Denial
Who should move on?
“Either he has become delusional or I have,” she was fidgeting with her fork as the thought hit her head for the hundredth time.
Her eyes were fixated on her husband who looked more than normal, nonchalant as he always was, going about his day as he waited for her to finish her breakfast.
“I still cook badly, don't I,” he said, looking at her frozen, pondering state.
Can she even taste it? Before she could respond he came close to her.
“I'll take a day off and stay with you. It’s OK,” he said, kissing her forehead.
His voice had the tenderness which made her yearn to be human, again— to feel his presence in reality.
How warm the touch of his lips was. If only she was in flesh and blood. But she wasn’t. Was she? She sighed and said nothing.
As he husband cleaned the table after her, she kept staring at the big, deep scar on her left hand that stretched to her chest A wound that had healed by now but told the story of how she was crushed under a monstrous thing. A heavy feeling made her heart sink into a deep sorrow as if something precious was taken away from her. Or was something put inside her that didn't belong to her?
Carrying the weight of her thoughts she dragged herself up and passed to the bedroom, just to lay in her bed like a corpse — motionless, alive only in memories.
These days, her routine has been reduced to the most basic of animal behaviors. She was fed by her husband and then she would pass out in her bed. She felt like a pet.
A pet her husband loved more than anything.
Maybe spirits are like animals, only. Maybe her husband had chosen to live this way. Pretending his beloved wife was still around. But how much can one pretend? He can cook, believe that she ate, and clean up after her. Tell her to rest and sleep. Kiss her ever so lightly, every now and then. But what more? Do they talk anymore? Does she make any contribution to his life? Is she affecting him in any way? No! Nothing!
"This is like being an animal! Worse than that, a spirit! Are spirits worse than animals? How does it matter? She’s no longer a human. She is dead," she kept staring at the ceiling as the thoughts spiraled in her head.
But she can watch her husband living in denial. She can watch her lover living a miserable, hollow life.
And she wants him to move on.
“What shall I do? What shall I do to want him to come back to reality? Shall I haunt him?” the side of her temple pulsated whenever she felt pressed by those questions. She feared her head would burst any moment and her eyes would turn red, welling up with tears.
But it never scared her husband away. In fact he would embrace her, wrap her into his arms more than ever these days.
“How could she feel him, all of him? Did he feel her too, her body? How could she make sure what was real?” All these thoughts were a tell that she was in hell.
“Hell must feel like this. What more is there to torture me? To feel I’m alive and know that I am dead!” She hid her head under the pillow and pressed it hard against her face, as if she wanted to kill herself—again.
“Not again, not... again,” he said, rushing to the bed and snatching the pillow away from her.
“That’s it, we’re going to the doctor,” he said.
“And can the doctor see me, too?” she asked with almost a child-like curiosity.
“What do you mean? This trauma is taking a toll on you.” He paused before saying any further.
“Look, the doctor has asked you to take rest. Which means rest your mind. OK. Not just the body,” he almost whispered, trying to keep his nerves calm.
He didn’t want things to get ugly, like the last time.
“The last time..” he thought, staring at her, his eyes unblinking as if he were dead, too.
This is the outcome of a prompt writing session I once attended with a wonderful group of writers in the beautiful city of Pune, India. The prompt was about a woman who thought she was dead. I have kept it ambiguous about who is dead in the story.