---
# System prepended metadata

title: Your Turn

---

# Your Turn

*She goes where the story goes. She has traveled countries, swam through rivers, fluttered with butterflies and played with animals. On her way, she met new people to tell her story. Now, she stands with me as I write this letter.*

S4-233, Silver link apartments,
15th Avenue,
Odisha- 780092.

----

Dear stranger,

I met her during my official release of the third book in the series ‘Canvas’ that I had been continuing for the past three years based on the overwhelming response from the public. She was with a gaunt man with his eyes buried in his sockets lined with deep dark circles. I did not notice her immediately for the sickly brown-haired man grabbed my attention with his gaping mouth and lanky legs. I was at the peak of my career with interviews, book signing sessions, photoshoots and fans flowing in every day. I smiled, shook hands and clicked pictures with all my supporters present that day. In the hubbub, the slender man came up to me with a fresh copy, curious and quaint shudders past through my body.

“I…I loved the 2nd book and… cannot wait to dive into it… this one.” He spoke with exhausted enthusiasm in his coarse voice and a struck feeble smile as I signed his copy. His blood-drained fingernails and bony fingers kept me from looking up directly in those blank eyes. Later in the store hustling with customers, I caught him arguing with another man. His body shook as he held himself together trying, perhaps, to win the argument. Asa writer conversations and rumors serve as the best content to work upon. The intrinsic tinge of curiosity made me eavesdrop. The argument cut short, as it got hostile. The weak man took his copy and walked away to escape the humiliation. My nosiness got better of me. I caught up with him. That is when I knew her story.

She was five when she was introduced to ‘the room’. It was at the end of a dimly lit abyss of staircase. It creaked with every step. The room was a fungus-reeking basement with abandoned furniture and dusty books. Only minimal sunlight shone into the room during 6-8 am, which illuminated the musty cobwebs, plaster peeling off the walls due to rain and leaving a deep greenish tinge of fungi. The first time she was pushed in there for being too loud while playing. The second time, she disturbed her father while working. Then, it became a habit. Her mother passed away when she about six. The only memories she has of her is snuggling up in her bed when her mother would tell her stories about the stars, toys, flowers, trucks, pearls, fishes and so on. She passed away because of ‘chronic illness’, as the neighbors were made to believe. However, she is confident that her father killed her mother. She could remember nights, locked in the room hugging her knees close with a defeated attempt to cover her ears and yet, overhearing rebukes and curses hurled, vessels banged and endless crying. It was always her mother who cried. During those days, she used to be let out in the morning and she used to miss school for she had to clean last night’s mess. Miss school? She does not have clear memories of going to one.

Her hours in the room increased after the death of her mother. She was offered two meager meals and, eventually, her clothes were also thrown in with her. Then one day, the door of the room did not open. Initially, she assumed it her father’s negligence but then days rolled like the morbid indefinite winter nights. She became numb to the cold. Her skin grew pale. She tried to keep herself busy with the books lying around but one can only focus so much with a dry throat, growling belly and bone-chilling breeze. After three days, water bottles and some bread tumbled down the stairway. She pleaded, cried, apologized for unknown reasons, promised to be good and banged the door furiously as heated helpless tears flowed down her cheeks. She sobbed as she curled up. She slept when tired tears dried. She kept herself busy in the books lying in the room. It became a new routine. She does not remember how old she was when the following events conspired. One briefly hopeful night, the door creaked open and he walked down. She lay in the opposite corner observing him with guarded curiosity. He was fatter and had a bushy mustache barely visible in the grim room. She feebly apologized (she does not know for what). He raised his arm and struck her hard on the shoulder as she tried to get up. She was shocked. Her aching weak limbs were too numb to react. He pinned her down and forced himself on her. She cried, screamed and wailed. She took continuous brutal blows that night. He left when he was done. She could not breathe; her body’s inexpressible anguish had left her soul. This happened almost every day and the day it did not she lay there with failed exasperation and desperation boiling inside of her. Even her little interest in books died. The room smelled like dead rats. It had a deadly silence at all times except at the reluctant nights. No one heard her cries of help. No one heard her screech of desperation.

