Dear S,
I get dreams, S. Real dreams. I can’t call them nightmares.
They’re way too real for that. It’s like they happen to me. I’m afraid, S. Its
night time and I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to go sleep. I’m way too
scared for that. What if they come back? They come back each night, don’t they?
And I can’t resist them. I can’t stop them. It’s like they’re a part of me,
now. They’re more real then I will ever be.
You know, S, sometimes I can hear them in the day as well.
They call out to me. They call me. But I don’t want to go, S. I don’t want to
leave you and go with them. I’m a coward. I’m too, too scared for that.
I remember that you asked me not to sleep last time. And I
did try to follow your advice. I didn't sleep for three whole days, you know?
But they did come back. They did come back every night when I tried to stay
awake on overwhelming doses of caffeine. Even caffeine doesn't stop them now. I
can hear them, S. I can hear them, loud and clear. And I’m very scared to admit
it but, but I can feel them as well, S. They’re a part of me, now. I know they
are. But I don’t want them to be.
I picked up the knife last night, S. I just sat there, in
the balcony, with my coffee in one hand and my knife in the other. And I
waited. I waited for them to come. I wanted to scare them this time, you know?
I wanted to frighten them away. It was a while before they came, you know? But
they did come. And they were unaffected. They were unaffected by my knife or
the macramé of my defeated courage. They sat with me, you know. And? And they
asked for a cup of coffee. I was scared, S. I didn't know what to do. And I
almost screamed. I almost shouted out for help. But that’s the thing. Almost. I couldn't scream. I couldn't call out for help. I couldn't do anything except
sit there in my silent misery and gasp for my stolen breath.
My cushions are angry with me, S. I wet them with all my
tears, you know? I keep telling them that I’ll stop. That this is the last
time. That this won’t happen again. But I become a better liar each time. And I
remain a liar, always.
How did this happen, S? How did I become this person? How?
I was strong. I was very strong, once upon a time. Then what happened? How did
I grow to be who I am today? Where did I lose myself exactly? Was it among the
chaos? Was it among the silence? Or, was it among the silence of the chaos?
I still remember those times, S. The ones when I still had
some courage. The ones when I wasn't so defeated. The ones when I was still
living. When I was a person who wasn't afraid. A person who wasn't afraid of
those dreams, of those voices, and of them.
What happened then, S? I still remember being able to call
out for help. I still remember being able to describe what I was feeling. It
always helped, you know? Talking to people. Telling them. And listening to them
tell me that it’ll get better. Listening to them say that it always does get
better.
Now it seems that I lost my voice somewhere. I can’t seem
to talk about it. I can’t seem to describe how I feel. I feel devoid of words,
at times, you know? No one knows, S. No one, except you.
And maybe that’s the reason why you know. Because you
understand. I don’t think anyone else does that. They seem to be so consumed in
themselves and their own chaos that they forget. And they do forget. Every
single time.
I can’t seem to tell anyone, S. I don’t think they’d
understand. Like they didn't understand seven years ago when it all first happened. When it all started out. When I first heard them, when I met them for
the very first time. When they first came to me.
It all mattered then. To me, at least. But you know what
they thought? When I told them about it, they called me a liar. They called me
deluded. They called me insane.
And you know the mistake I made? I believed them. I put all
my faith and trust in what they said. And I believed them. I did. I believed
them when they said that it was all a figment of my imagination. I believed
them when they said that it’ll all pass away. And I believed them when they
called me insane.
And then, it stopped mattering. It stopped mattering six
years ago. It didn't matter if those dreams didn't stop. It didn't matter if I
started hearing them in the day as well. It didn't matter that I was so
pathetically scared that I couldn't even leave a room alone. It didn't matter
if those voices told me to pick up the knife each night. And it definitely
didn't matter when those voices whispered and whispered and forced me to dig
that knife in layers in the wrist of my right hand. It never really did. And it doesn't matter
even now.
They come back each night. They always do. And if I don’t
travel to meet them in my dreams, they come to pay me a visit in my reality.
But aren't my dreams, my reality? I think they are now. I think they've become.
Because nothing feels more real than those dreams and nothing beats the
deafening silence after those voices have whispered. Nothing. Absolutely
nothing.
They’re whispering again, S. The knife doesn't feel too far
away. I did hide it, S. I really did. But they know exactly where it is. And
they’re calling me. The knife’s calling me. I’m scared, S. I really am. I need
to go, S. They won’t forgive me if I delay and I’m too tired to fight them.
Sometimes I even long to hear them. To hear them whisper.
They’re here, S. They’re here. I need to go. I need to go
now.
Goodbye, S. I don’t know if I’ll ever write to you again. I
don’t know if they’ll ever let me. I’m scared, S. I’m scared of them.
Goodbye S.
Love,
Emm
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