CHAPTER THREE

My lips were parched, my clothes were disheveled, and hunger growled in my stomach. Waking up to find my world utterly changed, I never imagined this day would arrive. The decision I strongly opposed has now become my reality, and its weight crashed down on me like a wave. The force of it is overwhelming, leaving me struggling to keep my balance as I face the consequences of what I once resisted, now inescapable and all-consuming. I squinted up my eyes to see how far down the rabbit hole I was and wondered what I was enclosed in as I was utterly immobilised in dread on my bed, as if the entire world were falling around me. I was practically dead, like a lamb about to be slaughtered.

Each step felt heavy, and my hand gently touched the smooth handrail as I went down. Every movement seemed slower, as if something was holding me back, making the descent feel longer and more difficult than it should have been. But while I walk, I listen to my so-called stepmom and him not saying a word back to her. With the last step, I reached the bottom. She stands between his highness and the television set looking at him make words at her. Grits her teeth every time he calls out damn this or that. She is too limp and too sore to get up the breath to push the words out to stop it all. She just stands there and lets him work out his misfortunes on her. Looking into his eyes, I think he's already hurt. It makes me want to turn my head.

Recently, my father would go off in the car like he has some business to tend to. And you know and I know he's gone to get himself something to drink. Then he brings chaos into the house like he is Santa Claus. The more he drinks the less sense he makes. He sets his wine beside his chair and then eases his self into place. Yelling at somebody, meaning myself, on how cursed and fruitless our life has been. As I face irreparable damage, I ponder, "How did I reach this point?"

I was with my friends, enjoying ourselves when suddenly, police officers barged into our party. We had nothing to do with the situation, and Argus was unfairly involved. I knew him well, and he would never participate in any illegal drug activity!

It was hard to believe, but in the blink of an eye, I found myself caught in the middle of it all. I, a respected member of high society, had my life change the moment the scandal engulfed my name like wildfire. Rumors spread, accusations flew, and the once luxurious life I knew came crashing down. With every scandalous headline, my reputation was tarnished, dragging my family’s name down with it.

Desperate to salvage what little dignity I had left, my father came up with a plan. His solution to protect our family’s reputation from further damage was to have me keep a low profile, away from the prying eyes of the media. Yes, it was a step meant to shield my reputation from additional harm, but to me, it felt like a prison sentence. Every day was a constant reminder of the shame, as I lived in the shadow of a scandal I never asked for. The life I once took for granted was slipping away, leaving me feeling trapped and powerless to change anything.

I can smell the storm and see the air thick with the rain coming as I headed back to town. Every corner of my hometown felt like another waiting room where I had once anxiously sat, surrounded by the sounds of hospital monitors, creaking doors, and the rhythmic clatter of the cash machine. Memories linger, chasing me through this desolate place—a stark reminder of lost possibilities. It feels like an endless waiting room, where time stretches infinitely, trapping me in a loop of longing and regret. The echoes of what could have been haunt every corner, refusing to fade into silence.

Could the tenderness of my mother's touch have eased the anguish in my soul? Tell me, what more did I yearn for? Regret pulls against my desperate desire to forget, a relentless struggle that grips me. Amid the bitter wind, my mother’s ambition shines stubbornly, like candles flickering atop the altar—a vision of hope and expectation that should have faded with time. Yet, it clings to me, an unyielding reminder of a past I cannot escape. When does foolish longing morph into grief?

One must confront grief with defiance. However, I've allowed it to consume me completely, you don't learn to simply fold grief in half nor merely tuck it in between the ridges of your ribcage, what you learn is how to lend a name to a body without wanting for it back. I found myself unable to resist, utterly consumed by the same ambition that once troubled my mother. It feels as though I could swim for miles, moving even the untouched waves of the sea—driven by an unrelenting force, a yearning that propels me beyond the limits of what I thought possible. The yearning for death, the undeniable and persistent instinct for eternal rest tugged against fragile limbs, and running far, far away to somewhere where the morning dew isn't suffused with the incessant crowing of roosters; where, undeniably, the roads aren't more fissures than they are; or where the bustling kalsadas aren't laden with overflowing throngs of people trying their best to dodge jolting against sidewalk kiosks laden with anik anik. Perhaps somewhere where the scent of rot isn't overpowering.

Rot, my father once stated, is an inevitable force capable of penetrating even the strongest concrete. Rot, unbeknownst to us, served as the subtle catalyst hidden within the walls of our rooms, silently nurturing a consuming suffering that left behind only smoldering remnants.