Loss, Grief, Death

These are all tough topics that are hard to breach in everyday conversation. But they’re heavy and grim and very upsetting when they do pop up.

On Thursday night, my classmate Lauren was in a terrible car accident. Our section was just getting to know each other, having met for the first time during orientation that Monday. I was scared and worried for her, and I could see from her Facebook page (I was already FB friends with her…she was one of the first few people I added) that it was serious. We were all praying for her and just hoping she would pull through.

Thursday was our last day of class for the week and I have no doubt she was just unwinding from a really stressful, scary, and intimidating start to law school with friends. I don’t know, maybe she was on her way home or maybe she just had to go pick something up in the city. I don’t know. She was walking, not driving, and it was dark (So it had to be evening, after 7-8PM?) when she was hit by a garbage truck.

I do not know if she was jaywalking or drunk or if the garbage truck driver ran a red light. I know that this classmate that we had all met that could possibly have been my friend down the line, was now in a medically induced coma as doctors attempted to revive her from her injuries.

On Sunday night, she passed away. The same girl who I SPOKE to on Thursday, the same one who assured me during break that I did the briefs for the right cases, was DEAD. Gone just like that after spending four days in law school with us and ingraining herself into all of our hearts and memories forever.

She was beautiful inside and out, with a sparkling personality that refused to be put down. She was kind and always smiling. She was spirited and generous with her answers and her hugs. She didn’t deserve this. She was young and ambituous.

It’s not FAIR. Rather than depression or sadness, I felt very angry. I don’t know who to blame for the accident, but my anger is at the unjustness of it all. The irony that we are learning about all the loopholes and nuances of justice and then easier BAM, a reality check. A practical application, if you will.

Her funeral was held on Wednesday, August 21. I pray that she has found a new home in Heaven that is every bit as kind as she has been to everybody she met on Earth.

Lauren, I hope the law school up there’s got easier professors because you fuckin deserve it. RIP to an angel that briefly but profoundly touched the lives of everybody at St. Johns University School of Law.

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Day 17: Dust to Dust

Day 17 — There are many mysteries in the universe. If there was one truth I could learn, it would be…

Just one truth? That kills me, I want to know so much. I would have asked if there was intelligent life outside of our race and our planet, but I feel as though the answer to that has got to be a resounding yes. It’s just a matter of one day discovering one another in the future.

OH I KNOW (Thank you Misha, for the suggestion. It triggered me…I really have asked that question many times in the past)

I would like to know what happens after we die? Afterlife? Reincarnation? Heaven? Elysium? Purgatory? Nirvana?

I would really like to know about life after death. I want to know…will my soul live after my body is dust once more? Will I forget my past life? I would assume so, since I cannot say that I’ve had any premonitions of my past life. My parents used to tell me that a baby, in its first few months of life, is still able to relive the memories of its past life. They believe that the spirits of our elders reincarnate into the new generation, but I don’t know how much I believe that…then that would mean that there are no spirits, since we’d all be infused with the spirit of an older person. Sort of creepy.

In fact, my nephew was born just a few weeks after my grandma passed, and everybody’s convinced.

But for me, I want to know. It would shape how I live out my life. If nothing happens, we crumble, and our soul forgets this life and is put into another, then what does it matter to me how sinful I am? I wouldn’t become a thief, but I wouldn’t try to be a saint either. I wouldn’t feel guilty about not praying as much as I should, or sometimes eating meat on Tuesdays when I really shouldn’t.

Personally, my hunch is that our conscience ends with our death, but our soul is ‘recycled’ into something else…maybe a baby birthed in the same instant of our death? But that soul doesn’t remember its past conscience.

So right now, I’m more of a believer in the dust to dust motto.

Memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.

 

xoxo,
Pryanka
– Remember, man, that you are dust and unto dust you shall return.

 

List of rules and questions is here

Please take a moment to check out the other wonderful blogs participating in 30 days of Blogging Honesty with me!

Regret – Theme Response

I sat down in my chair, clutching its armwrests as though they were my only life support. This entire time, of course, my eyes were shut tight. I did not want to face my visions, but they were getting stronger. In the backs of my eyelids, I saw swirls of color, lazily blending and separating into a dark rainbow.

Suddenly, there was a white flash, and I cried out in agony 0 it was too late. I was face to face with his eyes again 0 his ghastly and haunted eyes.

My eyes were still closed.

I panicked, afraid of the strength of my own visions. Whose eyes were they? Why were they stalking me? I felt them upon me at all times now – clear, shocking blue eyes that insisted on holding my attention. What were they trying to tell me? 

I swear, sometimes, they looked upon me with pity. That was when I would rage back, yelling my insecurities out for all the world to see. They were staring me into insanity, those eyes.

Those cold hated blue eyes. 

