The Lullaby

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I time my breathing to the ticking of the wall-clock. Or at least, I try to. The therapist said it would help, especially with all the breathlessness. But I fail. Repeatedly. My heart doesn’t slow down. The dread doesn’t stop flowing, ice-cold through my veins.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He is coming. I know it. He is out there somewhere, steadily making his way toward me. Dodging the cedar trees. Careful not to lose footing in the snow. He is coming. And I am powerless.

I sit up in bed, desperate to protect myself. To do something before he can reach me. Before he can break down my door and enter. Before he can clutch me in his vice-like grip. Before he can wrap his fingers around my neck and sing me a lullaby. Just like he sang to Sushma. Or Sush, like we used to call her.

I miss Sush. I miss her so very much. My dear, darling, fragile little sister. I miss the way she would run towards me and throw her slender arms around me. I miss her laughter, sounding just like the bell at the tiny café in the street corner. I miss her large eyes, pools of chocolaty innocence. And, most of all, I miss her neck. That elegant, graceful neck with its swan-like curve and delicate skin. Around which were, in the last precious moments of her brutally short life, wrapped the intruder’s filthy hands. And now those hands are ready again. To choke the life out of another. To choke the life out of me.

He is closer now. His boots leave deep marks in the snow. Marks that will be covered tomorrow. Marks that will be forgotten tomorrow. I stand up, but my feet feel unsteady. My head feels light. I cannot do it anymore. I cannot fight. I cannot defeat him. It is as though he is a force of nature, and I am not even a reality.

I descend onto my mattress, holding onto the head-rest for dear life. I am not strong enough. I must sacrifice myself to fate. It is futile to put up a fight. Where would I like to be when it ended? Right here, on my bed? Where I spent many a night in comfort, wrapped up in my kambal, dreaming of sunshine and flowers and freedom. And where I also spent many a night in discomfort, dreading the dawn, dreading every passing second, dreading my very existence.

I shut my eyes.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

My eyes fly open. No! I cannot let it happen. I cannot let him touch me. I cannot hear a lullaby today. I stand up again, this time with more vigour. The intruder approaches. He is minutes away from the house. I can feel it in the way my blood curdles and my heart races. My mind is numb, but I entreat it desperately to think. It, however, refuses to oblige. I reluctantly surrender to my instincts. No more contemplation. No more wasted time.

I make my way over to the kitchen, careful not to make a sound. It would wake the neighbours. I couldn’t have that. They would come around. Ask questions. Questions to which I don’t have answers. And the intruder would know.

My eyes sweep over the counter, and I feel a surge of blind panic. Where did it go? I rush around, yanking out drawers and flinging opening cabinets. The panic reaches a feverish pitch. My breath comes out in short gasps. Sparks begin to dance before my eyes as I ransack my kitchen. Until, finally, I find it.

Relief fills my mind. I lay the knife-holder on the wooden countertop and begin pulling each knife, sleek in its metallic glory, out. I lay them all out, exactly parallel to one another. They must be exactly parallel. For in this arrangement, they are a force to be reckoned with. They are beautiful. Still sharp, still deadly, but beautiful.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I wait. I wait and wait and wait. He is not here yet. Has he been held up? Is there a blizzard outside? I want to check but feel too lethargic. It doesn’t matter anymore. So what if he was kept a few hours? He is still coming for me.

Unless, I think, my head raised slightly, he has found someone else. Another house, another girl, another lullaby. Another life to end. Another world to destroy. I sit on the floor, my knees pulled to my chest. The white tile stares blankly back. In that moment, I wish I were it. An empty, unfeeling slab. Without feelings or fear. I would never fear the intruder and his large, murderous hands again.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

My neck snaps upward. I hear it. A sound, ever so wee, from the front door. He is here. And he will end me. Unless I stop him. I jump to my feet and grab a knife as the door opens ever so slowly. This is the moment. This is when I turn the tables around. This is when, for once, I win.

An icy gust of wind blows through the front door, and I think again of Sush. If she were here with me. I remember her clearly, as I have never remembered anyone before. I remember the way she would throw her arms around me as if to suffocate me. I remember her laughter, with always just enough subtle vanity to be registered yet never enough to be noticed. I remember her large eyes, swamps of lurking malevolence. And most of all, I remember her neck. That pretty, pert neck with its haughty tilt and extra-exquisite skin. Around which were, in the dying moments of her insignificant life, wrapped the intruder’s powerful hands.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

He is inside now. He makes his way towards me. His face is covered, yet I can see into his eyes. I can see into those self-satisfied eyes and when I do, I suddenly lose my fear. My hand no longer trembles. My heart slows into a gentle rhythm. I drop the knife, and relish the clatter as it collides with the unfeeling tiled floor. And it is then that I realise.

It is stupid to run. It is stupid to fight. It is stupid to block out the lullaby. It is stupid to fear the intruder because the intruder is –

“Sarita!”

Suddenly, I am somewhere else. Suddenly, the world is no longer my little house in the hills, but a blindingly bright room, with several others looking down at me. There is a babel, a crescendo, a cacophony. I clench my fists and hang my head. I shut everything out. I wish, more than ever, to go home. Back to my little house in the hills, where everything is so simple. Where no one wears uniforms. Where there are no doctors. Where there is no treatment.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I time my breathing to the ticking of the wall-clock. Or at least, I try to. The therapist said it would help me, especially with all the breathlessness. But I fail. Repeatedly.