It was all white. The trees. Even the grass. Even the sky. All serene. And from somewhere between that serenity and whiteness, we came out running – you and me. I was running after you as if indulged in a childlike game. You were exuding happiness – I’d never seen so many colors on one person. But you looked like you belonged there; a drop of color on a white canvas. And then we were suddenly reaching the end of the hill – you didn’t realize, you kept on running. I reached for your hand, so as to hold you back, but you were so fast. I tried to scream out your name, but the quietness drowned my voice. It was so close, I simply had to stop you now. I ran faster, my face contorting in concentration and focus – I had to hold you back. And then you fell. I didn’t see you falling, but you were gone. And I just stood there…
It’s been two months today. Two months to the day he left me alone. Two months to the day I killed him. Yes, killed him. His death was a murder. It was my constant nagging, my habit of arguing, my tantrums, my immaturity that drove him insane – that gave him a tumor. Doctors say that it was some chemical reaction in the brain, but I know that’s not true. That’s why whenever I see him these days, he’s always lurking in the corners of the house and never looking at me… maybe he realizes that it was my fault, as well.
Aapajan came to the house yesterday. She kept ringing the bell for about fifteen minutes but I didn’t open the door. I haven’t spoken to his family after he left; I know they just want to make me feel guilty; guiltier than I feel already.
I’m so scared. I hear voices in my head all the time, telling me to kill myself because I don’t deserve to live anymore. This morning when I woke up, I had knife-inflicted wounds on the sole of my left foot. They were raw and bloody… I don’t even remember how I got hurt. I haven’t been able to walk at all. So I’ve been sitting in his armchair, draped in his grey shawl, and writing.
The night after he left, everyone was staying over at our place. I was in our room, lying down curled up on his side of the bed, hugging his beanie pillow. And I saw him… I saw him again. For the first time ever. He was standing right in front of me, and he was crying. Howling. Pulling his hair and wailing. Screaming for help, screaming for someone to save hi,. And suddenly he became still, blank. And in the most broken of voices, he whispered my name. I jumped off the bed and screaming, ran out of the room, through the corridor and into the TV lounge. I collapsed in front of Bhaiya and started to cry. Everyone was relieved, because I hadn’t cried till then. But no one saw what I saw. No one felt how I felt – so scared. So guilty.
I sometimes wonder. I wonder a lot, actually. Most of the time. What if I hadn’t fought with him so much? What if I hadn’t neglected him so much? I mean, I practically blamed him for everything. We had a small apartment, I blamed him. We didn’t go out often, I blamed him. We didn’t have a big car, I blamed him. I wasn’t getting pregnant, I blamed him. I feel so hollow sometimes, like there’s no feeling left inside of me. And sometimes, I feel so heavy, as if I’m full with things to apologize for. Maybe I am. But the irony is, he’s not here to accept my apology and forgive me. And how could he forgive me for taking away his life? For taking away his desire of becoming a father? For taking away his dreams of watching a football match in Manchester stadium? For not letting him complete his wristwatch collection? How could he forgive me? I can’t forgive myself. I can’t.
Sometimes I feel like my end is near. And then I begin to fear - where will Allah put a murderer? Heaven or Hell? I shudder at the mere thought of what the answer would be. But without him, there is nothing, so I might as well cease to exist. Everything is meaningless without him. I don’t drink coffee anymore, because he’s not around to make cream smiley faces. I don’t watch TV, because he’s not here to fight with me over the remote anymore. I don’t even talk on the phone anymore, because it reminds me of how he used to record even our most random phone call conversations, just because he loved hearing my voice. And I took all that away from him. Me. I did it. GOD. I wish I could die… I wish I could die.
I feel him around me right now, again. He has come to see me. Yay. Sometimes he scares me, because he just gets so angry. Sometimes he makes me hurt myself. Not directly, but it just hurts. Oh I remember, how he used to get fever when he got too angry. Sometimes I dream of fire. And me burning in it. It’s scary.
Oh, he has got me coffee. I don’t understand how he could still be sweet to em after all I did to him. It’s beyond my understanding. My head is getting heavy now – maybe it’s the too many pills I took earlier. My throat is also getting very dry… I don’t understand…
… I stood there, my hands outstretched, eyes staring at nothing. You were gone, I had let you go. I began to walk towards the edge, as if hoping that you’d surprise me by coming back – your usual I-scared-you-game. But I couldn’t see you… I kept on walking, closer to the edge… and then I fell.