What is the truth ? Is it the one that actually is In all its cold bitterness Or is it the cliches we tell ourselves To make us feel better about things ? What is the absolute? The demarcation between black and white Or the invigorating shades of grey We come to accept and understand? What is certainty ? Is it the happening of things ? Or the assurances we create for ourselves to Believe over a period of time Is truth really true ? Or absolute actually absolute? Is certain always certain ? Truths are bubbles that burst Once they reach the surface- into nothings Absolute - the oil that slowly but steadily Makes a home in the water above it Certainty is the calm before The storm that tides over all the truthful absolutes Certainly , no truths are absolute Nor are the absolutes certainly truthful
I wanted to do something different, so I wrote a story about a couple who are madly in love, who end up killing people and the only way they get away from their crimes is by leaving the country and telling the press that they're dead. Enjoy this short story :)
She’d always been a sickly child Right from the very start Something was twisted inside of her People suspected something was wrong with her heart Her mother would fuss a lot Caring and taking care of all her needs With medication and doctors aplenty Administering her story book reads
She’d go out to play with her friends And after a little while start feeling faint Something was twisted inside of her A grim picture of health she would paint In the evening she would be too unwell To sit with the family at the dinner table She would spend her time throwing up Always nauseous and always unstable
In no condition to attend school like the other kids Her mother was her entire world But something remained twisted inside of her That refused to let her be just another girl Her mother would feed her food and medicines Slowly watch her slurp the hot soup No matter how many drugs were given to her She always had to be kept protectively cooped
Somehow she dragged on till she reached fifteen People would tell her ma how sorry they felt That something was twisted inside of her How they were sad they couldn’t be of help Her mother would weep, be comforted And then go back to attending to the sick People would rally around her mother Who tried to make her better using every trick
And then one day after being unwell for a while She finally died and was at peace Something no longer was twisted inside of her Her soul at last found the much needed release At her funeral her mother was inconsolable Her father serious and heartbroken He’d discovered a nurse who had suspected His wife and left a note as a horrifying token
The following week her mother was arrested For having kept her daughter perpetually ill For that something that had been twisted inside of her She refused to go quietly until She was shown how she’d fed poison slowly To her unsuspecting, trusting little girl Ruled a homicide she was thrown in jail for life Her nasty mind finally to the world unfurled
A dark place is the mind of a mother who manages To twist something inside of her own child Just so that more attention can be drawn To herself and more sympathy derived Labelled a mental illness it survives In parents who outwardly look loving and upright Munchausen by proxy is a disease that takes The life of an innocent and naive child
Pic credit: Pinterest, picture credited to its rightful owner- By Igor Morski
Post Script: Munchausen by proxy is a mental illness in which a person acts as if an individual he or she is caring for has a physical or mental illness when the person is not really sick. Often the victim is made to look sick by the person in order to gain attention and sympathy. As a result, they do real harm to their children in order to fabricate symptoms. Munchausen by proxy is a serious mental condition that should be reported in order to stop the person from being a caregiver to a child who naively accepts the help thinking of it as love and affection.
The sound of a muffled heartbeat. Weak. Stubborn. He kept it that way. The floor smelled like chlorine. A pale white rug spread across the floor had his blood spilt on it. Now it turned orange, diluted to the colour of a blood moon.
What would his wife say if she’s with him now? To hold on? Just a few more hours? Days? Everything will be alright? He loved her. Now he couldn’t see her, ever.
He looked around. A dirty square-shaped room, perfect for keeping abductees like him. The smell of burnt eggs and butter came from the stove table. Why butter?
He rolled over, and his rope moved along with him. His right leg took another cramp. The pain shot up to his abdomen. He didn’t have the energy to scream, but still winced and flinched.
The silence would kill him before anyone could. He felt like a water drop floating up, evaporated into the clouds.
The room had partially closed windows. A silhouette of a cactus outside — its thorns must be freer than him. Moisture thickened in the room compared to the previous day. He shivered a bit. The place had instilled an ambedo; simple, yet deadly.
The sound of the turn of a doorknob was the first sound he heard in the last twenty-four hours. He jerked and sat up. The light hit his eyes, and he didn’t bother. He could see who wanted him dead; his last wish.
A person walked in with a different shape than he expected. A woman. She knelt before him. That face was familiar. His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the light yet.
Everything’s alright, said the voice. His ears stiffened like a rabbit sensing its predator. He knew that voice.
He wanted to yell. WHY? He pressed his eyes shut and opened.
It was Chaaya. His wife.
Just a few more days, said his wife.
A crooked smile. The Velvet shade lipstick shimmered across her lips.
shraddha_shrivastavaHi! I will be highly pleased if you can do me a kind favor. I urgently need few subscriptions on my bestie's channel. Kindly extend your support if you find it worth.The link is in my bio. Thanq soo much for your time.