She looked at her dettol-ravaged hands and her shoulders started to shake. Tears fell down the glistening white bathroom tiles, along the mop and the disinfectant. This was her life, confined in a long seven-day stretch of looking after a poorly child and keeping up her home clean and tidy. This was the life she inhabited, in a city devoid of warmth and humour, only breathing through night lights that twinkle so sadly. Outside her window were cars parked so silently, coldly, and the rain that glistened on the UPVC glass only managed to compound her solitude.
She put aside all her commitments with the outside world. She even managed to forget the only social engagement she had in her calendar that month. She focused on her child and her home, and in between, she buried herself in books she had forgotten all these years, books that have gathered dust in her shelves. Some of these books were only read once, or twice, and then forgotten, her thumbprints embedded in between pages to play with the ghosts among the pages.
She is a seasonal reader, one who doesn't stick to one genre. She spent one whole night on Jodi Picoult and then jumped onto Anche Min's Empress Orchid. Trying to digest these two stories in less than 48 hours is exhausting, but when she plodded on to the classic Wuthering Heights, all the passion and anger and vindictiveness seemed to leap from the pages and drained her, turning her into a useless heap on the bathroom floor, tearing her eyes out, pleading to be freed from her domestic prison, longing for fresh air to hit her in the face, even just for once.
When she opened her eyes, the digital clock screamed 4.00am. Gingerly, she opened her sore eyes and wiped her swollen nose. Then she heard a soothing voice that could only come from one person, her husband: 'You just have a very bad cold. Go back to sleep.'
She put aside all her commitments with the outside world. She even managed to forget the only social engagement she had in her calendar that month. She focused on her child and her home, and in between, she buried herself in books she had forgotten all these years, books that have gathered dust in her shelves. Some of these books were only read once, or twice, and then forgotten, her thumbprints embedded in between pages to play with the ghosts among the pages.
She is a seasonal reader, one who doesn't stick to one genre. She spent one whole night on Jodi Picoult and then jumped onto Anche Min's Empress Orchid. Trying to digest these two stories in less than 48 hours is exhausting, but when she plodded on to the classic Wuthering Heights, all the passion and anger and vindictiveness seemed to leap from the pages and drained her, turning her into a useless heap on the bathroom floor, tearing her eyes out, pleading to be freed from her domestic prison, longing for fresh air to hit her in the face, even just for once.
When she opened her eyes, the digital clock screamed 4.00am. Gingerly, she opened her sore eyes and wiped her swollen nose. Then she heard a soothing voice that could only come from one person, her husband: 'You just have a very bad cold. Go back to sleep.'
4 comments:
{hugs} Take care Soy and Get well. :)
Soy, I really like the flow of writing here, so impressive. Anyway, hope you feel better soon.
How are you now ma'am? amping kanunay;-)
there's really a lot to give up in the name of love...i hope what you're feeling right now is just seasonal...get a good massage Soy...it helps!
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