They would like to think that I do not know myself. That the madness has completely taken over my senses, my ego and my being.
I sit in a corner now, beside my favourite sofa in the living room, pushing myself into the blissful softness of its caress. It’s the closest thing to kindness I have felt in two months since they found two bottles of Tramadol in my room.
They are in the room now with me, discussing me and dissecting my past, present, and possible future. Will I make it through? Will I escape? Will people forget me?
It’s like I am bent in form now. Displaced from my original state. That bright, zealous child whose brilliance relented in everything she said and did was gone. The person they see now is flimsy, a thin film of a carcass. Unable to make resonance. She is not the daughter of a lion. She is a bastard.
Who will tell them that I merely slipped? That for a moment I closed my eyes and let them take me. Not because I wanted to, but because in that moment, I was not a fortitude of morals but a pack of cards. I was not a paragon but a parasite, latching on the pills for identity.
I planned to stay for a while, to let myself be consumed so I can say that I was once able to be consumed wholly. I did not plan to make it my niche. I thought I could only be a visitor; make my residence temporary. But my feet wouldn’t move, and my hands were stuck to my sides. They were feeding me. I promise I was not the one with the spoon.
But now I am hating myself. I am still in the process. So most times I cry, because it is hard to see myself go. The loss hasn’t gotten to the point where I am unfeeling. My senses are still with me.
So, no. I am not mad. Not yet. You can tell when you look at me. I can still respond. Please don’t punish me so harshly. It was a moment that bred moments. I still want to be a pillar. I still want to be remembered.
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Esther is a freelance writer and storyteller with a passion for sharing her thoughts through stories. With a great interest in literary fiction, Esther has a number of unpublished short stories. She is thrilled to contribute to Writers Space Africa and share her unique voice with readers.
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Read – A Fight for Freedom – A Short Story by Sylvan Heideman – South Africa
