I don’t know if I felt the pain anymore when the “tiger” razor, with the potency of the samurai sword, dug into my succulent-and-scarred wrists the third time that week. I didn’t pause to discover if the blood was red, like actually blood red, or like the dull brown red that burst forth every month without any permission, and refused to burst without any permission either! I only knew, in spite of the lingering numbness, that I knew nothing: I didn’t know who I was once or who I had become. I didn’t know who was real and wasn’t. I don’t know if my memories are imaginations or factual events. I don’t know.

Slowly, I clean off my cloudy eyes with the back of my other hand, bandaged as it was; and gingerly clean up the new red lines and bandage them in similar fashion. I hear that little thing cry again. It seems like she is hungry…as usual… but I am too wrecked to face her little-silly-stupid-annoying-face-that-looks-like-him and I slump on the bed I have been sitting on instead. The tattered mattress that has bugs in them.

Soon, sleep comes again; as it has been for over nine months now. It has been quite frequent a relation; mastering my undead emotions; knowing just when I needed to escape the numbing reality that I no longer felt.

Then dreams start to mingle with past:

“How would you betray us like this, foolish child of the devil! Do you realize what you’ve done to us”


“He drugged me!”


“We warned you to stay away from fellows like him!”


“I believe your ward is experiencing symptoms of Post-traumatic stress disorder arising from the pregnancy and birth of the child”


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