WHEN VOICES DIE

I slowly opened my eyes and peered into my room. Empty, just like I had left it before stepping into the all-too-welcome reverie. I couldn't believe that nobody had come to check me on me yet, when my watch told me it was half past seven, and yet a part of me knew that they probably didn't care. After all, it had been years, one would think I should be used to it by now. But then again, how could I even bring myself to believe something so blunt and downright preposterous?

I slowly trudged off my bed to turn on the light. It was dark, way too dark, just like my life had been, from the past eight years. There were happier times when dad was still around. He had pampered me, loved and cared for me in my eleven years of life, more than my mom could ever do. As the heart wrenching thought collided with my already depressed brain, registering only dull agony, a stray tear betrayed all the strongholds of my eyes and slipped down my face. They said guys didn't cry? Maybe they didn't as often as girls did, but they definitely did when they were broken beyond repair. Stifling a slow sob in my chest, I got up and turned on the light, the shouts of last night row still throbbing in my ears.

As I looked around I realized with a pang, how devoid my room appeared of the feminine touch. My room was dirty and obviously, nobody has been in for a while to clear up the mess. It was like my mother had disowned me or something. The thought burned in my head as I sat down back on my bed. Did they really hate me that much? It had been just nineteen years of my existence and I already felt dead. I glanced at HER picture on my bed, the one I had been hugging to my heart earlier, just how desolate my life had become without her, the only flower to my barren garden was long gone and the past few months have been torturously long and never ending. Pain, as I realized, was something we couldn't control. But somebody had once told me that suffering was a choice. Either fear killed you if you let it make you grieve or it made you stronger. Well, in my case, it was pretty obviously killing me. Slowly, torturing me to death, and then sparing me with an inch of life, just so that I could savor the taste of agony. Somehow, all this stinging ache made death look tame. I wished it would just come and consume me. Anything to escape this distress. As a few more tears flowed down my cheeks, I couldn't help but wonder what I had ever done to have deserved this.

I had a pretty normal childhood, if that is what you're wondering. More than okay. I am the oldest child, Haiden with a few years younger sister, Ezra and an even younger brother, Alan. Twelve years back, everything was running perfectly fine. Dad adored us children, me most of them all. Not to brag or anything, but yes he did. I never learnt why. Maybe it was because I was the oldest or whatever. Anyhow. Alan was really young back then. Just barely a baby. We lived in a cute little house away from the mad rush of city life, in a considerably peaceful neighborhood. Ezra and I went to school together, fought on silly little things, made up and fought again. The typical sibling relationship. Mom catered to our needs and took care of all of us. We might have been one of those model families in the Life Today, magazines. Everything was as perfect as it could ever be.

Then came the first shock. Unnerving and horrifyingly intimidating. Dad, as I came to realize years later, which back then was just a 'disease' I learnt, had been suffering from Hepatitis C for a while now. Unfortunately, it was diagnosed way too late and even though we did everything we could to save him, dad was just like that .... Gone. I still remember the funeral day when everybody collected at my place. Too young to understand what was going on, I just supposed it was a get-together and waited for days for dad to come back. Waited for days and days. It was only a few weeks later that mom told me that he had gone to a place where nobody ever came back from. The first stage of grief registered strong. Denial. This couldn't be happening. No. It couldn't be. Dad was just with me, a month ago! We went on a picnic for god's sake! Tears and emptiness filled me. But well, reality is what when you stop believing, doesn't go away. So things went on. Without dad. Desperately slow and excruciatingly raw.