Empty Pages S2 E1

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Exhale




She watched his breath rise and fall jaggedly. His breath stopped for a moment when time stood still. Slowly he got back into rhythm.

She planted her face in her hands. What had she done to deserve this? What could she do to fix this? This was all her fault. Except it wasn't . She didn't chose for this to happen. She flitted between feeling horrible for herself and feeling responsible for something she couldn't fix.

She waited patiently as the clock ticked on. The hands of the clock seemed to wait to make each second of this  agonisingly longer.

She woke up to find the room being cleaned up. Nothing made sense. Nobody  would tell her anything.The doctor came in to give her, what he assumed to be the bad news.

Her heart lifted. She was finally free. Nobody to hit her. Nobody to hurt her. Nobody to steal her childhood.


Cloud nine


She was on cloud nine.
She had finally finished her last day of school. This meant no more exams, no more notes, no more classes.

She closed her pen forcefully with great satisfaction. She was ready for the real world. And for summer vacation with endless summer drinks.

The pen would find its way to a drawer and lie there forgotten as the owner moved from city to city,seeing the world. Growing, becoming a new person.

Her mother was yelling at her. Everyone was yelling at her and she couldn't hear any of them clearly enough to listen to their instructions. The dog was yapping to not feel left out.

She was sure she wouldn't need anything from her old room. She started trashing what was once precious to the teenage her. Letters. Tickets. Notes. Newspaper clippings.

Stationery was boxed too. A lot of pencils, brushes. Stencils. Multiple dividers and compasses from different sets. Half an eraser. She almost threw the pen too. But there was so much attached to it.

It brought her pleasant memories of asking her new bench partner for a cloth to wipe the ink. Lending it to the boy she liked but only had the courage to smile at. Writing real fast with and almost ripping her final mathematics paper. Visiting 3 shops with her patient grandfather,  till she found one that had it in green.  

Nostalgia is that filter which makes even disasters seem like the good old times. She'd have to work a bit to keep a piece of it.

Few rinses later ink flowed from the nib like butter on hot toast, gliding across the sheets, making new words, new memories on the go.
Cloud nine is the smell of drying ink on fresh paper.

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