By Rajashri Das
twenty minutes has passed and the sounds has stopped, the cursings came to an end, screams were silenced and the vulgarities totally shut. i hear nothing, but quietness; absolute absence of noise or bustle. an uninvited ghost of tranquil has surfaced and manifested itself in rapid conclusion. assembling all of my courage , which in fact was very little, i unlocked the door with hesitant hands and a terrified mind. i went in, didn't really need to look around for anything at all because the first thing i saw was my mother. i didn't exactly see her but i stepped upon her, i stepped on her wrist as she was there lying on the ground with no movements, none at all. her eyes were shut, shades of tears clearly visible, hair scattered in dirty shambles, clothes disheveled and greatly ripped, hands ornamented in linear scrapes and scratches. blood oozed out from her wrists trickling down her fingers as though her carpus had been painted in a shade of vermilion red, the kind of red which isn't soothing to watch or lovable to admire but instead it's the kind of red that details into hatred and disgust, the kind of red which humiliates the eyes. there was a knife, not kept there in mere tidiness or for any cause beneficial to human kind. it was just left there, pushed over, thrown away now because it has performed it's function and finished it's intention, i.e., the action of cutting or scraping something ; miles of skin in the current situation. " Sam ! where in the world are you? " I was shoved back into forced actuality as i could see and hear my mother clamouring a yell, accompanied with confused glances directed towards my way. I gazed around scanning and inspecting my surroundings resulting into a shocked realization that i am certainly seated inside my room, with no evidence of blood or any indication of a knife either. But rather a single and unusual book was within my grasp, a fixed page clasped between the wads of my thumb. I slammed the book shut concluding with a second realization : i absolutely and undeniably escaped into a dreamscape, dissipated amidst the lines, respired within the syllables and penetrated into a frantic fantasy of a narrative called the 'lifeblood'.