Ahalya, Day 12

Ahalya opens her eyes and takes in a terrain of darkness. She's moving, not sure exactly how, but black halos formed and deformed as she keeps moving. The pain hasn't started yet. It will, once she awakens, but for now, she wakes up and sees all kinds of black. There's brownish-black, greenish-black and bluish-black and even blackest black and she ruminates where these come from. And there is no sound. No sounds except a steady munch of gravel or even stones. She isn't sure yet.

'Yet' is her constant word now, the bridge between awareness and a mindless slumber. She shakes her eyelids up and down and this stirring of nerves inside the eye aids to set her vision. She learns that the greenish-black are fields, stretching as far she could see. There's no breeze for the grass to show its lazy, feminine movement. It stays as erect as current poles.

Why am I here?

She attempts to move her other body parts and fails. She looks down at her hands and they are moving along, but not responding to her. Weird. According to Ahalya, hands are the most coordinated parts of her body. She's an artist, damn it.

Before she notices the brownish-black as the mud on her left and right, running in straight lines like a footpath, an aching sensation runs down her body. Alarmed, she glances down and watches herself getting dragged.

She's on a road between the fields.

Her skin explodes with pain. She groans and tries to juggle, but her voice doesn't reach her ears. It's muffled, lost and unavailable.

She's wearing a grey sweatshirt, but it has run out of cloth, threads come unhinged and a torn patch at her waist allows her skin to contact the ground. As adrenaline kicks in, she goes for her legs. That's when she finds out that, someone; someone unknown and strong, has a hold of her left leg ankle.

She's being dragged like a filthy, damaged doll.

Since she's been lying upside down, facing the road, she couldn't tell what the sky's like. But she hunches its dark; darker than her surroundings. She thinks of Vishwa and Yamuna and Vasu and every other person she's ever known. She thinks of the last thing she remembers before this. Water. Water's all she got in her memories. She hears so much water, burbling, trickling, dancing and drowning.

Where is everyone? Are they dead? Or are they being taken too? If so, who's taking us? Why us? Why is this happening to me?

Ahalya spends all her strength to raise her hands and like animals freed off a chain, they come whopping up to her face. Now she grits her teeth, chewing the soreness and slants her back, where her sweat-shirt still hasn't run out. Her abdomen bumps over a rock on the road, and she screeches for the stab. A tear follows the sting and falls out of her eye and vanishes.

Once her hands are free, dangling above for movement, she searches for something to grab; a pole, a sturdy rock, or another person passing by. Her elbows are already half-bloody, skin scratched to blackness and bodily strength at its lowest. A part of her knows there's no one around, and this monstrous person is dragging her away to somewhere unknown.

Am I being killed? Buried? For what?

She uses her other leg, which is not under anyone's grip, to kick, but a sharp cramp hurries up her thigh, up to her vagina. She yells, trembling, her vocal cord contracting and loosening, as her voice flies into oblivion.

The person lugging her has a lengthy arm. She is being held with her legs apart, making an acute angle and their movement wouldn't be possible without cramping the muscles within. After a quick debate with herself, she steadies the palms on the road's surface, providing an anti-friction. Her nails grate against the road and she immediately pulls back her palms for the burning sting on her fingertips.

As her every attempt has proven useless, she considers rolling sideways. What doesn't make sense is that it should've been her first thought―rolling? Why didn't she think of it? She breathes in and out, through her mouth and with one quick motion, she twists her body. The person loosens his/her hold and Ahalya's ankle makes a complete 360 degrees and the grip tightens again. Ahalya recognizes the person has let her twist as if imposing: I'll see what you will do now.

She glances at the sky; the clouds dangling like the hands of a dead body, and regrets. A moment later, Ahalya grasps her mistake. Without the support of any shoulder, her head's prone to hit the road endlessly. She keeps it mid-air, like a balloon swinging, her neck bone holding it still.

She has to act fast.

