Vivid dreams

I have been having extremely strange and vivid dreams and it has only begun in the past few months. They are often repetitive. Often I have such intense dreams, it feels like I'm watching a movie and I can also remember them for a long time afterwards. The book I'm working on is a spin-off of an extremely imaginative and interesting dream I had. I even made a painting out of some kind of a design I saw in my dream once.
I also experience a surge of emotions in my dreams. I see new people and places everyday, and I literally mean everyday. In real life, I'm mostly dead, emotionless and sociopath-ish all day so it's a nice change.

A guy kept shouting "por favor" at me in my dream today.

Someone call Sigmund Freud.

Rhonda Jones (Short Story)

I always knew there was something strange going on with Rhonda. Maybe it was the ever present distant look in her eyes that made me ponder so or maybe it was her frequent absences from school.  Nevertheless, it came as a shock to everyone when she blew out her brains with her dad's .44 Magnum.  She did always talk about going out with a bang. 

I never could have thought of taking it in the literal sense, of course. 

The signs are often laid out in plain sight, demanding to be heard, but not a soul pays heed.

Rhonda Jones wasn’t a goth or a punk, she didn’t have a disarrayed family and she wasn’t a lonely nerd. Rhonda Jones was the charismatic, beautiful all-round achieving girl that people think only exist in movies or in dreams. Which is why people stared unbelievingly when they first heard of her suicide.

She used to live 2 blocks down the street from me. We'd been together since the time she moved into our neighbourhood with her family from Nottingham when she was six. Though, we failed to preserve the close bond we had as kids as we grew older. Before anyone could notice, our frequent playdates that used to ultimately stretch to sleepovers transitioned into rare hello's in the school hallways.

I still remember the sound of the bullet shooting out from the gun when she pulled the trigger.

I still hear the bang in my nightmares and watch myself running to the source all the while thinking how good of a story it would be to tell Rhonda.

I still am struck with flashbacks of the sirens of the ambulance, the shriek of her mother, the silent sobs of her father and the curious prying eyes of the neighbours.

And I still invariably shudder when I remember myself standing under the oak tree that stands in front of Rhonda’s room, wishing with all my might that it wasn’t what I expected, that it wasn’t whom I expected.

Silently, I shook violently as I saw the plight of her body lying lifelessly on a stretcher, blood still pouring out of numerous indiscernible sources - her nose, her head, her mouth. Even her eyes seemed to be crying tears of blood.

That image has been stuck with me forever. Not a day has passed, when I don’t suddenly remember it. every minute I spend laughing with others, I spend in guilt when I'm alone. Thinking and pondering on what-ifs. 

What if I had done something sooner?

What if I had tried to make an effort to salvage our relationship earlier?

What if I had acted upon those signs instead of playfully dismissing them? 

What if I had paid more attention, tried to rise my head up from my ceaseless self-absorption?

I don't know why she killed herself and I never will. All I can hold on to are the summer days we spent under her oak tree when we were children. When we didn't and couldn't care, living in a place stuck in spring with blooming flowers and exquisitely coloured butterflies.

Rhonda Jones dissipated the pain and turmoil by dividing and distributing it to three other people to carry.

Her parents and me.

Shatter and Clatter (Short Story)

7:42 pm

"I'm sorry. Please, Jake. Please stop, I'm sorry!"

"NO! LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. LOOK AT WHAT HAS BECOME OF US! IS THIS WHAT YOU HAD WANTED, BITCH?!"

Shatter and clatter, I hear sobs and shouts. With every syllable escalating in its decibel, I shudder and cringe.

"I told you I'm sorry!" She sobs. Her voice cracking. "Sarah can hear you. She is only a child. Don't do this to her. Don't do this to us. Please stop, I beg you!!"

"DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! I HAVE HAD FUCKING ENOUGH OF THIS HOUSE. I KNOW ABOUT ALL OF YOUR PLANS YOU SLY WHORE!"

"Jake, I swear to God I didn't do anything. Ple-Please, Jake, please! DON'T TOUCH ME! STOP IT!"

I hear her gut-wrenching cries from under my blanket. I have heard people say that once you experience something on the daily, you become accustomed to it. I never understood why this particular daily house activity couldn't sink and wear down to the accustomed ones.

2:17 am

"C'mon, honey. Time to wake up," I hear my mum hush to me, waking me from my stupor.

"Mummy it's still dark outside. Why do I have to wake up in the night?"

"We're going to a nice place. Put on your coat quickly, sweetie," she says to me kissing the top of my head.

