The doctor asks me where it hurts the most, I pick up the black marker and draw a cross on the left swell of my chest and already it hurts a little less , I guess the first stage was always to recognise where it all pains …. the mark of the ink has now seeped through and stained .
The doctor asks me if I know why it hurts, without thinking I utter the word “cancer”. He confines my body in a laboratory and runs tests to hunt the cause but how can I tell him that it is my thoughts that are carcinogenic, thoughts which roams in places forbidden to girls like me and as souvenirs bring the only agony, I cry.
The doctor detects a piece of lead in my heart says it’s too dangerous to take out so let me replace your heart instead(as if it was that easy to take out a heart and rip it apart, but then many have already done it so easily). I lay on a cheap bed with morphine racing in my veins, wondering why I wish for no heart to be replaced … still, I wait.
The doctor sits on a chair breathing heavily when I wake up, I ask what is wrong and he describes the inside of my body to me. He describes it as an enigma, so with my face placed on my palms, I listen.
The doctor says “A set of 24 pillars seek freedom while pressing over the unblemished cover of your skin and you would see 12 on each side , these pillars must have been ivory white once but now they look translucent as if all the marrow had been run out with only glass bones left, a jungle of Carmine and emerald coloured vines lay scattered in the middle, sunken in the mud like clotted gory. A mass of muscles lies in the left of this cursed castle , they amplify and abridge , letting the river of scarlet tears to flow through the barren hallways of the carcass , the vermilion vessels of ichor wrap around this mass like lavender vines, even if some which had rotten during inhumane ventures of the mind poke and bite as barbed wires instead , (I guess flowers do die out of hatred) . The lead stirs in the deep corner of the core, awakening like memories and plays on record the lifetime of darkness and shadows, too dangerous to touch, so leave it be “
The doctor says there was not a thread strong enough to keep my wounds from getting open so he seals them with duct tape instead. Now the plastic scratches against the skin of my spine mar it with rashes and bruises but somehow I still walk.
The doctors ask me how I am doing five years after the surgery and after five years I finally tell someone the truth that how one cannot live with paper skin and glass bones, he can only survive. I tell him how if someone’s hate hits me too hard, then even the glass bones break and the broken shards flow like venom leaving a trace of scars. How sometimes the paper gets torn away in filthy alleyways by filthy hands that still I somehow keep my heart gift wrapped within fake smiles and empty laughs.
The doctor asks with fascination whether I have let my mind heal and again I give him the sugar coated truth that only some are as brave as to venture in such haunted asylum, that only some have the tools to dig deep into the graveyards in my soul and set free the spirits that hold me captive. But as he starts to hang up the phone, I tell him that even with lead-laden blood one can still bleed red and that somehow with a jungle for a bosom and dust for thoughts, I breathe.