She sits at her table, with that long, forlorn look on her face, lost in her chasm of despondency.
The cold, hard wind blows against her face, stinging every sense on her cheeks. Her lips goes numb. But yet she stares with those poignant eyes, those eyes which would tell a million sad tales. And she stares.
She stares out of the window.
She stares… at the window.
Who are you?
Tears pours out of her eyes.
Who are you?
She looks at the indistinct image on the panel.
I don’t know you.
Subliminally, she stands up.
With fatigued steps, she strides towards Mother’s room. Door creaks. Slight breeze from ajar window greets. Rays coming through light blue curtains greets.
And so does the full-length mirror.
She stares at stranger. Stranger stares back.
I don’t know you.
Hideous. Repulsive.
Who made you? What made you?
She winces.
You are a monster. I don’t know you.
She bursts into tears. She falls onto Mother’s empty bed.
I am a monster.
She weeps.
Lord, Lord, why have You forsaken me?
Her left eye suddenly stings. She jerks up. Panicky, she cups her palm over it carefully, hovering, with fear that she might hurt it. Gathering all the strength left in her, she stands up… and walks back into her chamber of despair.
Carefully, she picks up her medication, and as a desperate drug addict would, she squeezes the life out of that little thing. Her hands were shaky, her body trembling every second, her mind wandering to places she never been before. Places she doesn’t even believe to exist.
You are no different from a drug addict.
I am not a drug addict. I just depend on this drug to live.
You are. Look at yourself.
She catches herself in her very own mirror.
The rough skin, the eye bags, the swell, the unshapely figure, the red eye, the repugnant color of her skin, the hard parts of her incurable skin disease… the legs.
She winces again.
She bawls.
You said You created all things. So You made this, Lord? You made this figure? You never make mistakes. But am I a mistake?
She thinks of her life. She thinks of her success thus far. She thinks of her failures. She thinks of her purposive days… and died to her depression.
You’re useless. You only bring shame to yourself. Don’t you see? You’re ugly. Nobody wants you now. You’re the ugliest piece of ‘creation’ ever. Look at yourself. What use are you to the world now? Who the hell are you?
She stares at the hideous image.
She turns and looks at the Cross.
No. You are not worthy for that One, too.
She stares.
Yeah. Stare on. You are NOT worth it.
“For I am fearfully and wonderfully made…”
No. There are exceptional cases. And you’re one of them.
Hah.
She looks at her reflection.
First her legs. Then her nose. Then her face. Then her body. Now her only asset left - her eyes. Destroyed too.
God kinda hates you, you know. Look what He gave you.
Her cell suddenly beeps. She picks it up. She reads a text from a cherished one.
She refuses to reply his text.
She hates him now. All she feels for the world and for anything at all is hatred. She knows he did nothing wrong, but all she feels for him is hatred.
She suddenly feels guilty for hating him.
She tossed her cell to the corner of the room. Her cell lands on her bedtime buddy with a soft thud, unhurt.
She digresses.
She grabs her blanket with newfound strength pulling her up from the floor. She releases herself from her shaky legs onto the bed. She continues weeping.
Lord, why all these deformities?
She looks at her hips.
Her fat, unshapely hips.
She touches her forehead.
Her hardened skin on her forehead.
She looks at the color of her skin.
Once radiant, now sickly.
She touches her eyes. Her big, beautiful eyes which was once her pride and joy.
And are now forced to be hidden behind frames.
She reflects on her body.
She hates herself.
She thinks of her personalities.
She abhors herself.
She contemplates on her good deeds.
She shuns herself.
She thinks about how far she falls behind the expectation the world has upon her.
She detests herself.
She thinks of… crying.
Her eyes are sore.
She thinks of calling someone.
Nobody cares.
She thinks of the cherished one.
She hates him.
She thinks of the piano.
She’s too tired to play.
She thinks of… suicide.
No. Responsibilities beckon. Purpose to life beckons.
No, you should die, really.
No. You shut up, Satan.
He shuts up.
She sits up.
And she walks out of her room, finding a way to relive herself.
And she sits upon her chair, blogging about it, hoping for time to heal all pain.
And for the seemingly faraway Lord to touch her once again.
***Disclaimer: Story was written based on a true incident which actually happened. Original entry can be found at http://jsl4jc.blogdrive.com/archive/46.html