Every sound hurts me. The moment my eardrums resonate with the vibrations of the adjacent air molecules, a sharp pain arises, shredding any iota of comfort I was barely able to collect since the last seizure, into pieces abound.
The whistling of the wind knocking on the window pane which I have shut tight, the sound of distant footsteps, the whining of the dilapidated bed when I flail in it, and even the creaking of my joints whilst moving, are inflicting upon me an incessant irritation which I apprehend, will inevitably induce insanity.
This pain, however, is eerily unfamiliar - neither physical nor psychological in particular. It commences with my eardrums vibrating, but my ears don’t hurt. A thought resembling the source of the sound is then produced in the consciousness, but the head does not hurt. The limbs and the spine then convulse in response, but the body does not hurt. Yet I have this sensation of real immeasurable torture. It is not out of melancholy or delusion; I don’t have any medical conditions. Rather it makes me feel that I am no longer human - an extension of the very pain I am reeling under. My body burns and twists…… Ahh! Those dumbass drivers and the idiotic manufacturers - Who the hell thought that adding blaring horns to the cars will make the world a better place?
*****
I called a doctor, who paid a visit to my house. The entire sequence of events left me more miserable and muddled. Until this situation subsides, I won’t let anyone enter my house. The voice of people talking wrenches my heart.
And I endured her talking, only for her to say that I am fine, except for some fatigue. That there are no convulsions or seizures, and the unbearable pain which pushes me to the verge of wailing are the tricks of mind because I have not slept for the last 3 days. Who the hell certified her qualification? For every single utterance she made, my body convulsed into inhumane angles and yet she chose to ignore. Was she doing this on purpose?
Even though I mentioned that this ordeal is the reason why I have not slept, she simply prescribed me some sleeping pills with an assurance that a long comfortable sleep will relieve me from this plight. I don’t trust her.
I have covered my windows with layers of sheets. The sound of peeling the tape off the roll took a toll on my body. I collapsed thrice and bruised my head, but I somehow braved through the plan of pasting layers of sheets on my windows - a onetime expenditure to curb part of the problem. Now I will try to sleep. I hope she is right.
*****
I can’t sleep. The pills have no effect. The people above are quarreling, which in turn torments me below. This time the seizures were severe, my fingers got stuck in my hairs and I ended up pulling out a bunch of it along with scrapes of skin. My scalp feels moist.
Ironically, sometime before this ordeal commenced, I discovered my passion for music, or more specifically, the dreams of relishing a particular outcome of creating music - her company. She loves musicians, implying I had to dabble in this art to garner her attention. Yet after spending hundreds of dollars and countless hours in classes, I saw no improvement.
And then I met him - a middle aged, lanky, pale skinned man with long slick hair, a sharp mustache and circular shades adorning his face, who was a self-proclaimed pioneer in some music genre I can’t remember. He had immense faith in his ability to teach me music in just a week’s time in exchange for a favor. And his faith was rightfully placed - I learnt to play guitar in a few days. It was like a fantasy, but my irrational self was more eager to use the acquired skill to impress her than to make any sense of this experience. I played and she curiously smiled, followed by an enticing conversation which concluded with us exchanging numbers. It was beautiful and looked prospective.
*****
Until 3 days ago, I didn’t hear anything from him, when he called up and told me that he needs my help in creating a music video as a compensation for the favor he rendered. I was confused - I just know how to play an instrument, but creating something original was out of my league. To which he said that everyone feels the same way at first, but ends up doing great as it is a collaborative effort. Then he explained to me the process - first he writes a score and shares it with others, to which others contribute their parts, only to pass it further. One can choose to play an instrument, choreograph associated visuals, perform relevant skits or do anything which can enhance the artistic value of his precious work. Sooner or later, we will get a cohesive piece, which he thoroughly refines, records and uploads on the internet. I agreed to lend my hand in playing the guitar. Thereafter the call got disconnected and he didn’t follow up. Neither did I call back, as setting up a date with her was the only thing I was looking forward to.
But then, this tribulation ensued. The soothing melody of the ringtone of her call an hour before our scheduled date was the first cut - a deep one. I have been in bed………… Assholes! can’t they go to sleep, or kill each other. I don’t want them shouting anymore.
I can’t waste my time in tending my broken self with repentance and longings. Each subsequent seizure is more intense than the previous one. It feels like my ribs are constricting the lungs. I must do something before things go out of hand.
*****
I tried secluding myself from the world around by being confined in an obscure corner where nothing rumbles, as nothing, not even I have enough space to move, but instead of my pain getting alleviated, it became even worse, for now I hear the throbbing of my restless heart, each beat of which is like a bomb hurled in proximity of my chest reminding me of another possible bout.
But this is not what is haunting me, as the frequency of the seizures has reduced. Instead, there is a stark realization which this seclusion has brought in - my heartbeat is irregular, but still has a rhythm. There is a pattern to it, a distinct one from the ordinary lub-dub - 1 beat, 6 beats and then repeat. This is not normal, even less normal than the fact that I have confined myself in a closet to avoid seizure causing sounds.
*****
NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! It can’t be. What on earth is happening? My heartbeat sounds like music, one which reminds me of …. of…. what .he used to often hum. Is this how he intended to use me? Am…. Am I his guitar? And if so, then this means that I suffer whenever some noise interferes and breaks his concentration, making him miss a beat. It makes sense - he had the habit of taking out his frustration on his instruments. Who…. What is he?
I am terrified. I know him… his habit. He will eventually crumble me into pieces, just like he smashed one of his guitars when the strings were not fine-tuned. I don’t want to die.
*****
I should not have made this deal. He used his mystical ways to trick me into selling myself for his own cause. And he chose the right time to strike - just before my reward was going to materialize in the form of that date. He must be a warlock or the devil himself, playing his petty tricks.
*****
I can’t bear it anymore. I am feverish, famished, bruised and being tormented in all possible ways. I don’t deserve it and so it must stop.
The only way to stop my suffering is to cut the very strings he is fiddling with. But I don’t want to die, die……die…… His song will surely end someday. Till then, I will rather cull everything that disturbs him. This time, yes, it sounds right.