by Nikitha Phyllis
THEN
“There is a void within me. A black hole of nothingness. Tendrils of darkness swirl around; its slender threads a sleek black, squeezing out every happy thought and emotion.
Zombie-like and hollow I wander, not knowing what I seek or where I go.”
When I showed him the latest entry in my diary, he sighed and diagnosed me with depression.
I chucked the pills in the bin when I reached home. I wasn’t depressed. I woke up one day and found I couldn’t write anymore. The words just refused to flow. I felt like a dried-up old well. Uninspired. Dead.
NOW
Numb. That’s how I feel these days.
All morning I’ve been lying in bed, staring at the snail-like pace of the ceiling fan. Sunlight streams in through the window; I can feel it scorching my skin, yet I do not get up to draw the curtains. I shift my attention to the dust motes in the light. I wave my hand, disturbing the pattern and watch them go into a frenzied dance before they settle back.
I fall into a dreamless slumber. When I wake, I find I’m drenched in sweat. The fan has stopped. I sigh, turn over, and drift back to sleep.
When I wake next, the room is aflame with the colour of the setting sun. Any other day, I would’ve been moved to write. Not anymore. I continue to lie listlessly, ignoring the rumble of my stomach.
Crumpled balls of paper litter the floor, evidence of my recent failed attempts…
It gets dark outside. I drag myself out of bed and lean out the window. The gulmohar tree stands like a silent sentinel at the end of the road. A car honks somewhere in the distance. A lone streetlight comes on outside, illuminating a small patch of the pavement. I take it all in distractedly, not particularly noticing anything, staring out into nothingness.
Then I saw it — a pale red shaft of light that appeared out of nowhere in the centre of the street. Curious, I go downstairs to take a closer look and step out into the street barefoot. The light moves a few paces and hovers, as if waiting for me to follow. I run, engulfed by a childlike thrill in wanting to catch the light.
It’s faster than me. Soon enough, I’m out of breath and clutching a stitch in my side. Yet I keep going, fearful that if I stop to rest I would lose sight of it.
The ground beneath my feet turns rocky and I find myself scrambling up a steep cliff. The light stops at the very edge and shines steadily like a beacon. My legs are raw and bleeding by the time I get there.
But the light has vanished.
I decide to cautiously peer down the cliffside and nearly fall off with surprise. Instead of a sheer drop, I find a whirlpool of furiously swirling coils of inky-black smoke.
I stare hard for a few minutes and that’s when I see them. Decapitated limbs floating in the smoke, reaching out to me. I could almost hear the silent pleas of the people those limbs belonged to. Horrified, I begin to crawl backwards. But someone shoves me from behind and I fall headlong into the whirlpool. I spot a figure at the edge before the limbs grab me. It was the spitting image of me, standing there, watching, as I sank lower and lower into the inky mass.
That was my last thought before darkness took over.
AFTER
I hear a loud scream, and my eyes fly open. It takes me two seconds to realize that the scream came from my mouth. Then I remember and look around wildly for limbs and smoke and the figure that turned out to be me. All my eyes encounter is my own room.
Was it just a dream then?
Relief spreads through my body, replacing panic.
My mind is in a whirl. I think about what I saw in my seemingly irrational nightmare and yet…Was it my mind’s way of telling me to snap out of my deathly stupor?
A gentle breeze wafts through the open window and I take in a lungful of fresh air. On an impulse, I go over to my desk, open my notebook and begin to write. I feel a sense of release rushing through me, as I fill page after page.
Seems like my dog days are finally over.
Nikitha Phyllis is studying at the Asian College of Journalism, Chennai. She is a twenty-year-old bookworm, music lover and movie buff (ranging from foreign movies to animated ones). A writer, though with periodic bouts of writer’s block. She dreams of being a travel journalist someday.
