The Ephemeral Death

And then he made sounds one makes, when one is trying really hard to make sounds but he cannot. His mouth felt gagged. He also tried to drag himself up, using one of his elbows as an abutment of some sort, but he felt armless, as in, he had arms but they somehow felt anesthetized. And although he knew they felt anesthetized, he yet, in his mind, could wave them in the air, clasp his fingers into a fist with his thumb on top, or clap vigorously, but in actuality, none of that accomplished anything.

No, no, no, not again, he moaned in his mouth, but his mouth had this futile existence, which if he could recall then, may have seemed like possibly the worst forlorn feeling, out of all the other times he was caught in a web of helplessness.escape

On his right, from the tinted window, the faint yellow morning light through the drapes, had made its way to his forehead and to the corners of his bed. His bed, on which he lay on the edge, with what felt like a paralysed arm dangling lifelessly and touching the ground and deadening his body, was not creaking anymore. It always otherwise did. Whenever he tossed on it, or breathed heavily on it, or curled himself on it, to plug his phone’s charger.

Had it been a normal morning, he would have woken up, walked over to the window, pulled the blinds and the curtains, perhaps snoozed his alarm for ten more minutes and tucked himself back inside his leopard print blanket. But his blanket this morning had fallen between the chasm that his bed and the adjacent wall formed and somewhere from down there, the ever so aggravating periodic beeps were now reaching to his deaf ears.

The ears weren’t really deaf, just like the mouth wasn’t really mute, but hearing an alarming sound makes one act, and that sort of a thing was missing today. What else was missing, was the sense of being in control of the situation and the sense of having a physical body. However, his mind felt in his control and thankfully so, because he knew where he was, and although his eyes seemed to have blinded him, he could see everything in the room in black and white and grey.

And despite an already eerie aura that he had found himself in, soon it occurred to him, that all of this could be stupefying, if he let it go and instead blended with the air. And so he did, he floated, right above where he lay on the bed with drooping forelimbs and an open mouth.

But before he could comfortably accustom himself to this breezy feeling and drift away into the nothingness, a voice from the other side of the bed, of his girlfriend, or wife, or his lover, or someone from his distant dream said, “Babe, what’s wrong? Babe, babe, what’s wrong? Are you listening to me, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

In response, he said or he thought he said, “Nothing, I am fine”, but what she heard was, “Grrmm … nthngrrm … grrmm …” followed by heavy sighs and unbearable snarls.

And he heard her panic, “Shit, shit, shit … oh my god … shit.” And her floral colorful nightgown appeared black and white to him, her hair on his face, unlike so many other times, did not tickle him, neither did her fragrance stir any emotions.

It was when the salty water drops in the form of sweat or tears or both, from her chin rolled onto his lips and drenched them, his eyes opened wide into the world of colors and his limbs feebly looked for the blanket and the phone inside it.

He planted a kiss on her sleeping cheeks, unhinged the door and stood at the balcony with a cigarette in his hand, staring into the thin yellow lines of the early sunrise at the horizon.

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