Chapter #1 : The Tree of Reality

Ruchira is stuck in a labyrinth of nostalgia and memories and is falling into the sombre realm of her traumas lingering in her past. She tries getting out of the frenzy but it's a lost battle

CHAPTER 1

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The Tree of Reality

Her eyes twitched in awryness, like a bug trapped in a jar, whizzing furiously, jostling against glass walls yearning for an escape. She was that bug, finding doors in the dark, farfetched corners of her psyche, reaching nowhere, all her efforts ending her into fixating at nothing but a permeating void. The fabric of space and time seemed delusive. Her crouched, fallen self had taken a imploding blow in her gut, descending her on her knees that stopped rendering any sensation. Her only support seemed to be the foot of her bed, the ruthless wrinkling of whose sheet under her grasp gave away the desperation of her fading grip on her emotional state. The faintest signal of her virulent state could be the loss of harmony inside, her own self yielding to a functional overdrive of her heart's polarizing pulsations. Vehement influx of breath and powerless gasps restricted by her swelling lungs posed a physical quandary of survival that mirrored the imperceptible, formless dilemma of her existence.

Ruchira kept trying closing her eyes to an abyss that sucked her into a delusive silence, where the brain clutters and loses its form, strings of neurons and chains of synapses suffering a whirlwind of compounded emotions, the order being disintegrated by a convalescent, encroaching chaos, to the extent that the hooks of questions marks clung to the very roots of reality and existence. The tree of reality which she cherished with her own aspirations, painted with her own fantasies, watered with her own conscience was on the verge of bending and cracking. The leaves of thoughts and the buds of dreams seemed to wither prematurely. She was trying to keep her disintegrating reality together, holding her jigsaw pieces, her house of cards from getting blown in the whirlwind of chaos. What else would explain her cuddled self fallen to the carpeted floor? Her pupils dilated, staring into an infinite darkness to look for signs of hope beyond, her lips parched and motionless,  her hand squeezed between her thighs inclining towards her gut, her other hand wrapped against her crossed legs to keep that squeeze on her hand tighter. Clearly, she was keeping her doll house of reality from getting demolished into a sea of eventual nothingness. 

Then, she had to dip herself into that sea. The clamor silenced and a queer relief surrounded her brain. She was breathing slow, the leaves of thoughts had turned to ashes, the buds would require healing. The sea of emptiness has washed her body with a humid exhaustion and her soul with a chilling barrenness. The fallow, sallow heart just lay there, pumping in queer silence. She was frozen, her mind disengaged from this vehement episode, looking for a swinging stream of emotion to engage into and rationalize upon. Just then, her fingers began to caress the soft, spongy skin on her thighs, the rough, minute grooves on the fingertips brushing against the creases and folds of her skin down there. A surge of intoxication rushed to her brain, like a rope that had to pull her mind out of the confusing dark entrapment. She was feeling the warm, moist breath on her lips again, her nose getting chilled by strong gushes of fresh air passing through the nostrils. She couldn't stop the waltz of her fingers and the sensations would only intensify. Finally, the peak was hit and a mild, permeating, persistent tingling felt at various scattered spots in her brain. Her gasp was breaking into weak shivers, and the tree of her reality was getting restored again.

As a consequence, her body dragged herself into a sweeping slumberous state, to let her consciousness escape into her inner garden, while the buds and leaves would need some time to sprout on her tree again. Her eyelids shuttered and blanketed her eyes, discharging them from service and gradually, her whole body found a poise  wherein she could stay comfy and busy in her scenic reconstruction of her own inner self.

The night seemed like a time travel, for a different version of her existence would set foot during the oncoming dawn.

