It trickled within us, the dwindling hypocrisy of peace; a promise of cure in sheer chaos. The converging sounds within the diverged hemispheres of our parallel existence, our refuge nestled within the confines of normalcy or a concealment of unfaltering vice. It baffled me, the thought of possession leading towards a resolute abandonment of all virtue and compassion – how every successive generation was a tide of generates aimed to drown within intrinsic flexion of an extrinsic symbiosis.
“Do you feel no shame for yourself? The sort of kindness that we have reciprocated to your dual presence in this household that was never yours to begin with, and you cannot tether the reins of your own conscience?!”
As I mentioned previously, a bloom without a stranglehold to reside upon wilts in the bosoms of those that aim to rupture it. As an adopted child of an abusive family (if I could term it that) I held no regard for the undeviated notoriety that I possessed. Somehow perhaps, within the recluses of insanity my chance of metamorphosis could eventually ricochet – a concealed aeon of quietude and the drug-induced subconsciousness of my kith and kin.
As we entered the building, the other people smiled as if they knew something we did not. Perhaps there were others of a faltering similitude like me as I rustle to remember the demons funneling on the inside as I was thrashed towards the metal door glistening with a warm embrace of lunacy. Choice could have been a privilege heavy to afford as Rita, my foster mother gradually drugged my food with hallucinogenic depressants – a meagre dosage of lysergic acid diethylamide. Days of strenuous hours ticking under the timeframe of momentary seconds and the neural breakdowns that ensued the respective nights drenched with agony and despondency – I didn’t get to choose my demise, yet it was appointed to me.
“We need you to take her away as soon as possible. This is an emergency! She has been relapsing back to these manic episodes with an increasing probability of harming us and…she doesn’t listen to anyone. It’s as if she is not present anymore. Please she needs to be detached from us instantly.”
The enveloping moisture darting above my receding consciousness, the deafness of submerged caterwauls as I disintegrated within a basin laden with crimson. The water rippling through the curvature of an abiotic stance – I could easily drown, succumbing to the silhouettes of a deceitful presence. I was not present. The asylum however was the more regarded term for a facility to nourish cadavers, I was only another digit receding beneath the nepotism and malpractice of strangers and loved ones; as I float among the contemplations left barren in a consolidated total of our breathing rhapsodies, I wish for the descent of melancholy to be appointed to me. To fall yet with the grace injecting beneath the prospect of our porous existence, I could descend with a glare towards the cosmos and decompose – not within an unrequited insanity but within the fragments of a wilting bloom.
The Genres of Life 