Stories

There was total darkness, and insufferable cold. There was no sound. There was nothing but the crawly feeling of unwashed skin and the smell of urine and excrement. My own. But when you feel so hungry and hurt, smell and feel don't reall matter.

There was blinding light when they opened the door. I didn't know that they'd open the door. Just felt the pain of the light splitting my head apart. Flashes come to and fro. Sometimes I felt the cold of water. Other times I felt people holding me. All other senses were not quite there. Like I was in a dream

But I knew I was not in a dream. Because I found myself here. I couldn't really feel myself. It was dirty. The ground was wet. There was trash everywhere. I looked at my bare feet forever. As I looked, the feeling came back to them. They were cold. Freezing cold. Then I felt all the other things. Pain. Hunger. Thirst. Cold all over.

I tried to stretch out my arms. I couldn't feel them. But they were there. Stretch out in front of me. But they didn't look like mine. Two arms, wrapped in ragged sleeves that used to be white but were now a yellowy brown, with patches of dried blood and black. There was a broken mirror leaning against a wall, amidst trash of unimaginable filth. A man stared back at me. I didn't know who he was. He had matted hair and a week's growth of stubble. He was in filthy rags. Bits of raggedy longjohns peeked out from a pair of jeans that had more holes than material. There were stains in the crotch. The longjohn top he had on was the only piece of clothing that looked whole, and even that had ragged sleeve ends.

I walked closer to the mirror and touched his face. The man in the mirror mimicked my move. I stared stupidly for the longest time at him, wondering at the state that a person could fall to. Then it dawned on me that I was looking at myself.

I didn't know where I was. My ribs were throbbing more and more. I couldn't lift my left arm and I somehow couldn't walk without a limp. And I smelt. Of urine and shit and blood.

It was then that I started to cry.

And that was where they found me that night, semi-conscous.

I've been in the hospital since.

When I went home, he was there first. He left me one set of clothes. The rest he burnt. He's moved in. And I am no better than a slave. Worst off, perhaps.

But I stay because of the kids. I don't know what he'd do to them if I went away.