They once said, that I was the most unlucky of our friends.
I don’t know how much it meant to me then, but now I can contradict their belief. Since they are still stubborn, they stay rooted to their own opinion.
Some days I think, that leading a near-perfect lifestyle, we have forgotten that there is much suffering prevailing in this world. We are lucky enough to escape this curse of discomfort, but we are undoubtedly cursed by our society to think their way. Our thoughts and the way we shape our dreams and aspirations were pre-decided at some point in the history by our society.
The flashbacks often come in waves. They come and come until they crash on the shore. It is then that my subconscious mind gets a jolt and makes me aware that I’m still living and breathing. I look at her sleeping peacefully on the other side of the bed. The blanket almost pulled away, and her body awkwardly twisted. I nudge her, and sometimes tickle her feet, and as instantly as it can be her reflex pulls her away. I smile in the darkness, realizing how lucky I’m to be blessed with a person like her.
I switch on the bedside lamp, and open the pages of the diary which I filled in after the events of my attack. I’m reading this once again in three days.
January 2, 2017
“Today was one of those better days for me. I can feel my wounds healing a bit, and the right leg is capable of supporting me. But the fear of standing all by myself has taken over me and I’m afraid to say I fear the very prospect. I still remember the events vividly. But after I lost consciousness, I remember nothing until last night, when I woke up in a dimly lit room in a strange surrounding that was not familiar in any way.
Every time I close my eyes, I can see the goons chasing me, feel a stifling sensation and there is a haze in front of my eyes, due to the breathlessness. I could feel the winds whizzing past my ear, and the cold was biting my skin. I run hard, I run and run without glancing sideways once until I run out of breath and there is darkness in front of me. I let my body fall and hit the ground, but soon enough I am tumbling down. I can feel the dust on my skin along with small chunk of rocks pricking me. There is more darkness until I slip out of my consciousness.
The night I woke up, there was a girl looking at me intently through her rimmed glasses. I tried to talk to her, to no avail. She was mute. She could hear absolutely fine, but God hadn’t gifted her the power of speech. Throughout the night she conversed with me through paper.
Her name is Alyssa, and she is an orphan. She was found on the road, at a very young age, roaming around aimlessly. She couldn’t talk and no one even came to claim her to be their daughter. Growing up into an adult, she landed a job at a local restaurant and ever since, she is living on her own. But since she cannot talk, her job is to carry the dishes back after the customers have left.
She found me in the morning lying unconscious in her garden. She knew instantly, that I’m the author who went missing last to last night. It has been all over the news for these two days, and even now the headlines are making rounds. Suspecting that I was attacked, she decided to keep me at her house rather than taking me to the hospital as the goons would surely search for me there.
I’m feeling much better now, thanks to all to her tireless efforts.
I looked around the room and realized she was poor and barely living. But her hospitality has won my heart and I feel that I must return her favour after I get well. There is certainly some way to make her lifestyle a little better.
My conscience is nudging me from inside, and I feel that she may be the last missing piece of my puzzle. I am anxious about my future and already could anticipate so many things.”
I close the diary and feel tears running down my cheeks. This has been the same story, whenever I read that particular entry.
I put my hands inside her warm cover and intertwine my fingers with hers. She moves slightly, and dreamily smiles at me, her eyes still closed.
She has given me a new life as well as a reason to live again.
Maybe my friends think that she is mute, but I know she is the loudest among the lot.
Who speaks with her eyes rather than her mouth.
©Jumbled Letters 2018.