THE PROMISES
The book had not been parted
with, in the last 50 years. She had left the book. He never lost it. He
couldn't care less, all knew. His house had some say in it. He wondered though
where his house was. He would flinch at every single ray peeping inside the
room. The one room. The only room. He asked for a calendar. What day was it?
And every single day would pass.
He never slept. His eyes would be wide open amidst all the
blackening. Eating was no intention. They made him eat anyway. He kept quiet.
For the day. For the night. For the life. He had no remembrance, they said. But
again, what day was it? There was no calendar. And yet the day would pass.
He looked for the photograph. No pockets. He felt it under the
only sock he wore. He barely walked. He didn't want to lose her picture tugged
in. The book hadn't left. He longed for the day. For the meet. For the exchange
of promises. He couldn't tell. Was it the day? Still no calendar.
He puked. Puked some more. He made it to the glucose. He re-read
the book. He had lost the count. He hummed it. Traces of an old habit. Would
she like it after all these years? He raced for oxygen. His wasn't the battle
for nothing. He had to make it to the day. There was no calendar. He didn't
look for it. The day was yet to pass.
He could feel the chilly air brushing against his pale skin, the
blood oozing out, his grip tight over the book. He didn't listen to his lungs.
His chest could do away with that burning. He was a kid running after his ice
cream.
His ice cream lay there. She was white, just dusty. She was
cold, just not ready to melt. He flipped open the book. The ring was never
still in his bare hands.
It was a book, that bore more than just her name. The entirety
of each line filled his very soul with her love, for all that she wrote, she
wrote for him. It was a gesture he loved enough to hold on to. He hummed it.
His old thing, her favourite. Her smile, his favourite.
The ring was never still in his bare hands. He gave it to her,
on one trembling knee. He had promised.
"I want you to promise me to never lose that
book." "I promise." "I want you to promise me to
sing me my favourite one in my sleep." "I promise." "And I
want you to promise me another at least 50 years." "I promise."
"With each time you bending on one knee with the same ring?"
"Would you just promise me a 'yes' now?" "I promise."
"I promise."
It was a cold night. The picture fluttered under his left sock.
There she was, watching him intently like she did, he thought. He took a
glance. "Ain't you just beautiful?" And there he could sense, the
same golden hues of her warm smile, her giggles echoing under the half moon.
Was it his heart? It had started pacing.
He still knew not where his house was. He did not grimace. He
had found his home. He had found his bed. His eye lids were slowly closing the
gap. He didn't bother. All these years of unrest, he knew he could finally
sleep.
He couldn't love her less. She had, after all, kept her promise
too. They couldn't tell if he had died on their anniversary. After all, they
didn't marry. They couldn't. All you could know back then was that the road had
survived a crashed car, and a red bridal veil. All you could know today was
that the asylum had a broken window, wasted tubes, and a wanted face.
His body was cleared the next day. Even though he couldn't make
it next to her grave, the book had made it to his.
The promises were exchanged.
