Black ----- Featured

 Black

I felt nothing when I stood where I buried my mother. I wasn’t sure if I had one. To make sure of it, I began digging. Surprisingly, calmness drenched my skin, as I felt the sticky mud brushing over it. My nails got covered in dirt, just like my heart was. Deep inside, I could feel my soul struggling through the mud and twigs, but I poured more into it every time it attempted to climb up. The hole I dug in my mother’s grave had become too deep. However, it was empty, and it needed to be filled.

Then, I thought about Rose. “Was she a lie too?” I asked myself. It made me anxious because I had no answer. I could hear utter silence echoing inside my core. Maybe it was where I buried my soul. I wasn’t sure; I had lost my soul- the address of the cemetery where I had rested it. Rose was the best name for her. As beautiful as she was, the thorns carved lasting scars the closer I got. I loved it, though. She showed me we belonged to each other through loving arms or vicious fists. But then, I was unsure of it- not sure if she was ever there.

I loved Rose. But I hurt her equally- more, maybe. I thought of it as; an equal and opposite reaction to every action- pain for love. I wouldn’t say I liked it in the beginning, though. However, I soon became very fond of it. Absorbing solace through her cries. Doing things, I wished I could do to myself but was too cowardly to even try. Haunting her existence just because I wanted to make sure if it was real or just a mere illusion. She was my stress reliever to whom I reflected my pain, my own Talking Tom inviting dreadful deaths on whichever path she went. I was waiting.

That day, when I reached home– the everlasting trance built upon our breaths, I wanted to burn the garden where I planted her. I desired to turn my Rose into ashes and rejoice in the dark-scented flames. I wished to drink the ink from her veins and write the ends to both of us. But she wasn’t there. The void I felt, realizing her absence, assured me that her existence was the only real thing in this plastic world. She had broken through the imaginary shackles that bound us. She had stitched back the imaginary wings I cut off her skin. She had flown away; my Rose had soared into the screen of the sky, leaving a black petal behind. The same black petal that we once painted pink with our imaginary colors. The same black petal shining of her wretched aroma. The same black petal that would draw us back together. The same black petal that would help me find her. The same BLACK . . ..

-from the eyes of a domestic abuser

Author Detail

Barfi

Hello, there is not much that I seek to tell about me. I'd prefer to leave other details. Whatever there is to me, it's in my stories.

Editor: Runner up of the International- Open Online Creative Write Fest, first edition.

This is the story which lead him up to postion second.

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Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/suckstobearyan/

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