There is nothing much to say about my present surroundings, there is certainly fruits but they’ve quite aged, I think that’s the foot of the old antique chest Marlene from 12B was trying to shuffle up the stairs yesterday as I was heading out to rehearsals. A familiar odor of masalla and curry is beginning to mask the fleeting air, seems the Abdullah’s probably had a huge feast again this week. I think this is their third Jhandi for the month. Once, Bibi the youngest of the Abdullah’s invited me over for their seven curry fiesta, I had promised to stop by that afternoon, I never did.
At nineteen I left my homeland on a student visa in the hopes of finding myself and staking a claim in the world as a renowned classical dancer. Everything was splendid, I don’t have horror stories to unveil, and in many ways I was one of the lucky ones I should say. My boarding family took me in as simply one of their own and within four years I had completed my degree in theater and Dance and got accepted into the prestigious Alvin Ailey Dance Company.
The only moment that can perhaps eclipse the ghostly hollows of my emotions is the night I lost my childhood friend Dara. Eight years ago, March 14th to be exact our car was struck by a drunk driver. I was driving. I lived and Dara didn’t. Could you believe it was her birthday. I could still see her simple frame, lifting off the passenger seat and slowly propelling towards the deceptive partition that gave no rescue to her soaring body. Her eyes weighed heavy with fear, and her arms ached to clench my failing wrist. That’s the last image I have of Dara, I didn’t go to the funeral because I spent the next six months in coma. It was the most painful period of my life except for this moment lying here motionless. My words have long since escaped me and my brain has finally given up the task of awakening my limbs. My once beautiful limbs, that sculpted perfectly formed arabesque movements and birthed new rhythms in non-verbal proliferation, are now rendered inanimate; fractured, sprawled and bloodied. A head that is no longer dependable for the support of a recent serrated neck, rest lonely in the top draw of Marlene’s antique chest, from 12B.