"GO AWAY. I don’t know you. I don’t know what you want. WHY DO YOU INSIST ON TAKING AWAY MY PEACE? Leave me alone…leave – me – alone."

And always, though I started out strong and proud, at the end, I was reduced to tears, my threats and questions coming out in gasping sobs. I’m sure the people around me thought I was a deranged lunatic. And nobody believed me when I told them about the eyes. I didn’t know who they belonged to, but they seemed to be trying to trigger a memory. Who was he?

"WHO ARE YOU GODDAMNIT."

The woman behind me in the supermarket had cringed when I screamed that out loud earlier today, and then she had turned her cart around, walking nervously as fast as she could in the other direction. Ha, if only she knew that it wasn’t me she should be scared of. 

It was those icy heartbreakingly sad eyes. 

—————————————————————————————————–

I used to be normal. At this point, I couldn’t help but give a bitter, sarcastic laugh. I’d started to classify myself as abnormal now too – it was only a matter of time before I succumbed to the world’s perspective of crazy me. 

I mean really, when I told people I wasn’t crazy, I was just being haunted by a pair of blue eyes, they gave me funny looks. Or ignored me. Or walked away, as that lady had. 

I don’t know why I’m recording this narrative. I know I don’t have the stamina left in me to write it in story form. That would require objectifying my pain, giving my protagonist a voice I don’t think I knew how to formulate anymore. How could I distance myself from her agony? It was searing into my own flesh, my own bones, my own heart, at all times. The eyes were becoming more and more anguished too, as if they knew I didn’t have much longer to live.

What was I supposed to do before I died? 

I ask the eyes for clues now. I whisper to myself as I walk down the sidewalks, counting and recounting the names of all the people I have encountered in my life this far. Or the names that I remember, at least. And each time, I ask: "Is this you, Carol? You, Michael? DO YOU EVEN HAVE A GENDER?"

One time, when I questioned them, they blinked serenely before resuming their eternal stare. I had shouted in triumph, but I guess it came out more as a strangled cry of momentary relief.

I found out later that I had passed out while walking.

They blamed it on dehydration. I was ecstatic – eternal sleep is how I would rid myself of their stare.

One of my psychiatrists had told me that they were the eyes of my victim. The small innocent boy I had killed ten years ago. I brushed it off, blaming her sudden psychotic rage on her frustration to understand me. How the hell am I a murderer now?

I WAS JUST A NORMAL HUMAN BEING. How dare she accuse me? HOW DARE SHE?

———————————————————————————–

You know, I’m talking right now. Talking out loud in front of a mirror, pretending that there exists another soul who understands me. Talkng out loud like the crazy person that I am. But what can I do? It takes my mind off of the eyes. 

Sometimes, I suspect that they are capable of hearing me. Because just now, as I said that out loud, they seared into the back of my skull. OUCH. I’m almost afraid of putting my hand to the back of my head – I fear that there may be blood. This has never happened before – usually, they just watch. Why are they trying to hurt me?

Am I really a murderer? If I am, my brain’s done an excellent job in making me forget the whole thing. I’m testing my memory, probing deeper and deeper, farther and farther into my childhood, hoping to come across some badly patched segment so I can atleast know what my crime is. So I can atleast know for what I am being punished.

But these EYES, they don’t let me. They tire my brain, and I often sink into a lethargic sleep filled with scary nightmares. All the persons in my dreams have had those e yes for a few years now.

How have I even survived? I feel the eyes slash another cut into me, this time by the nape of my neck. I shut my eyes, not willing to look into the mirror. I am afraid I will see those eyes glaring daggers into me. I am afraid I will see those daggers suddenly materialize as they pound repeatedly into my skill, dashing my body little by little into pieces.

Such a gruesome thought. But I cannot help it. I envision another dagger hitting my collarbone, and scream in horror as I feel a responding pain. It’s just my brain. I swear, this is all just in my head. 

THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE. YOU CANNOT KILL ME.

The daggers pick up tempo, and I know that I am losing blood fast. Still, I do not want to open up my eyes. My body is starting to go rigid with shock. 

Maybe I am numb to the pain now? More likely, I have lost so much blood that my nerves are losing sensation. Is that even possible? I knew I should have paid better attention in biology.

Now, even thinking that I am in pain is taking too much effort. I am floating away from my own body.

My eyes open with a jolt. I am ready to scream and close them again, as if in silent apology that my steady eyes-closed vigil has broken. But I have nothing to fear. The open-eyed me is staring down into a grotesque figure.

I recognize that the grotesque figure is a bloody me. 

And then I faint.

They say they found me, two days later, when a neighbor reported the odor of my rotting flesh. They say I had died peacefully of a brain aneurysm. 

How wrong they are.

Storm.

