Trial

Baby am not made of stone it hurts....Loving you the way i do, it hurts... when all that's left to do is watch it burns....

Her body twirled around with and against Emeli Sande's Hurt, out of sync actually, accompanied by her tone deaf voice. Two left feet and tone deaf are not qualities to be proud of, but they are not qualities to note when all you want to do is drown in a world of your own. Her arms moved around in no organized formation, her feet tapping on the ground to her disorganized rhythm and her tone deaf voice wrung out her pain, hoping to let it all out to the world, maybe, and yet no one in particular. An outsider would wonder why such a beautiful song would be turned into a witch's ritual dance.

Heck she would not care about an outsider when she was lost in her solitude. A solitude bugged by memories that she hoped to dance off. Memories that she hoped would not plague her when her head touches the pillow. Memories that shredded her every being and still shred her even as she danced. The twirls and taps turned intense and the music faded into the background as she was reminded of his blank look. Of the morning that he sat there and uttered the most ridiculous thing she ever heard. Of the day she tapped off from her work and logged into social media and encounter an engagement announcement. Of the unimaginable pain, like a knife cruelly, slowly and deliberately slicing her heart into bits. Of the sun that appeared darker although it shone brightly and the sturdy palm trees that danced to the light December breeze. The dark and gloom swallowed her.

The uneven rhythm broke, the tap stopped as she fell down on the floor, moans turned to sobs and later loud cries. The song reached its end

'It hurts the way that you pretend you don't remember...'

Her cries grew louder, her body curled and shaking, could have been the heartache or the pain of crying for so long. Time refused to be a healer and she was trapped in her hopelessness. Because, at one time she dared to love, she had to dare to let go.

The lone room disappeared, the music struck its last chords and the sounds of her sobs quieted down. The bottle of whisky she was tempted with was all bits and pieces of her struggle to not harm herself.

He stepped into the eerily silent room and was accosted by the smell of alcohol that stagnantly spread on the uncarpeted floor. The lone helpless figure sprawled at the far left end of the room looked like it was calling for help. Her vulnerability broke his heart. Slowly and carefully, he picked her up and lay her in her bed, wiped sweat off her brow, attempted to straighten her creased brow and draw a smile from her down-turned lips.

May be, if she wakes up smiling genuinely tomorrow, the dark sun that she keeps talking about would shine in its pure unadulterated magnificence.