Morphine

one : deafening silence

The wall that I face, sitting down with my knees against my chest, is the only thing that holds any interest to me. 

For many days in a row, I admire its ridges and its coarse, rough texture. It's hard bricks that are shoved on top of each other, carelessly, to make a wall. 

Everything is quiet. I wonder if the world is dead, or if it's my imagination. The silence is deafening and I wish there's some constant sound. Any sound. Once I heard his footsteps though, I’d yearn for that silence to return. 

Because silence is better than pain. 

This dark, cold room has been my home since a few years. 

I lost count when I lost a little hope. 

To ease the pain after he’d lash, burn and cut me, I’d think of the happy memories I’d had before I was kidnapped. 

I was twelve. My family and I were at an art exhibition. I’d gotten lost in the crowd. I tried to find my way back, but I couldn’t find my parents anywhere. Bustled and pushed around in the angry crowd, I tried to stay on my feet. 

It happened in seconds. A white cloth was being tied around my mouth and then my hands behind my back too. 

I yelled at the top of my voice, but the sound was muffled and lost in the crowd.

Milan and my parents found me but it was too late. I was dragged and thrown into a car. I struggled and screamed some more, but it was of no use. 

I caught a glimpse of Milan running behind the car. His eyes looked wild and scared to death. 

My parents’ car was parked all the way over at the other entrance of the small ground where the exhibition was being hosted. 

That was when the silence started. Even though the speakers were blaring, as a man talked about a painting on the mike, everything came upon me with a dramatic quietness. 

“What do you want?” I’d cried at the man in the car. There was only one man and he’d done the job cleanly. 

“Revenge.” He’d replied. Turning around he’d given me a stare filled with hatred and instantly I’d been afraid of him and his long scar. 

“What are you talking about?” My voice was chirpy and afraid. 

There was absolutely no reply. 

“My father can give you money. How much ever you want.” 

Apparently he didn’t want any ransom. “I don’t need your money. I want him to suffer.” 

But suffer I did. 

It is a routine event. He comes to my room every alternate day and whips me. Once, he got bored with that so he brought a special whip, a burning whip, and that was a whole new level of pain. 

Surprisingly, he had gotten bored with that too. So, then he’d brought a knife. It’d gleamed along with his eyes. He’d pin me down on the ground and slowly, deviously ripped the skin on my shoulder, my arms and even my face. 

He enjoyed this. I could tell. 

I thought I could get used to all this, but I couldn’t. Nothing to soften the pain. No morphine, no tranquilizers, no medicine. No nothing.

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