TW: Implied death and/or murder
“Baby, you are like the first rain of the monsoon,” you whispered. I was happy. Amidst the incessant rains and the muddy water, I would dance in the streets, hoping you would see that you mean the world to me. A world that revolves around its sun. You were always the anchor which kept me from drowning in the floods of voices. The voices that pulled me to the darkest corners and whispered that I’m not enough for you, but you would smile as the brightest ray, pulling me into your arms and cradling me. A ray which dragged me towards a new day in hope of a newer morning. A newer morning which started with the same scorching sun. You said, “Baby, you are like the fallen autumn leaves.” I was satisfied. The tired leaves could finally say their goodbye. From the spring to the fall, they would work. Feed their sweat to the hungry souls. Absorb the scorching insults of the Sun and still produce fruits. They would brave the rain, stumble and break, but never make a sound in your presence. Even though you knew that they were hurting, you wouldn’t hold an umbrella. You wouldn’t even hold them in your arms and comfort them. Instead, you would walk away thinking that the rain would finally teach them something. They would look on, longingly at you, hoping you would understand their pain someday. But you would smile… You would smile as they would grow weaker and slowly tumble and fall. You would praise them… and then, you would step over them on your way as they would look on, hoping that someday you would understand their pain. But I was happy. They were finally free. They would finally be able to rest. They would never meet the winter, for it would only freeze their hearts further. You see, I was happy. “Baby, you are like the longest winter nights,” you murmured. I was happy. Happy that I could bring a warm cup of coffee which turned cold in minutes. Happy to wrap the blanket around you as you sleep and I lay there wide awake. Happy that your snores would unsettle the darkest creatures of the night. Happy that I would lie right next to you staring at the handsome profile of the face, marred by the moonlight glistening upon it. I would walk towards the window. I would close the blinds. No one would disturb you as you sleep and I stay awake. Not even the beautiful moon. You said, “Baby, you are like the blooming flowers of our backyard.” I smiled. The yellow carnations nodded their heads. I would sit with them and talk to them. Sometimes, they would tell me stories about their lives too. As long as they mingled with others, as long as they stayed in their places, they were bright and alive. Sometimes, they were pulled and plucked and gifted away, as if it was theirs to give. They would be placed in vases, away from their home, given the minimum food of water and during the luckiest hours of the day, when they were weary from standing and watching everyone run about their day, some kindhearted person would make it rain. Unfortunate for those kindhearted persons, as they would be shamed for wasting their time on the carnations. Hearing their story, I would smile and so would the black roses standing nearby. “Baby, you are like the beach in summer,” you hissed. For the first time, I looked at you from behind the cracks of the rocks, as you stretched your muscles. All thanks to the gym trainer, you had built your body, on which you piggybacked a child. You seemed happy. As the ocean kissed your feet and as the sun appeared to worship you, you spread your hands and embraced it all… Alone… I looked on as you stepped on the rocks and held your head high. I looked as you looked on… at the sun. Slowly, I would step out, one step at a time. I would walk. Towards you. Slowly. But as I would try to shorten the distance, you would walk ten steps forward. Not once looking back. Not once wondering what I would do alone on this barren beach. I smiled. The waterworks that flowed down to meet the ocean told me not to, but I smiled. “But Darling, you are the night in the shining armor,” I say as I plant a black rose next to your bed. I kiss you goodbye. The rose may accompany you or choose to wither and grow on its own. But it will tell you stories. Of death. Of new beginnings. I smile at the black rose and it smiles back. I get up and start walking. The first rain of the year kisses my forehead. The darkness of the night does not matter anymore as I bring my own light. The creatures do not whisper to me anymore. I walk into my own house. I stop to make a cup of coffee. I wrap a blanket around my cold shoulders as I let the warmth of the cup reach my soul. I remove the blinds and stare at the sky. The clouds slowly clear, making way for the moon. The moonlight seeped in, lulling me to sleep in hopes of a new day. Even in my slumber, I can hear the excited coos of the dove resting on the birch tree. It too wishes for a new season. A season of new beginnings. “And Darling, this knife reminds me of you.”
