A Garden Of Hydrangeas

افسرداہ | Upset

Chapter 25.

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Da bad kar anjaam bad vee — do bad and bad shall come, famous pashto phrase. It was famous in the old wives tales that the women told to their grandchildren, whispering soft nothing into the toddlers ears all the while going on about the mythical creatures that had haunted the forests of Mushkpur, the witch that was trapped in the sil-sil, all had fallen prey to this saying. It was to keep the young babes alarmed, to save them from indulging into a dark reality that they would not know of. To keep them under the bright shade of their wings, to stop that which was written in the twisted games of destiny.

A mouthwatering hunger is the result of centuries of holding back the pain and built up frustration. It keeps the eye focused on the goal, like a horse's vision focused on to the end, artificially. Man tends to ignore the responsibilities thrown at it from the sides, it's one sided, self centered perspective does not settle well with the complicated planes of it's soul. A coma is induced in the body to favor that which they want, it numbs all other sensations, including very much so the alarm from the mind and the caution from the heart. There is in the end, nothing but a creepy crawling vine of pain — stabbing the heart, the price to be paid for the carelessness the mind has sown.

Under the steep slopes of the Himalaya's, cut off from the rest of the world by a thicket of dense forests and a sharp cutting river, Mushkpur was a dynastic mystery. No one could ever explain why had the land, between the bone shattering mountains been chosen as the perfect place to call home. It was a mystery, how the land had been cultivated for years — for eons without repair the people had inhabited the land. Even centuries of invasions had not managed to damaged the integrity natural to the place. It still stood, tall and valiant with it's traditions and culture. The vulturous audacities of faux sympathies, were destroyed at the large gates to the province, surrounded on each side with statues carved into the mountain side. Mushkpur was indeed a mystery ; the events and the magic — unbeknownst was beyond anything that ever occurred in the rest of the country.

Dark and tumultuous — the wind's were a testament of the howling pain forcing it's way out of the back door in the largest home inside the capital of the province. Even in the midnight sky, when nothing remained bright instead a death of the skies, a mourning of the evening's sins, the house was still alight. It was over — the sweet rays of joy that had brushed the walls in their sweet honey ; were soured at the end of the day. Screams and shouts, at the top of the house in the depths of their throats. A matter was theirs to keep, hidden under a farce — an outsider would not be involved. As the sheer joy from the dinner came to an end, the bitter taste from the revolting words dissolved at the price of the baklava she had made on his insistence ; life threw a curveball. It shattered their ribs and left them in the midst of fiery red fires. A crash, a wave, an instant storm and it had all crumbled.

Her head pressed against the back of the rocking chair, her legs pushed against her chest in an attempt to remove herself of any presence. A breath — even a small one that escaped her body without any approval, pained her a great deal. She chewed on her bottom lip, her teeth tearing the skin off and then sucking the blood off in a desperate attempt to be rid of the poisonous thoughts. Vindictive.
Vicious.
Violent — the night resembled the artilleries of his words and her veins. The inky black that dwelled within them all left her mind throbbing with a pain she had never wanted for herself. Her skin was paler than ever, the rosy hue his words had gifted ; stolen from the curses he had spat, it was all obliterated. Would it ever go back to normal?

Tapping her fingers on top of her collar bones she gripped the tiny heart locket her father had gifted her a few days ago. It's cold metal warmed against her fingers, the sweaty marks of the tips left behind their reminders of existence. She could barely feel her heart beat as it kicked with an unmatched speed. There was no truth of how she felt. The facts were unknown to Filza herself too. Of how they got to this point. Of when had it all crashed. Of who was behind this destruction except for the enemy that was fate itself. A dance with the edge of the sword, had pierced into their skins as they allowed carelessness to lead them. Her eyes hurt the longer she forced them open, rubbing the heels of her palms into her swollen eyes. Soft sobs escaped her lips and her shoulders shook in violent sprints. Her hands stroked the fur of the tiny kitten, whose presence she could not ignore but also who rubbed salt into her wounds.