11:48am

I stare at the two mugs set out on the kitchen counter. They stare back. Reasoning that this is not an event worth tear shed, I firmly push one aside and make a start on one cup of tea. I could never make her tea ‘right’ anyway. Over a hundred mugs and I can still picture so clearly every wrinkle in her nose after she’d take that first sip and joke “not as good as mine”. A joke that got old after the first three times and grated on me everytime after. Thank god for solitude freeing me of that headache. “There’s always a silver lining,” I mutter to myself while blinking back tears. I briskly place the discarded mug back in the cupboard. 

2:16pm

I’m letting myself wallow. I try to capitalise from my heartbreak and write for my magazine column, but there is no amount of whittling and editing that could do justice to the words I wish I could write. Words that I had fully expected to come easy. I have a formulaic approach to heartache. Words rise like bile at the back of my throat, and I choke to keep them there, knowing that nothing I ever spew is profoundly life-changing for anyone. I hold them there for years and years, for as long as it takes, until they can be wrestled into the familiar old rhythm I use in every piece of writing. And yet, here I am, struggling to find any use for the words slowly rotting in my mouth, unwilling to share any part of her with the world.

6:02pm

My mother calls every day. It’s the same conversation each time: I’m doing alright, I’m getting by. The repetitive nature of our chats is oddly soothing and I think she knows this. It’s not as if she believes that I’m alright, or even that I’m “getting by” in the slightest, but I appreciate her pretence for my own sake. If there is anyone I trust to truly understand the wayward unpredictability of my mental state, it is the woman I inherited it from. I have a habit of over-licking my wounds and reasoning to myself that my hurt must surely be unparalleled, and it is often humbling to myself through her eyes. To know that she has seen this sort of hurt a thousand times over the course of her life. So I tell her that I’m okay and, like adding a new brick to an already precarious game of Jenga, she accepts my answer. I can’t bear the thought that any other soul has felt this way before, or will ever feel this way again. I selfishly want my pain to be unique, because it would, at least, offer an excuse for my paralysis. 

8:46pm

I take out the bins during ad breaks. Today’s mind-numbing entertainment of choice happens to be a show vaguely related to weddings. Or maybe it’s home decor. Either way, it doesn’t warrant anything even close to full attention. 

Somewhere far off I process a clamour of growing unrest from the tv. Whether it be outbursts of elation or defeat couldn’t matter less. The familiar buzz of voices provides nothing more than some much-needed respite from the ever-growing emptiness. The stiff outline of a word sticks out every now and then, jerking me from my haze before once again settling to a murmur. I let the weight of this unfairness land heavy around my eyes, and allow myself to drift. 

1:05am

There’s a clean silence tonight, Not muggy or even deafening, but resoundingly present. I imagine I will be unrecognisable on the other side of this. The thought makes me giddy. Is there even another side? There must be. As I lie still in bed, I fight to grip onto the vague outline of someone I could once confidently claim to be myself – recounting old memories like a precious mantra until they become warped and start to split at the seams. They are well-worn but without them, I can’t trust what’s left. I know that there is nothing I can do with this jigsaw of memories that I have accumulated. When I awaken, a kleptomaniac stares back at me in the mirror as a distant voice of reason asks, why? Why am I grave robbing, nails digging into the decomposed flesh of old text messages, sifting through bodies of words written by someone I don’t recognise? As I pocket the least affected organs, I move on, collecting, gathering – if I can’t stand the sight of her in wholeness, I will at least put myself together again. I am Frankenstein, both monster and doctor.

12:23pm 

I try to separate my addled thoughts from the tide of molasses that has flooded my mind overnight. It takes four attempts before I’m out of bed for good. Looking down at the various stains on my well-worn pyjamas, I strip and climb into the shower. I could just stay here. Warm and hidden between stark white tiles. Far removed. Maybe it’s inevitable that I’ll end up here one day, unable to leave, dragged down by my heavy, heavy brain, swirling through the drain to whatever comes next. I’m exhausted. I live on muscle memory; I push past it; I go through the motions – and while some may admire this and call it strength – I think I’d much rather have a want to live than be applauded for surviving on instinct. I get out of the shower before it’s too late. 

I push the second mug aside on my journey to the sugar – barely registering its presence – before making my way to the couch and turning on the tv. 

Kulsum Shabbir

Creative Editor