Creative The Summer Issue

Fiction: Me after you

Each night a nightmare of flashes from the dreams we had. Shutterstock.

Stinks doesn’t it? Unfinished beer in a bottle, a dainty smell taking over the well furnished room. Only one out of the two bulbs shines, illuminating a dusty wooden cabinet adorned with a humongous Valentine’s Day card. The still significant but smaller ones, lost in the large empty drawers, echo the depths of my heart.

The bed covers still disturbed. In the comforter still lingers the smell of your perfume. The feathers in the pillows shredded apart… remains of our intimacy. Your favorite vase still in pieces, my faulty aim a mistake. Desperation seizes over as I near the end. A layer of calm yet distressed sand bits lay upon the laundry basket. Our last trip to the beach. How many trips remained, right?

A fading and hasty chalk figure of you sprawled over the floor. Fat at your hips evident. That’s what made you beautiful. Hats off to all those hours you spent at the gym.

The bottle of cyanide falls to the floor with a clank. Empty. Reality crushes in, I hug myself to hold in the broken pieces. Were my hands stained in your blood? You would never know. I smirk. Love comes in many forms.

Since our breakup became the talk of the town, a silent year has passed away, just as the tree branches couldn’t hold the breeze for long. Our favourite song on loop, those forgotten memories that returned with each chord change. The lyrics teach me again that some things never change because they are meant to be this way for the rest of your life.

The pain still numb, but the wounds still hurting. The ring that lies deep in my closet is searching for the warmth of my hands. Your Whatsapp DP still blank, but my heart full of the close-ups of each of those smiles you flashed that made me weak in the knees and pained in the heart.

My universe further crumbling and the stars only burning on the memories I feed them. Each night a nightmare of flashes from the dreams we had. The article I wrote yesterday forgotten, but the memories a year old as fresh as the dew on the grass. One of the dews fell on my cheeks and masked the tears further. The song repeated itself silently on my headphone. The music then muffled my scream.

Shivani Sarat is a fiction writer, poet, and student based in Oman. She strongly believes that young writers can bring about a change in this existing world.