DAWN TILL DUSK

The edge of the knife was cool against my skin, sending a shiver through my body. If I tilted it at the right angle, I could see my reflection in the metal. Curly black hair that fell on slumped shoulders and mascara mixed with salty tears drying out on the cheeks, did not

paint the prettiest picture of me. I glanced away, and stared at the framed photograph of my mother, that hung next to the dresser, on the wall to the side of the bed. You could tell she had been one that laughed when younger, the crinkles at the corner of her eyes evident of it. An intense feeling of guilt and regret clouded my heart, with the realization that she would be disappointed in me, in what I was about to do.

I gripped the handle of the knife tightly, and I could feel my fingers tremble. I closed my eyes and mustering up all the effort I thought myself capable of putting in, I put pressure on the blade, beginning to move it back and forth the way one does while carving and cutting a piece of meat. I waited, for the pain and for the sudden gush of blood, for it to flow out in every direction, warm. It did not come. I slowly lifted my eyelids, and turned my head to look at my arm. The only evidence of the act was a temporary mark, where the knife had dug in; a mark that would go away with little massaging. I could not do it. The blade clattered to the floor. I felt myself sinking.

A guttural, almost animalistic, voice travelled up my throat. An unexpected wave of desperation and anger struck me. I grabbed hold of the sides of the dresser, hauled myself up to sit on my knees and leaned back. Momentum. It was important for it to come fast, with force. I breathed in, raggedly, and pleading my body to comply, I pushed myself forward. My forehead touched the wood lightly. Something inside me broke.

I screamed, but no sound escaped my mouth. I collapsed to the floor, shaking. Tears rolled down, as I gasped and croaked. I had never let myself cry in a manner so loud, so raw and so vulnerable. I kicked with my feet, scratched my arms like a cat, protesting against the pain and its catharsis. I felt suffocated and between heavy sobs, I choked, unable to draw in enough breath. I put my hands between my legs, and curled up in a foetal position, coaxing myself to stop. The bawling reduced itself to tiny, periodic sniffles and I lay there, on the chilly marble floor. Time dragged on.

I replayed every night I spent in this house, every single incident, its instigation, its intensity, its impact and wondered what, what I could have possibly done to deserve it. To deserve to be married to an individual who had no respect for my body, my mind and my soul. One who, without fail, cracked his whip and let the blows fly endlessly. One who had been promised to be my protector, and kept me locked up inside a house. Who did not reduce or hold back even when he appeared pleased.

The antique clock, a wedding present from my family, ticked away softly in the background. I tried to move, but it was difficult. My second attempt was more successful. I wobbled to the bed; my left foot still sore from the beating it had taken the previous night. Before sitting down, I took down the photo frame and carried it with me. I placed it gently, on the silk covers and looked at it closely.

“I miss you, ma. I miss… I miss the way you massaged my head during migraine attacks. I miss the way your arms felt around me, when I cried about losing those precious marks. I miss the way you let me win every monopoly game, let me say BINGO! even when you had the numbers. I miss your love, ma.” I placed my hand on her photograph, trying to feel something from the other side. I remembered what she used to tell me, before she became too sick, too weak to speak. “When things seem unbearable, when it becomes too hard, think of me and talk to me. There is no pain that cannot be dissolved if one talked and another listened, intently. I will, baby. I will always be your refuge, even after I am gone.”

My throat felt scratched up. I was all cried out. But I had not spoken. And so, I talked. I talked about everything that happened, and then some more. I did not cry, but I felt something lift. A tiny rock, amongst the many that pushed me down, rolled out and disappeared. It was not tremendous, but it was significant. Even when the doorbell rang, and the resignation of what would follow overpowered me, I did not feel completely lost.

I quickly put the photograph back in its place. I took one last look at the person who would give me the chance to put back pieces of my own self together. Picking up the knife to put it back in the kitchen, I moved towards the door. The doorbell rang again. I swallowed.

The night was his, but I could make the day mine.