Broken

creativity, story

” She laughed a wry laugh at the thought in her head. ‘If only i could die’. Certain stories did that to her. They reflected the pain that she felt, the stabbing fears, the raw, painful ache in her heart. It was so close to her story. No, she mused, it was her story. ‘If only i could die’. How many times was she going to wish for that? It was futile. because nothing of that sort was going to happen. Not even close. she’d be lucky if she got a scratch on her finger.

Certain stories…. she wondered why it had to be this way? Stories were after all simply that. Stories. Why should they affect her in a way so deep, that no human had ever affected. But then doesn’t every person have a story? What was the difference between this and that?Β  Fact and fiction.. who could determine it anyway. That thin line was always blurred in her case.

This particular one.. would remain etched in her memory for ever. She was reliving her pain through every sentence she read. It was always a wonder to her, as to how she could become so attached to a fictional character than a real person. She felt their pain, it tore her heart apart. She could feel their grief in her very bones. She had been through it. She had been through the worst. People said time heals, yes, just like in the book Time doesn’t heal. Not in all cases. Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging pulls. But pass it does. Even for her.

She couldn’t leave the story in half. Her eyes moved over the lines, frantic. Her body stiff and tensed. Her mouth set in a grim line, accepting her fate which was making her go through it all over again, as she read the book. She din’t know how long she sat that way. Eyes feverently hoping for the kind of end that wouldn’t be possible. For the kind of twist in the story that would make it different from the one fate had dealt her with in real life.

Her body ached. There was an empty pit in her stomach and a hole in her chest. Like someone had punched right through. The more wrapped up she was in the story, the more she unwillingly remembered her own. The hole in her just grew bigger and emptier. She wrapped her arms tight around herself unconsciously and let the book slip from her hands. She felt like her insides were knotted . Her body again painfully tensed, why did she keep doing this to herself? Wasn’t it enough that she went through it once.

Once in a lifetime seemed sufficient. Yet there was an inexplicable force that drew her towards the story. It troubled her already fragile heart, but, she decided there was no way that a broken heart, a broken soul could break again. She was damaged, beyond repair. She gave in to the feeling. She fed on it. It kept her alive in a strange way. Even though she was continuously wishing for death. Yes death would be nothing, insignificant really, compared to what she was putting herself through.

She grew weary. Enough for today. She was going to have trouble sleeping tonight. Trouble with the dreams. Those dreadful dreams. The book lay by her side, neglected for once. She was too absorbed in her own thoughts, her own complex web of emotions. She curled into a tight ball and waited for the pain to wash over her. Her eyes stared into the darkness. Her face still like a statue carved from stone. And then it came. Pain, grief, sadness so powerful. She curled up on the bed, prepared for another night as tears poured down her cheeks silently.”

p.s – Dedicated to all those for whom books = life πŸ™‚

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10 thoughts on “Broken

  1. @upasana-
    yes.. its true most times..

    @amuktha-
    thanks! its something that i wrote πŸ™‚
    its completely fiction… not anyone's story..

    @ria-
    same answer! πŸ™‚

    Like

  2. Lovely post. I can't imagine life without books and you're right, some of them do affect you very powerly. I will always remember the last sentence from a short story by Salman Rushdie about a man whose wife cheats on him with his mentally ill best friend. Her last callous line has haunted me ever since I first read it.
    xox,
    Cee

    Like

  3. Thrillers have this effect on me, the stories that don't span over a day, or a night. They have to be completed in the same time span, or it would be injustice.
    We sort of, feel every emotion that the author makes his characters to feel.

    Nice read.

    Cheers,
    Blasphemous Aesthete

    Like

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