Between The Blue

12

In the wake of miseries, doubts and accusations often remain engraved in the thickest of layers, hiding, crawling, and submitting to the dead dust, But, once unleashed, they lose that fear, thick-skinned, they harm in the hush of deadened skin and peel off the scariest of scars.

Blames are tormenting, they take away the good from you. Not only do they make you bitter, but leave you restless for the rest of your lives. They say time heals everything, lies...all lies, it doesn't- the red scars ring fresh in your ears on the darkest nights, and you are left with your guilt, anxiety, helplessness, questioning everything like a limp. You hate yourself, you hate your imperfections, you judge your silence, you curse your fate, and the next morning you wake up like you are over it, it was a phase but it's not...really— because it returns on the bad days and you realize it's a cycle.

People say they don't care. Well they, do. Everyone does. No one is immune to hurt. You have a heart, that beats, no matter with venom of black or love of red, it beats. And it's real. So behaving like you know it all, you had it all doesn't take away the chances of greater pain instead it makes you weaker because all the time you have been living in a myth.

The pain will break you.

The hurt will hurt you.

Denying the effect of it will only take away your chance at a better life, so those who claim they don't care, are lying. Because when they get hurt they can't even hide in their safest corners— because they have already blown their covers.

Their defense mechanism has reached its threshold.

Hiral sat in the middle of the hall visibly shaking. Her body rested, lifeless and pale, her skin white, her face red with all the crying. She could only hear muffled voices. Everyone was only screaming for some time. She could hardly decipher what it meant. She felt weak. And done.

Everyone had their set of blame to throw but nobody asked her if she was to be blamed.

That photo— that photo, why, what, how, she knew nothing.

He was a lawyer she knew. He was a murderer she realized today.

"Hiral speak up, how do you know this man? What are you doing in this picture with him?" Sushma Kashyap bellowed, shaking her up. "Is this true? Whatever Prateek Ji is saying is this true?" Her mother was on the verge of tears.

"No" She answered emotionless. She didn't move at all. Her head ached. Her phone buzzed on the side as she cut the call. "He is the lawyer Papa sent me to. I have no idea about the picture and I have nothing to do with him." She tried telling her mother for the nth time.

"Then what are doing here with him?" Sushma shook her shoulders.

"I am not doing anything with him. It was no longer than a minute before we crossed paths, I HAVE NO IDEA ABOUT THE PICTURE"

"And This is your one minute." It was Prateek who threw another newspaper and scoffed from the farther end of the room. Every newspaper to exist had that photo on the front page.

"Maybe it's the wrong angle" Sheetal piped in.

It was not. Hiral knew.

"Lies all lies" Prateek rebuked. "She has been having an affair with a married man which cost the life of another woman. I was not wrong"

"Prateek, mind your language" Taruj intervened.

"Then Why don't you tell your sister to admit the truth?" Prateek hissed.

"There is no other truth," Hiral screamed shot up from her place. Enough was enough. "Papa, believe me, I don't even know him like that," She told her father, trying to put this in everyone's head for once and all.