KARMA

2,574 Days. . .

Chapter 4 - 2,574 days

2,574 days. . .

Does consciousness move on after death? Is it simply a product of the brain or the brain itself is a receiver of consciousness?

If consciousness is not a product of the brain, it would mean that our physical bodies are not necessary for its continuation; that awareness can exist outside our bodies.

Questions, she still has a legion of them swarming in the swell of her mind. The frontal lobe, she thinks, she's not very sure. That's Derek's department, he's the brain connoisseur and she actually never really excelled at neuroanatomy. Besides her brain's not too refreshed on medicine these days and she has a good explanation for it but she's still very much lucid and perhaps sane as well - to a certain degree...for now that is.

She's not too sure how she's been doing it, really. She hasn't got the slightest clue because at the beginning, she was so certain that she was going to drive herself to insanity. It's the same mundane cycle over and over and over again.

Sleep. Survive. And pray that he doesn't come back.

Or.

Sleep. Survive. And when he does come back, pray he doesn't decide to beat the shit out of her.

But then she realised there was no point in psyching herself out because either way, he is going to come back and she is never to come out. Because he might not be back today or tomorrow but she certainly will stay here today, tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and for all the days to come.

She used to do the most in trying to escape - the first year only.

Scratching and clawing at the wooden floorings - yes, the concrete floor used to be wood before he 'renovated' this fucking dump - until almost all of her nails ripped off. Literally. Her perfectly manicured nails are now ancient history. She hates her hands, her fingers, her nails; they're calloused, bony and blunt. Ugly. She hates looking at them.

She avoids every chance she's got. She's embarrassed.

Moving the table around so she could stand on it and fist at the skylight above with her bare hands and of course, the glass is shatterproof glass. And her efforts are almost laughable now because it was as if she thought she had the upper body strength to lift her five feet eight inches long self through that opening. Her long arms are of no use in carrying her weight.

Yea. She'd like to ask someone - anyone for that matter - whether society will be ready to accept a misfit, an outcast like her, like them, or if she will be zealous and resilient enough for the world that's probably awaiting her because it has already been seven long years and that's a very long time to be be out of touch with humanity.

It's basic human needs - to belong, to communicate, to be apart of a community, to feel loved by others. It's Maslow's hierarchy of needs. And heaven knows none of the five basic dimensions in that damn pyramid are fulfilled.

Physiological needs are subpar.

Safety needs are nonexistent here.

She's always anxious. She bet her adrenal glands are self-destructing.

And the rest doesn't need to be heard as the two bare minimum aren't even fulfilled yet.

Never, most likely.

She was safe with Derek, actually. Then she wasn't too convinced that he'd be her knight in shining armour anymore. If she were to be chased by a rabid dog, he'd still be glued to his precious BlackBerry. She was convinced. Maybe a few years prior, she could've believed that he'd sweep her off her feet and save her. Maybe. It was his dreamy and blazing endeavour that caught her attention. Sweet, charismatic and quiet. Almost as if he was too shy to be at her presence and she loved that.