“How work today? Yemek yedin mi?”
I was helping my crippled mother when she asked me if I had
eaten at work. I couldn’t help but feel a heightened sense of wariness towards
her, which she must have noticed as I peeked at her with a half-hearted smile.
She had laid on her own stool for an entire day, singed and
humiliated, yet she still worried about me.
Feeling a deep sense of shame, I lowered my gaze and
instinctively reached out for my punctured arm.
“Just another day. Her zamanki gibi.”
I carefully placed her diaper into a black plastic bag,
intending to dispose of it with the rest of the trash after dinner.
Although she clearly wanted to inquire further, she stayed
silent as I helped her put on her underpants.
Her sombre eyes followed me wherever I went as if trying to
uncover my thoughts. I wiped away a tear, its saltiness lingering on my
fingertips, as I was about to go to the kitchen.
“You must be starving, anne.”
She grabbed my hand, refusing to release it until I mustered
up the courage to meet her gaze.
Her hair, once brown, now mirrored the colour of the snow
outside. The passage of time had etched lines and wrinkles onto her
once-youthful face. Her lively spirit had lost its spark, leaving behind a
sense of defeat and exhaustion.
She was a mere shadow of her former self, a hollow imitation
of the woman I once called anne.
“Remember, Allah is bigger than your worries. Always.
Unutma kızım.”
I hesitated, feeling a knot in my throat. I dropped my eyes
to the floorboards, averting her piercing gaze. I wanted to agree with her, to
reassure her I already knew. But the words stuck in my throat.
I gently pushed her hand away, feeling the slight tremor in
her fingers, and shambled to the kitchen.
After preparing her favourite soup, mercimek çorbası, I
added two 300 mg Gabapentin pills and stirred it in.
My GP prescribed it for my sleeping disorder but I seldom
took it. I wanted to be alert at all times, even while in a deep sleep in order
to take care of my bedridden mum.
I took a deep breath and arranged everything neatly on a
tray before returning to the living room. The authorities turned off the heat a
month ago, so the entire place felt chilly.
I placed the tray on the table, the clinking of glasses
echoing through the room. Before settling on a three-legged stool, I covered my
mum with another layer of quilt.
As I held the spoon to her bluish lips, I noticed a flicker
of hesitation in her guarded expression.
She knew, I thought, so why did she take a sip of the soup?
As I felt a pang of ache in the depths of my heart, my breathing became
laboured and I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze.
The touch of her fingers against my cheeks carried a weight
of acceptance as if she had resigned herself to the idea of her life coming to
an end by my hands.
I didn’t have to say anything. She knew that neither of us
would live to see the daylight tonight.
I brushed her hand aside and stood upright. At that moment,
the weight of my actions hit me like a ton of bricks. I couldn’t bring myself
to look at her.
I fixed my gaze on the only window in our living room,
watching my reflection twist and contort with anguish.
What had become of the person I once was? The reflection in
the mirror seemed foreign and unfamiliar. My pale complexion, sunken eyes,
hollow cheekbones, and stoic expression painted a picture of exhaustion.
I felt like a walking corpse, devoid of any semblance of
life and devoid of emotions. I mused over the idea of having been human at some
point in my existence.
How ironic, wasn’t it? Once a promising student with a great
future ahead of her…
When my mum finally slept, I could hear the soft rhythm of
her slowing breath and was lost in my own thoughts. Minutes turned into hours
as I stood there, gazing blankly through the window.
The shimmering moon beckoned me to hurry, the twinkling
stars pleaded with me to stop.
I shut my eyes. Tears streamed down my face. I turned around
and opened my eyes, wiping away the never-ending tears.
I retrieved the stolen syringes and carefully rolled up her
sleeve. With every gentle push of the syringe, I marvelled at how peaceful her
face appeared.
Then I waited. I gently caressed and kissed her delicate
hands, feeling the warmth slowly dissipate until they turned cold. I witnessed
her soul depart from her body, leaving only an empty vessel behind.
But I didn’t cry. I didn’t have the right to shed tears for
her, not when I was the one who had robbed her of life.
Only three syringes remained. I rolled up my sleeve and
inserted one cannula into my arm, followed shortly by the other two. Only then
did the tears return.
My cries shattered the tranquillity, reverberating like the
desperate cries of a troubled child. I sobbed until there was nothing left but
a deep, exhausted sigh. As I emptied the last syringe, my vision blurred and
darkness consumed me.
The door swung open, and a voice screaming my name was the
last thing I remembered before losing consciousness. The familiar face made me
recall something I had long forgotten.
It was my birthday.
This was where my memories ended, like a broken film reel. I
bore the guilt of my mum’s untimely demise. I tried to take my own life but
fate had other plans.
Like the snowflakes, she melted away, while I stayed, alive
despite everything. That day, I should’ve met the same fate and faced the
consequences of my sins. But I didn’t.
Day after day, the same question plagued my mind: why? Why did I live? Why me?
I opened my eyes…
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