I can hear her breathing hard and fast. She's almost shaking as she clasps my hand tightly. We tip-toe across shards of broken glass and splinters of wood. Beer bottle glass, whiskey bottle glass, tables and chairs. A shattered photo frame here and there occasionally. All in ruins.

She didn't have to tell me to keep quiet or anything. I was smart enough to understand what was happening even if I was only 5. I'd been dreaming of this moment for a long time now. It's exhilarating to feel that my wishes were finally coming true. Maybe there is a God after all.

Once we are through the gate, mum spins around towards me, grabs my shoulders tightly and says, "Now remember, baby. We have to walk as fast as we can to Rosewell Street. We can't stop at all. I know it's a long way but we can do it. I have a rental there and then we can be free. Sarah, we can be as free as the birds." 
As free as the birds. I don't know why but that line makes me start bawling suddenly. I can't believe it. Our freedom is so close; it's almost like an unachievable dream.

"Mum, I can do it."
"Oh, my little girl, I never doubted it." She kisses my hands.

3:58 am

"I can see it, ma. I can see it!"
"Shh, I know."

It was old beat-up car. Hell, the only other thing I remember about it is that it was blue. That's it. Not that I even cared at all. Though, looking back now, I would like to know what kind it was.

We run to the car with elated hearts. Freedom is so close.

We have been in the car for barely 5 minutes when mum notices something odd in the mirror. Her brows furrow in worry and concentration. I look back to see it what it is.
It's a red Camry. Our red Camry. 
 I KNOW ABOUT ALL OF YOUR PLANS YOU SLY WHORE!
Oh. . . .

I can feel all the blood drain out of my body. I have goosebumps on my arms. My heart is racing and it's not from the running. 
Is this what true terror feels like?
My mother is speeding the car to escape dad. She's in so much of a hurry that she all but forgets about the still slick road from the rain. Our car crashes into a tree. Before my eyes close, I see a hint of a smirk in the rear view mirror of the car.

Our freedom is here.

I Can Never Fall in Love

I am a very ambitious person. Mostly it is a good thing, but it has turned out to be destructive for me sometimes. It is a main factor that played in my depression. I admit it has made some things better and helped me keep fighting but. . . .

I can't fall in love because of it!

When I start liking someone and develop a crush, I can't stop thinking about them for a few days. I make some mistakes and act to needy in the beginning; it only stays like that for a short period. I may not be as modest as I should but I can't help but admit that I'm not as bad-looking too. So that's why, I almost always succeed in making a guy I really like falling in love with me. Oh, and also because of my sense of humour and wittiness. *wink, wink* *hint, hint*
Except that one time with 'I'. Arghhhhhh. That guy was something.

Thing is, I can go on forever. There was this guy I was totally smitten for. I spent over 2 years infatuated by him. I got him to fall in love with me. The moment that happened, everything was gone. Poof. 
I had absolutely no feelings for him after that.
Nothing.

This always happens. It happened with my last boyfriend too.

And it's happening again with T. Now that I see how interested he's become into me, I can't feel the same connection. 
Once I achieve a goal, I am higher. Every relationship is a project to be accomplished. I have to move ahead. 
I am so messed up.

What My Parents and Friends Called Me When I Was 11-14yrs Old

Right now, I weigh 50 kgs. I am almost 5'4" feet tall. That's an average height. Neither short nor tall.

I am 11 years old. I weigh 43 kgs. I am not quite, but almost 5 feet tall. My mother worries that I'll always remain like this. She calls me a midget. My father calls me fat and ugly. My mother likes to compare me with girls 7 years older than me in the magazines and on TV and comments about how beautiful they look. She does this intentionally in front of me. Because of the average grades I would get that time (not inclined towards study too much that time), my father liked to call me dumb and said I would die and lead a mediocre life as a sad wife who could never achieve anything.

I am 12 years old. I weigh 48 kgs. I have reached 5'1". I have the undefined body of an early pubescent girl with genes of a plump body. I had boobs that looked weird on my body and always drew attention to them. My mother still fears I won't grow taller. She believes that once a girl has had her periods, she doesn't grow any taller. She draws attention to my thighs and says that I'm so short and fat that because of my thighs it looks like I'm walking on huge pillars. My dad says my body looks like clay. Fat and undefined. My extended family members make fun of me in social gatherings. My parents still think I won't be able to make anything of me in my life.

