Behind Closed Doors

a bad memory

Lights off baby girl, time to go to bed,
Don't you wake up scared from your nightmares, for I'll be long dead,
_______________________

27 march 2017
9:30 pm

You know they say; how each man carries his death in his pocket, no one dares to defy it, and no one can prevent it.

'Fate' they call it.

That bitch has no patience nor restrictions.

My whole world stopped as I watched several middle-aged men, clothed in outfits specifically stitched for nurses.

With dirty mustard caps and their name tags dangling from their necks, pushing a stretcher towards the brightly lighted ambulance, screeching loud noises to inform everyone of the tragedy that had taken place.

They stopped in their tracks as I stood at a distance, taking in the calamitous scene before me, their faces bland, lacking any sort of emotion as they looked back towards a man in red and announced,

"we've lost her Dr.Ahmed, age: 41, cause of death: far too many wounds to conclude exactly what killed her, time of death: 9:36 pm".

My breath hitched and I found my legs sprinting towards the ambulance as I watched Dr.Ahmed note down the death details on a form of some sort, attached to a navy coloured clipboard to support the paper.

Nurses helped secure her into a body bag, sliding the corpse into the ambulance roughly as if it wasn't a human being but a ragged doll instead.

I was pushed back by the policemen that stood every few inches from each other, circling the house.

My house

The house that was once a home

The safest, most secure place I had ever known, now seemed like nothing more than a war zone.

A bad memory

I pointed towards the house and then back at me, trying to explain to them that it was my own family they were trying to protect.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't speak, my lips moved but no sound escaped my throat.

I felt mute as I continued to push back both the tears and the officer blocking my view.

Our neighbour Mr.Smith who seemed anxious with the situation in hand, stepped in and told the officers that I was a part of that family, forcing them to let me cross.

But by the time I reached the ambulance, it was too late; tears sprung out my eyes, bleeding onto my cheeks, leaving wet trails.

I cried for my loss.

Their loss.

Loss for the lives we had planned.

Loss for the dreams we had dreamt.

I didn't have enough time to grieve or ask who laid dead in the ambulance when another gruff voice shouted,