Rejection

“Is this seat taken?” the voice asked. He looked up reluctantly from his drink. The woman leaning on the counter beside him smiled as enticingly as she could.

His bored gaze took in every inch of her appearance – from the leopard print dress of which she was obviously so fond to the fine lines that crinkled the heavy mask of foundation. Her red lipstick, meant to attract, only served to further put him off.

He scoffed at her and turned back to his whiskey.  

Rock bottom

I woke up. Even though I had only just opened my eyes, I felt as if I had spent the entire night awake. My pillow had dried – it felt rough, stiff – but I didn’t want to leave just yet. I stared back at the ceiling instead, trying to make sense of its finely drawn cracks and its waterlogged edges. I watched, hoping to seal the image forever in my mind. Maybe, one day, I would be able to put it to use. The bed creaked as I attempted to move but the lethargy was so much stronger. It held me back and I felt no respite from its iron-like grip. Like a clingy lover, begging me to stay for just another hour. And I had no choice but to give in to its toxic demands. It sucked away my will, a tiny sliver at a time until I had nothing left for myself. My body was a hollow shell and I was a spectator. I watched myself from above – and I felt nothing. I had lost my soul.

Apocalypse

The post-apocalyptic future had arrived. Everyone agreed that it was a foreseeable mistake now that it had come to be. "How could we have let this go so far? Is there no way to end this?" television anchors had asked as they flailed their hands, their well-tailored suits wrinkling in their enthusiasm. Yet here it was – day after day, petrol pumps pulled down their shutters as they announced that the wells had dried up. The arid heat that had become characteristic of the last few months of the year beat down upon abandoned cars and broken traffic signals. Television was now a thing of the past. We were swiftly moving toward the age of the desert where water was a precious commodity – frequently smuggled, hoarded and hidden.

The city had given up. Following the riots of 2104, a curfew had been imposed and people were allowed out only for a few hours in the evening, when it would still be a stretch to call the weather pleasant. The arid heat would give way to an uncomfortable windy evening, quickly followed by a chilly blackness that most avoided. Night time was the worst – it brought dry, icy winds that would freeze one to the bone and deliver frostbite in minutes. On other days, it would also bring hail, snow and blizzards.

Families would huddle inside their houses, their old insulated walls crumbling as the winds tore at the dilapidated buildings. It seemed to take on a life of its own, gnashing its teeth and gleefully uprooting iron poles that could no longer hold on to their concrete homes. Every night left a larger mess in its wake – a mess that no one was willing to take on anymore.

With the lack of a proper government, the city had been taken over by smugglers who take great pride in bottle-necking the supply of necessities, whenever it pleased them. Money had lost almost all of its prior importance and the barter system had taken its place, giving ultimate power to those with water, food and medicine. With only a handful of the city’s population alive, most lived a miserable existence – catering to the needs of the smugglers to gain a morsel of what was hoarded in well-guarded buildings.

The city stood in silence – the ruins of a concrete dream against the dull grey sky.  All hope had been lost in the face of evil that only humanity was capable of inflicting. 

Workaholic

It had been an incredibly ordinary day. A day so mundane that, within a week, it would not leave even the slight imprint of a long forgotten memory. As her computer whirred smoothly to a stop, she packed her empty lunch box and the files that she would work on through the night. People found it strange that a worker as devoted as her would shy away from buying a laptop – a compact case of all the information she would ever need. However, being a technophobe, she detested the impersonal click that relegated a folder to nothingness. She would stick to paper files till the day she retired.

It was 8:30 p.m. The workspace wore an abandoned look with a single spotlight directed on her cubicle. The janitor waited patiently, his broom propped up against the wall. As she strutted out the door, he smiled at her but she didn’t notice. There was only one thing on her mind – she needed to get home and get to work.

As far as Indian nights go, it was a beautiful night. Pleasant and not too hot – it was the kind of night that would inspire someone to take a long stroll or to picnic on the terrace with a glass of wine and a comfortable shoulder to keep one company. Yet through the darkened windows of her car, she noticed nothing but the road. Despite the consistently crazy traffic, she kept her phone close – ready to take a call at a moment’s notice. “She’s my best worker!” her boss would proudly tell his superiors, “I can count on her to do something at any time – even at 2 a.m., she can recall the stats of our current customers!” People would nod and look at her appreciatively. She was an indispensable cog in this well-oiled machine. Pride would fill her heart when she delivered something on an impossible deadline and she took great joy in saying, “That’s not a problem at all. I can get it done.”

Her hard work had paid off. Financially, she was the most stable 28-year old in her family, with a posh apartment in one of the more highly coveted residential locales in the city. She would wake up to the beautifully scenic ocean and her daily commute was an absolute joy. Her car would glide silently past restaurants and cafes, brimming with people. As the traffic inevitably slowed to a grinding halt, she would turn her attention to these spots; families enjoying a quiet dinner, couples whose hands were firmly entwined and friends who couldn’t stop giggling at the most trivial jokes. For the tiniest moment, she would feel a pang of guilt and her mind was overwhelmed with thoughts of unreturned calls and overdue visits. It was a sharp one that lingered for an unbearable few seconds.

The car behind her honked and she opened her eyes. The traffic had begun moving. She shifted into gear and her thoughts turned once more to the files in her bag. It was going to be a long night but she had work. And it had to be done.      

She awoke from a nightmare

Of shackles and prisons

Of being locked away without the chance to gaze upon

The refreshing blue of the morning sky.

The blackness of the cell

Unnatural

So unlike the freeing darkness of the night.

To hear nothing,

Not the sound of the birds

Nor the winds rushing past.

She awoke

With a sigh of relief.

As she began her day,

She told herself that she was lucky

Not to be imprisoned,

To have her freedom stolen.

Trying to lift her spirits,

She walked out with stooped shoulders

To a day she wished had ended already.

Not knowing

Not understanding

That not every prison has walls.

The Scarab

She wiped away the beads of sweat with her one free hand

The other holding on to the dredges of her past

Unwilling to let go yet it made the struggle uphill worse

Her past seemed to grow heavier with each step

With every memory trying to drag her down

Back into the abyss.

She envied the people around her as they flitted by

Their own baggage nowhere in sight

While every now and then, she spotted another kindred soul

And looking into their harried faces, she did not empathise

But felt only one thing

Disgust.

She watched the same scene unfolding in front of her

Others walked on, leaving pieces of their private wreckage behind

Their silhouettes disappearing into the horizon

She sighed, as she trudged on grimly,

Sidestepping potholes that would free her

From her arduous journey.

Hope

She opened her eyes to the little padded cell that had been her home for the past three years. A sudden wave of nausea swept through her and passed. She recalled the days when it wouldn't go. The first few days when all she could dream of was getting out of there. A distant dream… As the months dragged on, she realized that no one was coming to take her home. She was forgotten – an imperfect part that was hidden behind white walls, in shame of its ugliness.

She had lost all concept of time. The only time she got to see a clock was when she was reading in the library during the recreation hour. She only observed the day’s passing through her activities. Wake up, use the bathroom for 20 minutes, breakfast, group therapy, lunch, recreation, tea, more therapy, dinner and finally the slow march back to their cells. Their little padded prisons.

Today felt oddly different. She felt that she could walk to the door, push it open and leave. She turned her head sluggishly towards the door, looking for some sign that she could be right. It betrayed nothing. The worst thing about being imprisoned is that despite everything that happens, there is a tiny flicker of hope. All it does is open your mind to more blows and beatings and then open it a little more. It was this flicker that made her pull herself up and drag her body to the door. Her weak hands reached out to the handle and she tugged cautiously. Waiting for the click.

The door did not move.