Fiction, Word Pad


What is it about a hot shower that washes your tears away? The allure of a clean slate? Or the promise of sins soaped away? I feel every drop of water that splashed against my worn and calloused skin, my skin that has felt so much; my feet that took me places I’ve only dreamt of, my hands that have held on to anchors, my face where I’ve felt your kiss a thousand times and the scar that is still tender from yesterday.

I stand here beneath this rain and surrender myself in your hands. Oh if only the Gods could hear me now! Wash away my sins, I cry. Wash away every trace of him. I don’t want memories. Remove the stain of his presence from my skin. I scrub and scrub in the hope that I can peel a fresh layer of skin, pure and untouched. As the water falls on my face I feel it mingle with my tears and there is no difference. I cry like a thunderstorm.

I scratch the surface in the hopes of  tearing away every vestige. But how do I remove your presence from below, where most of the damage is done? No amount of tears will erase your remnants from my heart. The times I’ve wept for you, for me, for you to stop and for me to stop loving you. I knew you were destructive but I kept coming back. I knew you weren’t good for me, although you knew me like no ever had. How could I turn away from that? How could I turn away from knowing that you were my one shot at happiness?

But I had to. I now stand here helpless and weak doing the only thing I can do now, which is to erase you, for my heart, from my life and from my soul, the place where I thought you would always have a home.

I finally see the blood seep through the lines on my skin and I know that I have reached the edge. Beyond this, I can only hope but my poor heart listens to no reason.

Word Pad

Chocolate Slave

This was the third time she walked around the market trying to decide what she wanted. Her shoes were pinching her toes. They were a size smaller. But they went well with her pants and she didn’t have a choice but to wear them. Her nimble fingers clenched the white box. She fumbled around to open it and when she did she saw two gorgeous, big, chocolate cupcakes. She took a big bite from one and felt the warm, chocolaty goodness flow through her body. It calmed her mind. Chocolate was medicinal, after all.

But that wasn’t enough. She looked around searchingly. Finally, her eyes caught the ice cream truck. It was painted in a cheery red color and had a welcoming sign. “I’ve found the mother ship!”, she thought happily. Her well heeled feet took her to the counter. Chocolate salted caramel, banana strawberry pineapple, mango ice, peanut butter Oreo fudge, vanilla bean. Her eyes glowed at the endless possibilities.

“I will have a scoop of the peanut butter Oreo fudge on top of the chocolate salted caramel and a drizzle of chocolate fudge in the chocolate dipped waffle.”, she said eagerly to the lady at the counter. She turned to the next person in the line, a skinny girl. She felt the need to explain her customized choices.

“I’m hormonal”, she said sheepishly shrugging her shoulder.

The skinny girl grinned, her white teeth were blinding. “Oh me too! I’ve been sitting there wondering which flavor I should get!”.

Ice cream trucks, serving hormonal women one scoop at a time.

Word Pad


She sat in the room, alone and lost. The sound of silence pierced through her ear drums. She didn’t want to feel this way. Silence is eerie. It makes you hear things that aren’t there. Your mind works in over drive, forming ideas that shouldn’t exist. The painting on the wall was the only colorful piece in the room, in my life, she thought dramatically. But this, loneliness was no drama.

She exhaled just so that she could hear something. She wanted to confirm that she could make some noise. What is the point of making noise if you aren’t heard?

The four walls seemed to close in. The physical walls were far apart but the walls in her mind were moving. Inching a little every day, she felt the chain around her heart tighten. The scars on her thighs, remnants from the past seemed to call out to her. She couldn’t slit herself anywhere else in her body, people would see. But the thigh, the sacred thigh was her’s alone,  to make crisscross lines that were alive with blood.

What satisfaction did slitting give her? She couldn’t explain. Did she feel less lonely? No. Did she feel like she had been heard? No. Digging in to her own flesh made her seem alive. It reiterated the fact that she was, in fact, alive. Alive enough to hear the sound of silence.