tremble in the blankets. Orpah would hold him in an embrace, singing tender lullabies to him, and he found that her voice was lovely.

For Orpah, when she looked back, the regret washed over her in powerful waves, throwing her off her feet.

She was supposed to see it. How had she not seen it! All  of his suffering, Naomi, Ruth, and Orpah had pegged it as deep distress over his brother's state. They had never imagined, not even for a second, that he, too, was suffering from the fatal fever.

Orpah was the one to witness it. It was in the middle of the night, the only time, when Chillion would bear his soul, not hiding behind the safety of humour— to Yahweh, to her.

In the midst of his tears, and his weeping slurred words, as he paced the room to and fro. She pleaded with him, to sit, to lay down, and breathe. Yet, he would not, and he poured all of his soul until he blacked out. The last thing he heard before hitting the ground was Oprah's ear- splitting scream.

~🍁~

Mahlon came back from a wash by the river with Ruth. They stepped back into their room, a comfortable silence between them.

As he settled down on the bed, running his fingers, through his damp hair, he sighed, feeling sort of alive.

"I think I'm starting to get better." Mahlon shared.

Ruth was busy, sorting through the salves she had to rub on his aching muscles and the herbs she had to grind.

He watched her closely. Her movements were frantic, and her eyes, there was  something different. In the river, as Mahlon splashed the water on Ruth's body, feeling slightly playful, she didn’t go along with his mood, her smile remained strained, imagined.