I don't belong and my beloved neither do you These Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry I'm setting off, but not without my muse....”
While we're making breakfast together, the sound of your singing this Taylor Swift song fills the kitchen. This music inspires my soul in some way. Although beautiful, it has a melancholy tone. After we finish eating, he leaves for work. I tidy up after him. Every day when you get home, you buy me flowers. I'm ecstatic beyond words. Always. We open a bottle of wine, put on a HarryPotter movie, and then sit down to dinner. Together, we clean up, after which we cuddle to fall asleep. And that is how our lives are. We eat, daydream, and fall asleep in each other's arms with no worries in the world. I write about you in my free time. When I write to you, there are occasions when I feel a calming sense of bliss as if we're living in our happily ever after world. I eventually wake up. I am a living human, and my human needs awaken me. I leave right away my place and knock on your door when I get there. I bang it as loudly as I can till you answer. But you never respond. Then slowly it dawns on me. You threw me out of the home. I return to my house. Sit on the floor of my bathroom. The world is, in my opinion, coming to an end. The piercing agony in my chest, the persistent urge to vomit, the feeling of lightness leaving my eyes, and the pervasive sense of being terrified of everything. I drag myself out of bed, eat a few morsels of food to keep my body alive, and then cry myself to sleep. And when I sleep, I do so for hours at a time, which helps me forget, so I ultimately wake up again in an other universe where we are together. I again rap on your door. You don't reply toit once again. I return to my spot and sit by myself in the pain. I just eat enough to get by. Myevenings are spent crying and pining for you, and my afternoons are consumed with wrath.My daily routine consists of doing this. Days turn into months, which turn into years. How long,only God knows. Up until the day when it doesn't. When I knock on your door in the morning,you don't respond. Everything is returning to me. I return to my house. When I open my mouth, nothing comes out. I try to scream and cry out, but my body won't let out any sounds. I don't experience the hurt, rage, or anguish. All of everything is gone, and the only thing that remains is a dreading sense of calm. Since I used to cry so much, I don't know what to do with myself anymore. Although I try, I can't fall asleep. When I eat, I finally start to feel something. Hunger. Hence, I keep eating because I am so ravenous that it feels like I haven't eaten anything since birth. Because I'm unable to sleep any longer, I toss and turn in bed. As a result of not sleeping, I never longer dream and I never forget. Like a large lump in my throat, it's always there. Because I am sure you won't answer, I no longer come to knock on your door. I therefore refuse to go out to sit at home and eat and eat and eat. As big as the actual universe, so the saying goes, is the universe that resides inside of you. But in my cosmos, all of the stars have died. Theories have been carved about how the universe would end, possibly in ice, fire, or a major conflict. Mine, though, ended in the dark. such like a candle's flame. Before ultimately going out, it shone incredibly brightly. I can't just feed my monster appetite anymore. I gave in to every humanly possible pleasure in an effort to fill the enormous hole inside of me. I overindulged in alcohol, smoked till my lungs collapsed, and sought solace in the arms of any man who would put me to sleep. For a while, it helped me forget about the void, and everything felt wonderful.
Up until the day I caught a glimpse of you from across the street as you entered a store with a woman and a young daughter. Then you allow yourself in after first opening the door for the woman. It reminded me of one of those occasions when you opened the door to your house when I had knocked, responded, and asked me to go to hell while sporting an agitated expression. Because I loved you so much, I left. I hoped that by doing so, you would find me pleasing and would once more refer to me as "my beloved," as you usually did when you were happy with me.
My throat suddenly felt clogged. I desperately wanted to scream, wail, and cry at you, but
nothing came out. I had the sensation that my body was a prison. I immediately felt worthless
with all of these organs that had no way of contacting you. I abhorred who I was. And in that
moment, when you walked in the store without so much as a little glance, I felt like a ghost. You didn't wave or come across the street to even say a “hello” because you couldn't see me. It was all my fault. Like always, it was all my fault.
For all these years, the emptiness I experienced was nothing more than a purgatory where my
spirit was imprisoned. My body served as a jail. I immediately felt the impulse to set free.
Because I was one of those ghosts who didn't realise she was gone, I was imprisoned in this
purgatory. However, I am aware now. Because you asked me to, I am aware that I am dead and headed to hell. Maybe that's where I belong.
But I have a wicked thought. This idea of receiving my delicious vengeance by plaguing you,
driving you crazy, and putting you through such agony that death seems like the easy,
preferable option. But I wait patiently and let that thought go. I can never be that person,
whether I'm living or dead.
It's just been a little while. On the road, I am strewn out. I have a puddle of red liquid all around
me. What is that? All of these people are staring at me; who are they? Why is it turning so dark
in the middle of this sunny afternoon?
"She was standing in the middle of the road like a nutcase when she was driven over by a car,"
said somebody. That makes me grin as I hear it.
Pain has vanished from my body. I think I felt my leg twitch a little. I believe that I'm falling
asleep. I'm glad my dreams won't be disturbed any longer and that I won't wake up ever again.
Perhaps the endless dream has begun as I can see your hazy form running in my direction, and
all I can hear is the echo of your voice singing,
“I don't belong and my beloved neither do you
These Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry
I'm setting off, but not without my muse......”
Sakshi Kulkarni
Guidelines for the competition : https://www.fanatixxpublication.com/write-o-mania-2023
