It was half past one in the morning. Streaks of lightning dashed across the sky, with their journey interjected at regular intervals by thunder. She sat before the white screen, browsing one suicide article after another. Wait, was that hunger she sensed? But she had eaten so much for the day, despite plans to lose that burden off her pudgy frame. Okay, some biscuits perhaps, she decided. The refrigerator door remained open for the next minute, held in position only by the obstacle posed by her back, as she attempted to balance the box and retrieve a biscuit with one hand, while the other was meekly trying to hold the full tub of yoghurt in place.
SMASH.
The green tub was no sooner on the floor, with half its contents splashed across the brown tiles, resembling a thick layer of fresh snow. Actually, no - whipped cream. As serene as that dreamscape on the floor was, she was madly frustrated with herself. Not only had she not accomplished anything academic in that week, but she had now managed to add “murdering the yoghurt” to the list. What an achiever.
Spending the next quarter of an hour attempting to clean up the grim remains which had extended its territorial reach by the time she found a rag, another quarter flew by with repeated cycles of her rinsing and wrenching the rag dry. The rag was so torn, and in no way bleached by the onslaught of white which engulfed it, but she refused to throw it away. It bore such a resemblance to a girl she new, and how her pathetic life revolved around routine bingeing and unproductive quiet spells, even as she remained trapped, behind that framed mirror.
Overcome with an odd sense of loss, she opened the door once more, though this time, of the freezer compartment above. There, tucked neatly in the top corner, were three half-eaten, sugar and fat laced granola bars, each opened on a different day. “Peanut butter. Pick that one.” So she clasped her wrinkled fingers around it, and broke a tiny piece off. Before it had the chance to return to its corner, however, almond crashed to the ground, twice the height from which the yoghurt had fallen. So ‘home’, was only a short-lived place of belonging. Or maybe it was life, with the fire burning more weakly by the second, and now flickering thinly, waiting for its death sentence.
With too many ominous street signs in one night, the path she had to take became apparent. The split in the road approaching, branching out almost horizontally, she took a sharp right turn, and smiled. Her grip on the steering wheel relaxed, breathing slowed, as she looked at the distant sunset in the horizon. Cruising down the highway of no return, without further regrets - her life was now complete.
