Numb

I had first seen her when I was 14 years old. My mother had died after a prolong suffering from cancer. It was perceived to be inevitable. And I had found myself bracing for it and when it did happen I didn’t cry for a whole week. But when the shock and numbness had disappeared I had cried and felt that I would never stop. I felt I was being repeatedly stabbed in several places. The pain was unbearable.
It was during those times that I had first seen her. I was crying in my bed when I noticed her sitting in a chair looking at me without any expression.
I sat up and asked her almost timidly who she was. Ever since ‘the death’ there had been a lot of people in our house trying to help us in any way they can. Relatives, neighbors, friends of the family.
So upon seeing a girl sitting quietly in my room didn’t alarm me as normal circumstances would have. On the contrary she had intrigued me. There was something about her that had made me almost …secure.
She had straight limp dark hair to her shoulders. Big black eyes that seemed most unnatural.
Her skin was pale to the point of being almost translucent. Even though she seemed roughly my age, her wry skinny frame made her appear even younger.
“I don’t have a name,” she replied to me.
I looked at her puzzled.
“Don’t be silly. Everyone has a name.”
She shook her head, looking almost sad.
“But I don’t,” she replied simply.
I sat looking at her again. Then decided to ask what she was doing in my room.
“I’m watching you,” she answered.
“Why?”
“Because I’m concerned and…curious,” she said drawing out the last word.
“Are you with someone?”
She nodded. “Yes. I am with you.”
I paused for a second. “No. No. I meant are you here with your family visiting my family? Is your family friends with my father?”
She shook her head at this.
“No. I’m just here for you.”
I felt confused.
“Did you sneak into the house, then?”
She shook her head.
“I’m just here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re hurting so badly.”
“I don’t quite understand,” I replied frowning now. My head had begun to throb while my eyes felt raw. I could hear footsteps on the stairs as my father came up. There were only two of us in our house now and I could always recognize his footsteps and he was coming closer to my room. The door swung open and my father stood in the doorway.
“Dinner is ready,” he said.
I nodded.
He was about to shut the door when he paused as if on second thought.
“Were you talking to someone? Because I thought I heard voices.”
I looked across the room where she was sitting.
There was no one there.
How? I frowned and wondered where she had gone.
My dad calling my name brought me out of my reverie.
I looked at him.
“Erm…no,” I said almost absent-mindedly. After he had gone I got up from my bed, went and checked my bathroom to see if she was in there. The place was empty. Next I checked my cupboard, thinking it was most peculiar for her to hide from my father. She was not in there as well.
I looked around the room in wonder. I even looked through the window to see if she had perhaps gone through there. There was no sign of her.
I didn’t see her after that. At least not for a while. It was later that she visited me again.
I was asleep in my room when I heard her softly call my name. I was immediately awake although her voice had been soft and not at all menacing.
She was sitting in the same chair just as before, facing me, watching me while I sleep.
“How did you come in?”
She shrugged at this as if to say that’s not important.
I was wide awake by then.
“What are you doing here again?” I asked her quietly so as not to wake my father.
She seemed to think about is.
“To see you,” she finally replied.
“Why?”
She looked at my legs and then said softly, “Because you’re still hurting.”
I shifted nervously as she studied me with her expressionless face.
“Why did you hurt yourself?” she asked.
“What are you talking about?”
She pointed to my legs.
“You had cut your thighs with a razor tonight,” she said. “Why? Does it hurt so badly?”
I started trembling then and unconsciously touched my self-inflicted wounds.
“I just wanted to stop hurting inside. And I didn’t want others to know.”
I sat there crying while she quietly sat there observing me.
Finally after my sobs had died down I looked at her and asked her again who she was and what she was doing here.
She looked at me, as if in thought, then finally began to speak.
“I had begun when you had begun. I’ve been with you ever since you had taken your first breath. I don’t know why I had come to see or let myself be seen by you. But I wanted to do something for you…or maybe I am just curious. I’m not sure myself.”
I sat there quietly when she had stopped. I didn’t know what to say. I was at an age where cynicism hadn’t gripped me and still continued believing in anything supernatural. I had believed her every word. And also there was something about her that made her trustworthy.
“What are you then?”
She took a deep breath and replied, “I am where your feelings go to when your feelings go numb. When something really bad happens to you and you just stopped feeling because it is so unbearable, when you go numb, that is when I am here. That is when I am hurting for you.”
I stared at her as the words slowly sank in. We both sat there staring at each other and finally began talking. I had talked to her like I never had with anyone and she just sat there quietly listening. I had talked about everything that had made me sad, angry and happy. I don’t remember drifting off to sleep. But when I had woken she was gone.
I had not seen her since then. It has been ten years now. She had helped me through so many ordeals that I had faced through my life. When my father had passed away five years ago I had almost thought that she would make an appearance. But she didn’t. But I knew she was next to me, watching me all the time. And just the thought of her made me feel that maybe life was worth living. I knew I would see her again. I knew I would catch just one more glimpse of her. She would be holding onto my hand while Death holds the other. And when I fade back into the blackness that I had come from so will she.

By Aishath Shaheen