She climbed out of the bed in an instant, and lit a cigarette. That’s when I knew I had struck a nerve. Brutally. I watched her stand by the window where the gleaming moon lit up one side of her face.
I watched how she tilted her head back every now and then, and would dab the corner of her eye with her ring finger whenever she felt a tear seeping out. She sniffed, and cleared her throat as if she were about to utter something. But nothing came. Her quivering lips juxtaposed with the still, inanimate expression that was glued to her face.
My mind couldn’t reason a logical thing to say to her. Or if there was anything to say. So I let the oppressive silence squash us both. It was an unpleasant scene to watch, and yet at the same time, be a part of.
But it happens sometimes. You’re either one person or the other in scenarios like this; either you’re the person crumbling, trying to clasp yourself together as you struggle to digest how you let someone you love and trust hurt you. Someone you never in a million years would have thought would, or even was capable of doing so.
Your fingertips feel static. Your heart pounds your chest so hard your whole torso quakes. A mere moment of sanity and clarity appears to be so out of reach. You remain immobilised and defeated by a hollow but yet desperate emotion. You feel something once flamboyant turn to a cruel grey and wither inside you.
Or, on the other hand, you’re the causer of it all. And the audience. And The Killer.