The storm raged for hours. The ship rocked, and the tumultuous waves threatened to knock it over, but still, the boat pressed on. Lightning cracked, and thunder crackled overhead, and still, the crew pressed on. There was no food left, and not nearly enough warm blankets. But the crew persevered, and continued rowing. The heavy rain came pouring down, and so did the sweat from the men’s bodies. But then the sweat and the water mixed, and one could not even know the men were tired. But if you looked at their lethargy, then perhaps it was apparent. They were ready to give up now, these men. The crew struggled to gain inches on the sea, and were threatened every second to be pulled under. Such cruel torture they had to survive, but still, the crew pressed on. Toil and toil, row and row, they continued into the wee hours of the night, when suddenly, the rain stopped and the clouds broke apart. A few hours later, the sun rose, and the men wiped their now visible sweat and relaxed.

They did not congratulate each other. Storms were part of their job description. Storms were necessary, a break from the monotony of their routine. Perhaps they had gone a little insane, because they had once been afraid of storms but now they only wondered if anybody had died. Dying in a storm was a brave enough thing – it did not have to be mourned. If one died in a storm, for if one died bravely, it was an end to a life well-spent. If the storm was the taker, then the man’s soul went in peace. He fought as hard as he could, but was swept away by the wind, or swallowed up by the water. But he did not drown, he passed on. The storm never truly ended, you see, so the men were content. They would all die happy, because the storm never ended. The rain and the wind and the lightning and the thunder may have ceased to rage around their boat, but the storm was never over.

Till Death Do Us Part – Part 2

*he’s kidding he’s kidding it’s all a lie. Please, let it all be a lie*

“…Evandra you okay? Did you hear what I said?”

"Uhhh…of course I did. You’re joking right? You’re being funny to make me feel less sad about mom? I appreciate the effort dad, but…don’t ever pull that joke on me again. Aidan and I are friends…very good friends, but nothing more. I’m positive about that dad. We both don’t have any ideas of getting married to each other…that’s just…outrageous"

“THAT’S ENOUGH. I think I am MORE than capable to decide what is and what isn’t outrageous, Evandra. And THIS is NOT outrageous. Au contraire….Richard is telling Aidan the same thing right now, and we’ll see how maturely he can take this suggestion."

"Suggestion? Father, you’ve all but forced this upon me. There is no way that I will marry my best friend. I want…" She trailed off, knowing that her father would never understand what she truly wanted. She wanted true love. Just a simple, sweet, romantic relationship with her true love.

“Again with this insolence. I’ve had more than enough of this. There is most definitely a way to get you to marry Aidan, and that is what, for lack of a better term, is called an ARRANGED MARRIAGE. Looking into Evandra’s eyes, he saw a fleeting glimpse of despair. Painfully, he blinked, furiously trying to get the eyes of his deranged wife out of his head. Oh dear god, he had loved her. Why hadn’t she talked to him first; they could have resolved things. But the past still haunted him, and  her eyes…why, they’d had this very same look on them that night. The very same.

Steeling himself, he continued “And, if you’re thinking of running away, just remember this. Your father is not yet poor enough that he won’t go searching for his beloved daughter, kidnapped and dragged away to god knows where. And when we do find you, you’ll be dragged straight to your wedding altar. Do you understand?”

Evandra was working herself into a near rage, but she mastered her fury and spoke calmly, with just a hint of familiar stubbornness. “Father, I see that you’re set on your decision. Well then I can assure YOU of some things as well then. I am NOT marrying Aidan. He is just my FRIEND. Father, my FRIEND. Not my LOVE. I refuse. I absolutely refuse.”

*SLAP*

Wincing in pain, Evandra looked her father in the eye (with new fiery depths in her usually complacent hazel eyes) and said: "This is the first time you’ve ever hit me, and if I have anything to do with it, it’ll be your last."

Gathering up his voice to yell at her, he stood, quite dumbfounded, as his tranquil Evandra ran up the stairs, unable to keep the tears from her eyes. 

Well, she will marry Aidan in the end. Ill have to see to it that she doesn’t lose me in the process. I can see another talk will be necessary then.

He walked up slowly. He was tired. Tired of everything. Tired of living when his wife was dead. Tired of being the bearer of bad news. Tired of pretending he was fine. Tonight, he was just tired. Sighing slowly, he walked into his study. He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed today. Opening a drawer, caressing its wood lovingly, he took out a bundle. A bundle that had been untouched since the news of his wife’s death had hit them. 

Ohh…where has Gabrielle gone when I truly need her. This was her job, telling Evandra about their arranged marriage. Why me Gab. Why me? Why could you not have taken me with you? I’m tired of living in this world.

Looking at the bundle, he broke down. Lost control, gave up, whatever you want to call it. Chest heaving as great sobs spasmodically shook his body, he sank to the floor, sobbing his heart out, mourning his beloved wife.

….Little did he know that somebody was watching him.

Evandra, her face pale as she heard what was unmistakably the sound of her father crying, turned around quietly and ran up the stairs to her room for the second time that day.