He got up and the silence was almost too deafening to bear. He was used to waking up and hearing music playing out loud, his music.
He was used to waking up to the camera snaps as reporters stood outside his balcony, waiting for when he would finally get out of bed and show them his face. But today there was none of this.
He thought for a while and decided to blame the lack of noise on the terrible weather, although he knew it wasn't that bad, but he couldn't find any other reason.
It was only then that he suddenly remembered that he couldn't hear his wife as well.
She normally was up and about in the morning ensuring that the house was in tip-top shape as he relaxed and drowned himself in the world of music.
People normally describe their better halves as being the sun in their life or the rainbow after a storm, that wasn't what she was for him. No.
She was what lit him up every morning, she was what made the sun glow. Without darkness there would never be any need for light, and her presence was what caused the music to flow out of him.
Without her he was nothing, without her his music would have been meaningless.
After all he wrote just so that they would have something to sing together, another excuse for him to spend more time with her.
He went outside. Checked the kitchen. She wasn't there. He checked the attic, she wasn't there either. Suddenly as he was approaching the living room he heard sniffling.
Someone was crying there, but who and why. He slowly crept towards the sofa out of fear that he would cause further distress to the already distressed women.
He reached the sofa to find his wife wrapped in a shawl crying.
I heard footsteps approach me. He thought that I couldn't hear him but the sound of his footsteps were like a fingerprint that helped me identify him.
He always walked the same way, with more force on his right leg then left, said it was because of an injury that he had when he was young.
He always said it is the scars that fade honey but not the memory of it, not the memory of the pain. Funny how he was now the living proof of it.
It had been two months since the accident but he still refuses to write anything. It was as if he had forgotten how to do it, as if he had lost a part of himself in the accident.
But then again how can someone forget what makes them, them. It was like a doctor had forgotten to care for people or a chef had forgotten how to taste and make food.
Those sort of things don't happen due to just a simple accident, but what he had gone through was much more then that.
THE DAY OF THE ACCIDENT
"Honey you know that you don't have to do this for me." said the women as she smiled at the man holding her purse.
They both looked head over heels in love and the glint of silver on their hands showed that they knew that too.
"I know darling but knowing that I am not always around you means that I will jump on every possible chance to make you feel like a queen", replied the man,
although he didn't look physically attractive the way the woman looked at him made it clear that it was more to him than what he showed.
The man then head for the car as the woman waited there for him to return. He got into the car all the while smiling at the love of his life across the road as he started up his car.
He had to go a little distance before turning around however he was shocked to see that a girl had come onto the road and was standing right in front of his car.
In order to avoid her he had to ram the car into the pavement towards his left hitting onto something heavy.
This impact made caused the man to slam his head on the wheel, and the glass to shatter. His blood splattering everywhere, covering the entirety of the front seat.
However, what he didn't know was that it was not only his blood that had been spilled there had been another victim of the car crash.
A lady whose eyes used to light up his life was now lying lifeless.
The same eyes which once spoke volumes to him, from sending him silent love letters to inviting him to do mischievous things were now devoid of any emotion.
The skin that used to turn as red as her hair whenever she saw him was now deathly pale, never to turn red again. Never to be caressed by her love again.
However, it happened to be that time hadn't finished torturing the poor man yet. Not only did it keep the man alive, it did a much more heinous crime.
It replaced the memory of his love with that of the woman who had stepped in front of his core on that unfortunate day to suicide.
I am the girl who had stepped in front of the car that day.
By the time anyone finds this letter of mine there won't be any punishment in this world worse then the one that I have to live through everyday.
Pretending to be the women that I had murdered 2 months ago.
The doctors say that it is best if his memory never comes back because if it does the pain that comes with loss might be to much to deal with.
But they don't realise is that worse then that is the pain that I go through everyday.
Falling in love with the man as he talks with me throughout the day only to have the dreams of a future with him shattered when he calls me by her name instead of mine.
It is as if I am forever living in a dessert and his love is a mirage that I will never reach.
But worse is knowing that there was someone else who was destined for this love, someone who I took away.
Till date I have been to many groups that are supposed to help me with my mental turmoil, depression they call it.
What they have never realised is that the term depression is like the word infinity, none of them can ever have a defined meaning so why do we force it to fit into boundaries.
Yes the symptoms of depression that each faces may be similar but they will never be the same.
One more thing that none of the groups taught me was the effect that taking your own life had on the victim was not even 1% of the actual effect that it leaves behind.
When it comes to suicide we always have pity on the person who took their life and their loved ones. Why doesn't anyone think about those whose part of routine that she had become.
The old man who she used to serve everyday now doesn't drink coffee anymore because he thinks his addiction to coffee made him blind to her needs as he went about chatting with her about
The man in his late twenties (who found the girl really pretty) used to say good morning to her in the train every morning thinks that she must have changed towns because this place
wasn't good enough. Despite the slight brightness he tried to add in her life.
All of these people may be a bit sad that they won't see her again but they will always be happy thinking that she has found a better place to live.
But what happens when they figure out that she never found the perfect place in the world. That she decided to quit life before giving herself a chance at finding the place.
What happens to them? Isn't the state in which a person doesn't know worse then knowing the actual bitter truth.
The parents of the victim will cry every time on her birthday but they will have gained a closure knowing what really happened to their child. But what about those who will never know.
They will keep thinking that she is living a better life. That is until the unfortunate day when they come across her memoir on in their favourite newspaper.
What happens to them then? Who helps pick them up then? No one. No one looks after the victims of the aftershock.
Now you may think that why am I stating all this.
Actually the thing is that I had tumbled into depression because two of the patients that I had helped bring back to life killed themselves after listening to a song by him.
I didn't have any enmity against him at that point of time, my anger was only directed towards those two people. Two people who I had helped went back to where I had saved them for.
They say that for a drowning man even a shadow of a hand is enough to save him.
The same can be said about depression, when a person is sad it doesn't take him or her much to tumble into the deeper areas of themselves.
But that day when I headed towards the car all I could do was curse at the writer who had written that song about a unbelievably beautiful place,
the song that had forced my two patients to kill themselves.
As I did so I also wished that he be devoid of such a place and face a worse punishment then death.
Guess this is why the say careful what you wish for.
I had not realised that he had built such a place with his love and the fact that he no longer had her and had lost the ability to create more music was a punishment worse then death for him.
Yes, I am a killer. A killer of dreams, hopes, aspirations, personalities and people. But don't for a second think that I am not suffering more than I deserve.
Remember that if I am a killer then so is he.
After all I die a thousand times when he kisses me but says her name.