| Stuti Srivastava | April 2025 | Flash Fiction |

I enter the room and lock the door from the inside. It is only late morning, but I am exhausted. 

It’s not as if I hadn’t tried. I had made myself get out of bed by repeating my morning affirmations even as my body latched on to the under-layer of the mattress and my nightdress became one with the sheets. I peeled myself off the bed by reaffirming to myself that I am worthy, I am loved, and I am strong. I slipped into my chappals and dragged my heavy body to the bathroom, where I told my reflection in the mirror, “I love you, I believe in you, I got you.”

I brushed my teeth but couldn’t  muster the will to take a shower, so I decided to take up a productive activity by cooking myself an elaborate breakfast instead. I did it all absentmindedly and force-fed myself an omelette stuffed with whatever I could find in the fridge, accompanied by a cup of unremarkable cold coffee. I left the utensils in the sink, washed my hands, and oiled my hair. When this last act of self-care that normally made me feel comforted did not help either, I figured this was as good a time as any to give up the soulless acting job I had been performing since morning.

I decide I have tainted the dignity of my bedroom enough, and it is now time to defile the guest room with my splintered being. The room is hot and full of stale air and is overlooking the street, with cacophonous noises pilfering into my once sacred space. I deserve it, I remind myself.

I look at the curtains with floral patterns on them and wonder what they feel so cheery about. In a flash, the black-grey hue of my shadow pops up and stares back at me. She looks brittle, and she fidgets a bit too much. I recognise her – she is where I have parked every trauma, stored every unpleasant memory, deflected every avoidance onto, and passed every unprocessed emotion to. I look back at her, we join hands, and that is the moment we become one another.

We sprawl ourselves on the bed for 20 hours straight. Sometimes, we are dying of the well of emotions swirling formlessly inside us. Sometimes, our thoughts battle among themselves to poke deeper holes into our bodies. But mostly, we are blank as an unruled sheet of paper in a neglected diary gifted insincerely by an unbothered acquaintance.  

We look up at the poster that says, “You heal once you feel,” and go to the washroom to throw up. We haul ourselves back onto the bed and shut our eyes.

The days become a void and time a transcendent inconsequence. In no time, it is day eight of us lying listlessly in bed and just about surviving but hardly living. The walls scream silence and the darkness of the pallid room is the only thing that speaks, although the words are trapped by a torturous mutiny.

We hear a whiplash of thunder, and a jolt shakes us awake. A force––internal or external, we can’t tell––tears us back in two. 

I move against my deadweight and walk up to the window. I draw back the curtains and find that the sky still exists. I see its colour change from a characterless grey to a dusty brown to a ruddy blue. Within seconds, it starts drizzling, then pouring, then thumping down until I can barely see the concrete outside. The rains lash with such force that they rouse me from my hazy trance with a finger snap. 

My legs start moving of their own accord, and soon, I find myself grabbing the keys, pressing the elevator buttons, and stepping out into the open. My shadow follows me like, well, a shadow. But she seems hesitant to join me. I ponder for a minute and decide to leave her by the lobby. She is used to being parked, after all. 

As soon as I take my first step outside, I chance upon the visage of my curious soul. She smiles – a smile so disarming that it vivifies me in seconds. She holds my hands and pulls me out into the rain. As we get drenched, we toddle and jump around and kick some puddles. We see brighter greens in the trees and lighter blues in the sky. We watch parked SUVs get muddied water on them and laugh. We look up to see the clouds witness our music, and just then, we hear a different beat.

We run to the source of the sound and see a bunch of small boys, many of them bald, dressed in their ganjis and underwear and belting out some groovy music. An old paint box is their drum, odd-shaped wooden planks are their xylophones, and the bottom part of a steel tiffin box is their cymbal. They are smashing some sick tunes, and a group of young girls are cheering from the balcony and dancing. The youngest of the girls lets out a jubilant scream and joins them a couple of minutes later to take centre stage with some silvery vocals. Joy permeates the air and makes everything move.

I run back to the lobby and ask for the hand of my shadow self. I smile the smile I learned moments ago and continue holding my hand out. She looks at her feet and then at me and holds my hand weakly and uncertainly. But I feel I catch a tinge of hope in her eyes.

We get back to the concert, and I pull out the hair tie from my wet hair. I start dancing and turn around to find her beginning to sway to the beat as well. She unfurls slowly, and the shadow blurs and becomes smaller and flies into the clouds.

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Stuti Srivastava is a writer who looks to the earth before calling herself one. She likes to explore themes related to gender dynamics, inner worlds, and inequalities. When not binge-watching grisly crime thrillers, she will be found curled up with a book, lost in her world.

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Feature image by MSSC via Unsplash 

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