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Unlike the whirlpool of blended coffee caused by her constant stirring with her spoon, her soul was calm this fresh morning. She had just washed herself, had let a window open so fresh breeze could dry her skin up and had unpacked a new night-robe to keep her comforted. She fixed herself on her seat, in a pose she could keep for another hour, for she wasn't to be disturbed. She had to make another attempt at meeting her deadline for this new article she's been working on for ten days now, which was today. Her preparations for this attempt could be at par with a general preparing for battle - Her phone had to lose freedom of speech, she couldn't be bothered by notification sounds that pinched at her anxiety a little more hooking her up with the device. The phone could wait her constant dabbling on its screen. She would complete her errands, perform a round up check of the whole house to finish any task for the day lest a lingering, anxiety-inducing reminder could keep her at unrest while on her seat. All this to make sure she descends into her zone smoothly, delved into the pure action of portraying her rambling thoughts onto the paper. 

She had decided this time, she wouldn't give in to the temptation of clicking on her social media app icons to scavenge for any lingering mentions of and notifications for her. But again, one click never hurts. It's always just one click, no matter how many clicks you perform, it's always just one more click. In a few moments, Ruchira was scrolling through her news feed, and lived a lifetime of nostalgia and hopes through the endless swathe of posts from her friend that just had a big fat Indian wedding and was posing blissfully in her honeymoon selfies with her newly-wed husband, a new swanky location her favorite celeb just checked in, with a few brand logos visible in her photos, a clip of her favorite vlogger roasting a no-brainer Tiktok clip and certain sponsored ads, with a young girl flexing her tanned and greased beach body in her utmost spring, in what is being termed as a 'sweat resistant swimwear, made of second-skin fabric'. Ruchira liked these bursts of escape from her tree of reality, her reality which always seemed so dull and constantly needed protection. She was living the luxuries in moments, she was enjoying her split-second vacations into a new, unknown place every time she scrolled down. Every swipe, every like made her felt close to the dream her unwavering focus was ushering her into.

Clearly, she was in a mild, inexpressive, imperceptible awe of the dream, of how she would look in a frame that fit into the palms of millions of people on this earth, who would acknowledge her, make her feel she has a place in a world with maddening orientations and diversity. Suddenly, she snapped herself out of this reverie. "Work!" she silently exclaimed, and just before she could peacefully sit down to continue with her column, she resorted to her washroom for her final freshening-up. 

 She creaked open her bathroom door, gazed at her reflection before opening her tap and placing the hollow of her hand before the rushing tap-water stream. She looked into her eyes, and smiled. Her eyes spoke stories to her, so her reflection and she would engage into appreciative conversations on either sides of the mirror most often. The seldom acne or marks on her face would divert her spiritual conversation with her own eyes. She fixated her gaze on her stretch marks across her neck, her eyebrows, at whose junction she was noticing some recent sprouting of baby hairs. She looked a little down, at her robe, which she instinctive wore off to reveal her torso, a white tank top covering her breasts which sagged a little, breaking the promise of the most-revered raindrop shape. She was conscious of her tummy and gazing at there would make her hold her breath. She pressed her stomach, felt her love handles, stretched the sides to see some stretch marks here and there. The stretch marks were accentuated by a darker fabric of her skin, so she always caught notice of them. In another moment, her pyjama slipped down onto the floor, and she was noticing how her thighs curved. There was barely any gap between her thighs, although they where pretty much in shape. She swung her body at a tilt to see whether her hips were sagging out of the bubble shape. Some noticeable stretch marks and the fat getting a bit unruly made her frown a little.

She opened her drawer, unlocked her foundation kit and began covering one spot, one mark, one fold at a time, reddened her lips with some lipstick, brushed her eyelashes to give them a larger whip. She was gazing herself in the mirror, broke her fixation once to shut the tap, got back into intermittent flashes of self-appreciation and self-doubt, a clamor of possibilities, hopes, predictions of future directions in with the tree of reality would grow, began to build up. She kept looking at herself, or maybe who she could have been, or maybe who she could be, or maybe who she doesn't want to be, or maybe who she was, or maybe....who she has been all this time.

Her focus was getting tunneled, and the dark, glass walls were creeping back up.

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Author's Note

Please share your thoughts on this chapter. Criticisms and suggestions welcome.