She says she never knew what compassion felt like as she was always treated like a rag as far as she can remember. Her hair was partially ripped out, red marks were all over her sickly body and her nails were blood-drained. Her senses had given away long ago. She got pregnant. Sickness, vomiting, and pain. He still could not care less. She is awfully less descriptive of this part of her life but as it progresses, she opens up like the blooming flower in the final stages just before it rots. There was blood, screeching, and nails scratching the hard floor. She gave birth. She does not remember if it was a boy or a girl. Alive or dead. When she regained consciousness, she saw tiny feet and fisted fingers. She could not move. She was laying on her side facing the baby, naked. He walked in, picked up the baby and closed the creaking door. Every muscle in her body was wailing, her heart drooped and yet, she could do nothing. She never knew she was capable of these levels of anguish. It felt someone ripped out her heart, which finally had a reason to beat. Warm tears flowed and her carnal shell found no reason to get up. She died.

No one knew she existed. No one remembers the cries. No one cares for the child. No one would ever know her story. Her anger, hatred, and desperation turned her troubled soul into a spirit of vengeance. Her spirit haunted her father for ten years. She put him on fire, attempted to cut off his genitals and kept him on the edge of life. It was never enough. She always held his big old head in the face of death, laughed furiously and then pulled him back to do it all over again. She haunted him until the brink of madness. Then one day, in an ungodly hour, he spurted out screaming in his backyard of his dead daughter whose hollow eyes and bony nails dug deep into his neck. He stabbed himself multiple times and lay there gaping as blood oozed out. Three people saw him that day: a police officer, a neighbor, and a dog walker. Now, they knew who she was. A blissful madness stung in her vaporized shell. They knew who she was. She made her way to the most appealing. She sat on his necks with her long lanky legs hanging down the neighbor’s shoulders. She hooted. She never felt this power. The unsuspecting neighbor felt an indescribable weight on his neck. He returned to his life. She lived off his blood. She whispered her story. She blamed him for not hearing her pain. He grew weaker and was mentally guilt-ridden and traumatized. He let out the story to his friend. The spirit made her way to the friend; then a banker, an industrialist, a shopkeeper, a bus driver, a cook, a traveler and then me.

They all knew her story. They all knew who she was. So did I. I first started noticing her when the strange man was completing his story. Her faint presence was felt first by her pale legs bleakly covered by partially torn and blooded dress then her arms around the man’s neck, her eyes hollowed to the core with only a reddish tinge and her continually creepy smiling teeth. I was terrified. I could not help but notice the man was strangely feminine, resembling the thing on his head. She was taking over him as her. I started walking away. “Don’t believe me! You should know she died in the fu*king basement right after giving birth!” He wearily shouted to complete the story as I speedily walked away. She came to me. I did not notice then. My schedule kept up with me and I failed to notice anything different. Then one day, during a shoot, I saw in the camera lens, long lanky legs hanging down my shoulders. My heart went up to my throat. Then I looked closely at her face. The camera lens did little but just enough. She was looking like me. She has become greedy. My blood was not enough for her. She wanted to take over me, probably, a new beginning. I knew what to do. I did not want her to know that I was aware of her presence. Then, the whispers started. I started sleeping on the shoot set and friends’ couches. I took naps in a nearby restaurant buzzing with people. My nights would be fully awake with night-outs, bars and pool. I knew she would not leave me until she
completed her story. I let her. I waited for the perfect time. “…then he left. He took and he left.” She told her perhaps rehearsed version. I had started sympathizing with her. I wanted to do my duty. Please remember, this is my duty to her as a human. I want her story to live and that is why I am writing this letter to you. With each word you have read, she is inching away from me. She knows I have done what needs to be done. I have written her story. I can feel her grip loosening across my throat. She is moving away from me towards you.

----

***Content by Shreya***
***Design by Biswajit***




