Life is over.

You’re dead. You know there’s nothing left. Shades of various colors have been thrown at you. You’ve definitely had it all. You wait patiently for the end. You wait for the exact moment death comes knocking at your door. You wait till life becomes past.
I sat on the queen-size bed in the four cornered bedroom I like to call my shell, dwelling on the fact that I haven’t stepped a foot out of the yellow-painted square egg for fifty seven months. My gaze was focused on the disfigured calenders piled up in one corner of the room, ignoring the gust of wind hitting my face, sending several sheets flying. 

The soft rap on the door awakened me from my trance. “Leave me!” I turned back to face the pile. On the previous day, my ink ticked the last day of a calendar year. Another year had gone by. I had nothing to show for it. I sat still, making out images in the air. 

The knock came again. This time, harder. “You know you can’t lock yourself up forever, hunnay.” The baritone voice spoke from the other side of the door. “I think it’s high time you opened up to me.”

My face turned from the wooden door, to the archaic laptop beside me. My husband stood outside the door, waiting patiently, despite the surety that I wasn’t going to turn the bolt.

“Breakfast is here. Happy New year baby.” I could feel the sadness in his voice and footsteps, as he walked away from the door. But, it was nothing compared to what I was going through 
57 months ago
I sat on the giant sofa that decorated the antique fashioned living room. Drew and I got the house as a parting gift from my Great-Grandma as she passed away few days before we tied the knot. The house had not being furnished since her grandmother passed it on to her. It was undergoing accreditation processes to become a tourist attraction site.

I waited patiently for my husband to arrive from work with good news. I had not prepared dinner for either of us that night, and I wasn’t planning to. I watched from the little hole under the door as a two feet approached. I turned the bolt, hugging the hairy man who stood awkwardly, wearing a strange face.

“Good news?” I sang, pulling him into the room and shutting the door behind us.

 Drew pulled himself away from me, settling uncomfortably in the sofa I recently stood up from. That was the only couch that survived the years of famine. No words came out from his mouth as he stared blankly into the atmosphere.

“Drew? Good news?” I repeated.

His reply came as a very slow, abrupt shake of his pear-shaped head.

“What do you mean?” I know I shouldn’t have asked. The head movement was quite enough for me to jump off a roof.

“Your work wasn’t approved.”

Time paused.

Drew passed me a sheet of paper which I opened reluctantly.
 Juliana Heisenberg is a writer wannabe. She spent her entire childhood skipping classes to write stories under trees and sneak into writing seminars and yet this is what she could produce? It’s a shame.


“Sabrina signed this?” I yelled, my eyes going through each word over and over again. “I thought she was supposed to be my best friend.”

“I thought so too.” He replied. “There’ll be other opportunities. You shouldn’t stress on this one.” He replied.

I sat still, ignoring the tears that were streaming down my face as Drew pulled me closer to himself. I was never going to get another opportunity. If my Best friend could say this, what else is left for a stranger?

 I tore myself away from my husband’s grasp. Grabbing my laptop from the table, I dashed into the visitor’s bedroom, bolting the door behind me.


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