I’m here for you; to rescue you!
(For zadudet1’s contest – second round)
I don’t think I’m conscious of my being. Just like all of us feel our breath – unconscious, yet giving in to it spontaneously. All I feel is the night breeze – or whatever it is to be called, for I don’t know its name – graze my countenance softly. Though I’m walking for a very long time, I don’t feel my legs. I don’t know how much distance had I covered with my bare foot. My entire journey is filled with reflections; reflections of my life, of my cursed living, of my suicidal inclinations. I tried to think positive all this time, but it appears to me that it is possible only theoretically; never practical.
Positive thinking is a virtue that my teacher Mr. Mores had taught us; us – the bunch of eleventh grade students. He always said that whenever we feel like getting doomed, getting our spirits singe, we must sit calm, close our eyes, think about all the good times we would have experienced, and deceive our brain saying that “I’m happy or I’m peaceful or something of that sort.” He also advised another method to forget our worries. That is, to imagine in our mind’s eye LCD screen; running in that is the thing that disturbs our mind; what we do now is plant a dynamite at both of its sides and blast it off to pieces; then replace it with a fresh LCD that plays pictures of happiness, of sheer joy, of peace etc. All of this is to be done in imagination.
Well, I don’t blame Mr. Mores, but I take up the blame. I tried the latter method but I just can’t get the full visualization. Either my mind wanders at those thoughts or my eyes start to pour out tears. I just can’t help it. Nothing works. All are theoretical; and they (my teacher and the alike) will keep on preaching the same until and unless they experience such a stinking situation, such desperations.
Where am I standing now? I pause my trek to spread a panoramic view; I realise that I’d come about three miles from my home.
“My home?” I consider my thoughts; “Not anymore.” My rational mind slaps my thoughts. I find that I’m standing here, in the boundary of the town where I live. Standing opposite to me is our great church. I don’t know what am I doing but I feel my feet dragging my whole weight towards the church doors unconsciously. My eyes find that the church doors are open by a slight degree. Even being in such a quagmire, my mind managed to pour a portion of its load to wonder why the church is open; open in this peak hour.
I shift my vision towards the sky to confirm the presence of the giant white plate; I find only third-quarter of the plate present in the space. I make no effort to open the door wide; instead I slide through the slit. Our church is built in a way that the congregation hall is present at a distance of at least two hundred metres from the doorway. The distance is filled by a narrow but long walkway – I prefer calling it the hallway – that connects the door and Jesus. The benches were arranged neatly in two columns, in between which is the aisle for the father, and I never really bothered to count the number of rows. My mom used to take me here very often in her car.
Here I stand at a random point in the hallway; the randomness measured reveals that I’m comparatively closer to door than to the confession chamber. I observe the place where I stand. It can be best expressed as “a grand hallway.” In my view, it appeared like a tunnel. One side is lined up uniformly with pillars and the other side consists of a series of huge windows – huge enough that it can even eat me in a gulp. Above each window is a big circular vent. The integration of street lights and moonlight sneaks through all these holes and illuminates the place. Here I stand. Here I stand glued to one of the pillar. I can feel my tears slither over my countenance. Just like the tears I too slide in constant motion maintaining my carnal contact with those huge vertical columns.
I see in my mind’s eye everything. I can see my mom casting on me a sarcastic look and say, ‘Lydia, I’m leavin’ dear. I’m goin’ with Brian. You’re old enough to take care of yourself. Aren’t you?’ – that is a question I’m supposed to say yes. Unlike every other mother, who would step on her child without notification, my mom is different. She spent time promulgating me the matter. In rather a creepy way; her words sounded abnormally, as if being programmed to execute the action. They’re made up; made up just to make sure that something is to be said. Yes, I’m old enough. I’m a seventeen year old girl. I actually don’t like to spend time reproducing my physical attributes; my looks were that of a stereotypical teenage girl with black hair. That’s it.
I see that slide vanish. Here it dissolves into nothing. Oh! Here comes a second one. I see myself curled up in my bed and crying after her leave.
Oh, the next slide! it’s now my dad. I see him drunk like an idiot. I don’t know if actually my mother’s leaving had had anything to do with his addiction but I see him become a dipsomaniac. He even brings a lady very frequently to home. They’re locking themselves in dad’s room. I know what is happening inside. As days roll by, she comes daily and wow, here he declares to me openly that hereafter she’s my mom. No, I hate her. She’s a whore. How can I ever call her my mom? I see days when they live happily inside their room and me, the alienated being, being left to starve. My dad didn’t care if I go to school, if I eat, if I breathe. No, nothing. I’m now a third person to him. I start hating him. I see my step-mother bruising me apparently for no reason. I see my hands in which the marks stay yet. I hated this slide too.
I change the slide. Now it is my friends. I almost see every one of them turn their backs. Why had they started all of a sudden to dislike me? I ask myself. I grope for an answer mentally and end up in vain. I see their corrugated faces come and go in random. I now see me getting out of the home all of a sudden. Oh, here she sees me! My step-“mother”. She throws a grin that has a billion contorted meanings that I don’t know. My once-used-to-be dad is not home. I wonder what he is doing staying out at this hour. Maybe in the bar. Before getting out, I peer at the wall clock in our hall; I find the arms display 11pm.
I now discard the slideshow, and start to wonder how fresh my memories were. More than the pain the incidences caused when they happened actually, the pain caused by the memories is huge. I said to myself that it always was, and it is universal. The same fits to every human being. Memories haunt more than the actual experience itself. Listening to my soliloquy, I sit on my rear on this almost-clean-floor; I find my knees bent to be in par with my eyes; I cross my arms and place it on my knees; I bury my head in the little groove the split of the joined arms offered; my head is lying on my hands; I’m weeping; I feel my tears soak my long rustic skirt a very little.
What! What is this? Suddenly a white light appears in front of me out of nowhere. It is the brightest I’d ever seen. I even find it difficult to keep my eyes opened on it that I blink it often than usual. A voice comes from the light. I half-open my eyes and fully open my ears as a response. It said, “I’m the way. I’m the light. I always go to the rescue of humans in case of desperation. Now, it is you who deserve it. I will come to your rescue. I’m here. Look ahead.”
The voice neither appears to be masculine nor feminine. It is a mixture of both but it didn’t either sound like that of a transgender. It emerges as the smoothest voice ever – better than my favourite singer Carrie Underwood’s – my mind answered. The voice subsides to silence, and the light fades to reveal the Holy Cross. What? Is it our lord Jesus Christ? I just can’t believe. The words didn’t appear as if Jesus’ spoke. Like queen’s language, Jesus has a style – I said to myself. I know I’m insane to say that Jesus follows a certain style to speak, but that’s what I reflected right away. Though I said so, I love to believe that that is Jesus’ voice.
‘Excuse me!’ I feel a hand shake me. I open my eyes and see a handsome boy, almost of my age group, standing in front of me. What is he doing in this hour, and here? Why did he find me and why did he bother checking on me? He has a blue eye, and black hair. His face is white – very white that I even thought if he’s an albino. He’s of medium built and I’m not sure of his height as he’s bent on me. He smiles without parting his red lips and I feel a strange sense spread all over my body and heal all my wounds – both physical and mental. I’m unsure if the light was a dream or an apparition. I decide to settle to the former.
My mind came up with a spontaneous answer – maybe he’s the one? I refuse to consider what my mind said and continue to keep looking at him blankly.
He says, ‘Don’t worry. There is nothing in this world that has no solution.’ I see him the same way being still sit and he spells his final words, ‘I’m here for you; to rescue you!’