Page 92 - BEATS: Secondary School Edition 2020-21

A MORTALS DEMISE
’

a short story by Parijat Barua , MYP 5

t wasn’t as painful as Zhelan expected it to be. Death, wind tousling his hair, his hands buried in the sand, his
he meant. He had expected a more agonising end to face void of the joy it used to hold, his smile desolate
Iit all, something that would really make him regret of the content they used to carry. The mask he had
all the things he did — and all the things he didn’t. But carried for so long had finally broken, and instead of
he didn’t feel much, just a numbness spreading from letting a dam break, he was met with a dried river. He
his gut to his mind, his body light as a feather, stiff as touched his own face, maybe a flicker of hope passing
a board. by to see if he really did feel nothing or was it just an
illusion, a hallucination to remind him… remind him
He could see himself touch the sand he sat on, and what? He couldn’t remember, he couldn’t think.
smell the salty air the wind wafted in from the sea. He
could taste the chocolate-covered strawberries one Everything had started to blend in now, not just the
of his paramours gave him — he couldn’t remember faces but the ocean line too. The point where it met
which, their faces were all starting to blend in, names the sky now replaced with a bright light, a light that
on the tip of his tongue yet, he still couldn’t remember. just kept getting brighter and brighter. Is this what
And he could hear himself, utter out the very words Icarus saw, when he reached the Sun? Is this what he
he feared being told to him. “I don’t love you,” he had felt when he touched the sky?
said, his tone bare and emotionless, his eyes hollow
and empty. He had reached out to wipe a tear away, He wanted to reach out for the light. But he couldn’t.
muttering out a sorry, trying hard to mean it. But he His breaths grew shorter, his lungs now burning as if he
knew he didn’t. Just how he knew he didn’t mean the really was near the Sun. He couldn’t see much anymore,
words he had said before. But it had to be said, it had he couldn’t hear anything but the whisperings of fate,
to be done. talking about his death, talking about him as if he
couldn’t hear them.
That’s when he realised why he could see, hear,
taste, and speak, yet he couldn’t feel. His tongue ran dry, and his lips bled from the cracks
he didn’t even know were there. He wanted to call out,
He was dead. one last time to his father, his mother, his lovers. But
all he could do was scream, not in pain, not in agony,
It was a relief, really. but in shame. The shame of what? He wished he could
remember. All that was left was the single thought that
At least now he knew couldn’t be blamed for the burnt him inside out, the single emotion that he had
things he did, for the things he said. At least now, he refused to give up on: love.
knew there was nothing more in the world that could
hurt him, as much as this moment did. And suddenly it felt right and it all made sense
again — this death.
It was a relief, really, knowing that the thing that kills
him is also the very thing that used to bring him life. Suddenly, he understood what it all meant.
Maybe he was the fool they talked about, blind and
mindless. He had figured nothing else could bring him But he was… far too late.
more pain than not being loved, yet there he sat, the

92