Who are you? She shouts. Her voice still feels different, like some frail old man lip-syncing to her words. Who are you? Why are you doing this?

No answer. Annoyed, she decides to get free of the grip, even if it means kicking herself. She uses her right foot to kick her left ankle, and the hand that's holding her left ankle. The kicks aren't that hard since her mind isn't letting her hurt herself. She grunts and kicks harder this time, sending a bolt of pain down her left leg. Yet, the hand hasn't flinched.

She kicks again and again with heaving breath. Let. Go. Of. My. Leg. And screams for every spasm she is inducing on her leg.

And that works. The dragging slows down and the person's hand relaxes on her ankle.

This is the time. Ahalya's mind warns her. Pull back.

She's about to do that with her leftover energy. She even pulls it a centimetre when the hand seizes the leg again.

No. No. No. Leave me. She rattles and twirls and yells.

Little Ahalya knows is that it's going to be worse. Her heart thumps, eyes sweat and breath turns louder. The person clutches it tighter with her every blink and slowly, yet gradually, she screams. Every nerve in her body is on fire. Please. Please, don't. It gets tighter and tighter, while she bangs her fists on the road, yelping like a puppy ran over by a bike. Her vision is getting blurry. She hits her head on the road, scratching her hair against the tar, wishing this hurt equals that and her body shuts down. But nothing of such sorts happens. She sees pain, hears and senses it like it's her second skin and someone's peeling it off her.

Ahalya stops bashing her head and corks up her neck. Everything will all be over. Few more seconds. She watches the person turn around and she's not ready for that. She prefers to be killed by an anonymous face, instead of adding guilt or regret to it.

In the dark, the face reaches a full disclosure and Ahalya freezes. A futile fear dominates her as she looks at her mother's face. It isn't something Ahalya remembered. She knows her mother, and this is not her, even if the resemblance is eerie. Her bloodshot eyes have the bluest irises, shimmering like diamonds. Fat pink wobbling lips. Pale nose. No teeth. Her skin slumped like mud after heavy rain. It's a combination of her mother and every evil thing in the world.

Who-ho a-a-re yo-u-u? Ahalya stutters, despite the hurting.

Didn't your father teach you any manners? Her mother asks.

Ahalya doesn't see her lips move, but she hears the voice. In her head, in the deepest grounds of her subconscious, it echoes. Didn't your father teach you any manners? Didn't your father teach you any manners? Didn't your father teach you any manners?

Ahalya is sobbing now, hot tears running down her cheeks.

Who are you? She mumbles with a quivering chin.

The evil persona of her mother grasps Ahalya's ankle for one last time, adjusting the fingers to a tight grip and bends it to a whistling shatter. The bone breaks and Ahalya bawls in pain, rolls to a side, her forehead to the earth, her limbs shivering―

Sitting bolt upright, I woke, mouth dry, and kept tapping my hand against my chest, wishing my heart would stop pounding. Like putting a kid to sleep.

I glanced around and found myself in Vishwa's childhood bedroom. The dream wasn't like any other I had before, with vivid details and unnatural occurrences. The face of my mother, if I had to call it that, lingered in my memories. I tried to stand and a surge of pain hit me and I feared if I was still dreaming, but my swollen ankle proved me wrong. In my dream, my ankles were fine, of course, except for the instant where she broke one.

Now, it seemed bloated, like there was a creature growing inside, like they show in the horror movies. The room's atmosphere dried my sweat. Outside, the world was a blend of blue and black. I figured it could be early in the morning. No one woke up yet. I thought of crawling out and also wondered how I ascended the stairs with this ankle.

That was when I saw them.

Papers were scattered around me on all sides. And sketches filled them. I checked my hand and the tips of my right thumb and index finger were black. Like they always do whenever I sketch nonstop. I piled the papers and noticed the sketches on them were my style―thick, yet detailed strokes, lighter outlines and overall, finished in haste.

But I had no memory of drawing them.