What's the Point?
When you finally manage to lift the head off your pillow on the cold morning, and you let your feet touch the cold floor, a sudden foul taste rises straight from your stomach, corrodes your entire gut upwards, before settling in your mouth. Reflexively, your cheeks bulge to contain the sourness.
Ignoring the cold against the soles on your feet, you find your way to the toilet bowl. There, you let it all out. You vomit until you feel the pain in your abdomen starting to numb you out. Still, the vomiting doesn’t stop, so you sit on the toilet floor, and let your head rest against the toilet seat. You vomit until your throat feels like it could spark some little fires out. Your abdomen hurts, bad, and your back takes the baton and now wants to crack.
With your head spinning, you make as if to call out to someone; for them to rub your back. For them to help you off the floor. For them to tell you it is okay. For them to ask whether you need anything. For them to remind you that you are on your period, so there is no way you could be pregnant.
Then, the bitterness rises suddenly, again, throws you off the hook and this time round, the vomit splashes all over the toilet floor such that when you turn back towards the exit, you step on warm chunks of white and green, and an occasional yellow here and there.
Instead of cleaning up the mess, you make your way back to the bed, so that when you come to, two hours later, the stench in your house is unbearable, and the now dry footprints on the floor stare mockingly at you, asking “What is the point in this? WHAT IS THE POINT?”
When you sit in bed, the only thing that clogs your mind is the dream you are struggling to understand. The dream of you in bed, naked, with a stranger. The dream of them lying on top of you, asking if it is suffocating enough, before stashing a decomposing rag into your mouth. The dream of you smiling at them, instead of worry gripping you. The worry of unfamiliar spaces. The worry of stranger in your space. The worry of nakedness and truth.
The dream of you holding hands with the stranger, naked, as they walk you through an abyss of darkness. Them whispering into your ears, you; laughing hysterically. Them removing bits of dirt from their armpits and the crack between their butt cheeks. You; eating all the pieces like a starved dog. Then tying you, naked, against a tree stump, and start pouring petrol all over your body.
When you sit up in bed, drenched in sweat and your heart beating fast, you can still hear the echoes of your voice within the room. Voices of you screaming, in the dream, begging the stranger to strike the match. Begging them to set you on fire. Voices of you, finally, screaming in pain as the fire starts razing you down, starting with the hairs on your head.
When you sit up in bed, you subconsciously touch your head and feel the strands, slowly, starting to fall out. The sweat now starts to trickle down your spine, as your feet touch the floor, as you start your way towards the front of the house.
When the cigarette smoke hits your lungs for the first time, then second, then third, you forget that you are naked. You forget that you are standing on the shared balcony. You forget that it is eleven o’clock in the morning, and the whole world is awake. You forget that unlike inside your house, you are not alone.
When the smoke hits your lungs, you let your hair down and start singing to Beyoncé’s Ego at the top of your voice,
It’s too big (big)
It’s too wide (wide)
It’s too strong (strong)
It won’t fit (fit)
It’s too much (much)
It’s too tough (tough)
He talk like this ‘cause he can back it up
You slur, of course, because your voice is shaking. Because you are afraid of an impending storm. Because the dream is threatening to rip your mind into pieces. Because even at your big age, you still have no hint at what big thing Beyoncé is singing about.
You sing at the top of your voice because deep down, you are craving freedom like that of a bird perched on the nearby tree. You crave a filling that you have no idea where to get it. You crave a belonging, but are too scared of attachments because at the end of the day, people will always walk away.
You sing at the top of your voice because it is the kind of distraction you need so as to get out of your own head.
Suddenly, there is a cold hand tapping your thighs. You lose your train of thoughts. You come back to the real world to find a child standing next to you, naked, as he hands his towel to you. He stares deep into your eyes, so you bend to his level, pick the towel from his little hands, get back into the house and bang the door behind you.
There is a wail from the little boy, followed by a gush of footsteps towards your door, and hushed voices. The wailing stops. The feet hurry, again, away from your door. Then, your phone starts to vibrate.
Naked, still, you fill your black bucket with water, add a generous amount of detergent, and start scrubbing the toilet floor. You scrub until all the chunks clear off. You scrub until your hands begin to bleed. You scrub until your back wants to break. Your scrub until your knees give way to you weight so you sit in the wetness of the floor.
You scrub until you cannot recognize your tears, so they make a small pool at the floor, and flow in harmony with the water.
Two hours later, you stand at your door, you bag only containing those which you need; toothbrush, sandals, toothpaste, books, and a pillow. You give one final look at the phone on your table, and decide to leave it behind. What is the point, anyway?
You leave behind a trail of your footsteps covered in vomit. You leave behind everything else that has been so close to you. You leave your tears on the white bedsheets. You leave your memories on the walls in form of pictures and words. You leave your heart and soul at the center of the bedroom; in the form of your diaries for ten years.