Solitude need not be painful. Each morning I walked amidst crowds, strangers around, oblivious of my existence. There were none I cared about, and none who cared about me. I’ve been this way for longer than I could remember. An inanimate soul lurking in silence. I wasn’t lonely. I preferred the solitude. Any remnant feelings for humanity within me slowly deteriorated with each passing day. I was in perfect awe of my independence. Free of any responsibility besides survival. I had learnt to embrace my freedom from commitment. What was once my greatest fear has now been turned into strength.
There was something about her that made my world tremble. She seemed innocent, a damsel in distress. It was all an act. Troubled as she was, there were none who knew her well enough to judge. The stark demeanor she delineated ceased to exist. Those who fell for her found themselves in a chasm, helpless and confused. Was she evil, or was this her way of embracing life. We were different. What’s wrong for me might be right for her. Who am I to judge. What right do I have to condemn her. I had to let her go, though she would have never made it this far on her own. I hated her, not because she let me down, but because she was different. I was truly afraid of different.
What we have here is an idealist. She can’t be influenced, though there may be other ways. Suicidal, agoraphobic, she’s a textbook case for insanity. She’s tried to kill herself more times than I could count. She’s failed each time, almost purposefully. The irony is that she’s learnt to accept her nature. The other day she was forcibly taken into care for mutilating herself. She showed no remorse and was back on her feet before anyone could ask any questions. She once told me that she believed that it was her responsibility to survive. Death would have been her failure to survive, and each time she came close to falling over to the other side she’d pull herself out. It hurt those around her especially those who care about her, I included. Sometimes I wonder if I could measure my pain against hers. Would it be fair to decide which one is worse, or is pain merely a subjective phenomenon. I often catch myself wishing she had never existed, so that I could be spared from the pain I have to endure.
I can’t help it. I’m living in a state of perpetual fear. There is no other way. I know of no other way. Someday he’s going to go ahead with it. I wonder about why he’s hesitant. Why the wait. I wonder if he would change his mind. I’ve been living in his trap for ages, waiting for the hunter to arrive. I wondered if he would be brutal, or rather just quick with it. I’m not afraid of dying, but waiting for death is an excruciating affair. I could feel every bit of survival instinct within me crying out for help. Alas, it’s all in vain. Soon enough he’s going to gather himself and carry out his plan. I just wished it was right now. Maybe he’s enjoying himself. Maybe he’s waiting for me to beg for my life. I don’t believe that’s ever going to happen. He’s not going to have that one last victory. Never.
Survival goes through a process of existential degradation. Death does not free us from existence. There are moments that remind us that we are dying, and there are moments that let us forget. I chose not to survive. I have to live with that. Soon enough, the rest of me will have to let go. I don’t understand why he needs to holds on to it so vehemently. It’s not fear that motivates him. It’s a desire to survive. There is no other way to do this. If I have to die, he needs to die first.