I am 13 years old. 50 kgs and 5'2" tall. I have a more matured and curvy body than most classmates. They call me a fat slut and say I have a bigger butt than Kim Kardashian. The worst part was that I was in the clique of the popular,  pretty girls. There was an omniscient pressure to look perfect on parties and in school. When you become a known person, there are bound to be some who will pull you down.  Especially in school. People would come up to my face and call me fat. They would constantly make jokes on me and mock me. Part of it was I called it upon myself. I was the class clown type popular. I happily laughed at jokes and acted like it didn't bother me. That's what they say in the books. But that only encouraged them more.

I am 14 years old 5'3" and 50 kgs. I have lost a lot of my baby fat but not all. Not yet. I have plump gene trait. My mother doesn't worry about my height as much but still strings on to me being more taller and prettier and being all that she couldn't be. My family members still call me fat occasionally. My brother has suffered some failures in his career and has been real upset. The buried sadness turns to anger. He starts calling me fat whenever I am just about to go out of the house to some party and all and look in the mirror to check if everything's alright. He knows what it does to me. He will hit me occasionally when he gets frustrated (not somethings that'll hurt. Definitely not domestic violence, but brother-sister banter.). 

My friends aren't that bad now (partially because I diversified my friend circle). But I still had depression.

All this time I would swim everyday, bicycle for hours, try to eat less. Anything to look pretty, thin and fit in.

In a Cave Where The Rest Go To Feel Normal

I have lived as two people in one body. I would adopt a different persona while talking to different people. There was no 'me'. 
Life was a movie. Acting at every corner, every street. No breaks.

But it wasn't a distinguished line. They were intermixing person. 

What happens when the line isn't as hazy? What if it is as clear as a spot on a white cloth that your mum keeps reprimanding you about?

It becomes difficult to decide which person is the real one? Is it the overly friendly and exuberant one? Or is it that sulky, depressed and rude one? Which one is an act? What is true?

I wonder if bipolar and schizophrenic people have a fixed identity about themselves or aren't clear about it yet. I don't know.


PS. I was inspired by Gollum to write this.

I Think About it More Than I Forget (Short Story)

I lay down on the bed with the book once again in my hands. Staring but not reading. Page number 26. The bookmark's been on this page for 21 years now.

 Exactly 21 years.

And she wonders but never asks. Too ridden by my retreating into my shell so frequently. Only staying with me for the sake of little Jake.

Memories are merely instances that fade over the passage of time.

 That is the reason why I agreed. She thought she could heal me. I ought to have forgotten by now.

I try to, but cannot. The time I shared with Amelie was and still is too perfect to be forgotten.

I do not know whether she knows what's on page 26. She still thinks I need time to heal.

I met Amelie at Camp Smith-Bird (go ahead and laugh at the name, but just so you know, the people there were more queer than the name)  when I was 17. She was 16.

She was nothing special. Average looking, but a guy like me was mighty lucky to have someone as unlucky as her.

The only way I can describe her is that she was someone you would keep growing closer as time passed. Like parallel lines; it never ended. 

There was a new thing to discover, a new adventure everyday. Our love growing lovelier as we grew fonder each day.

It wasn't like how rabid young couples get married and grow wearier of each other's very presence by the day.

I still remember how my life diminished to ruins.

We snuck out of our house in the midnight, a bottle of my father's whiskey and our hearts overflowing with love for the world. Two teenagers full of hope and envisioning a bright and happy future for themselves.

We hiked up the hill to our spot, we could see the unhappy town, everyone in the grips of sleep. How we couldn't wait to run away and start a life of our own. 

The stars were twinkling brightly and the pale moon shined bright (for it was the time when pollutants in the air were quite less). Alcohol and adrenaline pulsating through our arteries instead of blood.

Amelie and I were lying on the grass naked, holding hands. We'd just made love and my heart was still racing. She turned to look at me with her eyes blazing with passion and a hint of sadness.

Her family was moving to America in less than a quarter of a year. No one mentioned it in the fear of ruining the Moment.

The Moment was perfect. It was out of a soapy romance film, a heart-breakingly beautiful book, a picture which makes you get jealous and go search for true love. It was what the kids of today would've called infinite. I could not let the Moment get away. I had to memorise it and imprint it into the back of my eyelids.

I had to stay in that time for ever. 

It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't seen the hint of sadness. I wouldn't have remembered. I couldn't let her go away from me. 

Love was for two and I was nothing without her.

She could NOT leave me. I will never let her.

She had to stay in the Moment forever. It was enchanting, exquisite and excitable.

I remember the time. 0026.

I killed her at 0026.

A silver thread of a tear travels from my eyes, down the curves of my face, into page number 26 of Wuthering Heights.