Time.

The bed she rested on smelt of a light fragrance, but she was fighting against it, rot odours emitting from her almost stale body, most parts not even functioning. What happens after you die? What happens moments before you die? For her, it was the gloomy, miserable memories of her childhood. In her mind, she traveled back in time…

The walls outside her house were chipped off in awkward areas due to prolonged ignorance. The walls that lined her house weren’t any better – they were faded yellow and beige strips, from the original vibrant yellow and pristine white colours, a result of negligence and the sunbeams that would not fail to pour in every afternoon. The fissure-filled wooden rocking chair lay helplessly in its path, a victim to the relentless sun rays.

She stood, rooted on the spot, powerless to act as she watched her mother rock aimlessly on the creaky old chair, eyes proving her to be somewhere else. Her big round eyes were fixed at her mother’s lifeless body, hands clutching her rag doll, brushing the blonde’s rough, scratchy hair absentmindedly. Her mother’s vision was directed beyond the rusty, eroded window frame. The window panes were stained with white dots, an upshot of evaporated rainwater and disregard, shrouded with rampant wild weeds and vines. The dusty road outside spiraled a mirage and what used to be a green patch metamorphed into a desert that stretched past her peripheral view. Was she waiting?

By a stroke of genius, she suddenly ran into the kitchen, acknowledged by the booming monotonous drill of the fridge which resembled metal pipes banging ferociously against each other. The notes pasted on the ancient fridge were brittle and stained with different shades of dirty yellow, dated from the past century maybe. Tiptoeing, she reached upwards with both elongated, slender arms and grabbed a cup the weight of only about an anchor. Dust spewed from the shelf as she dragged it out with as much strength she could provide. Coughing, she forced-pulled the handle of the fridge. No instantaneously cool relief came rushing forwards to soothe the lack of ventilation in the kitchen. She grabbed the expired milk with both hands and vigorously inclined it upwards, on the table top which was blanketed with a dense coat of grime. Uncapping it, she poured a full filthy cup of the pungent, off-white coloured milk which now houses some chunks of milk.

Spilling out some of the liquid-solid substance, she dashed to her mother’s side, thrusting it into her chest. The overflowing milk poured onto her mother’s Swiss-cheese like grey blouse, but she didn’t budge, no, she didn’t even blink. An invisible force propelled her head downwards and her dejected eyes painted an abandoned picture. Like her mother, she hasn’t eaten anything in days. The mouldy bread that now lay in the garbage was so engulfed in masses of brown and green it emulated a forest in cheap transparent plastic.

A more detailed definition of “days” would be three days ago, when her dad pulled up in a Jaguar, coming out of it in a suit. It was like switching channels on the television, just that it was a black-and-white channel versus a high-resolute one. She was so used to her dad donning nothing but a loincloth which only had one colour, that being mustard yellow and puffing on second-rate cigarettes which he used to wrap in paper himself, tending to the garden, busying himself with the fertilizers and repairing the broken pipes. Now, in a neatly laundered suit with intricate silver strips, he took out a thick cigar and his chauffeur lighted it, bending in submission after his tedious job was done. A ridiculously dressed woman stepped out of the other door, adjusting herself after tripping slightly on her towering stilettos. She stood out like a sore thumb in the barely awake city, adorned with a purple hat and pink feathers that ripples when she scrutinized something in disgust like it was a foreign object. The excessive sequins reflected the sunlight unnecessarily, making it all the more a chore to look at her. A reflection of Cruella, she really didn’t belong here with her thick coats and flamboyant accessories. Maybe Antarctica would work better for her.

In his ludicrously polished leather shoes, he stepped with the stance of Donald Trump towards the flaked door that was so discoloured they forgot the initial colour bestowed upon them. Unwilling to stain his pristine hand and fingernails, he indicated for the chauffeur to open the door, without knocking. His feet tapped irritatingly on the cracked floor, compliments of the dry scorching weather. The spider-webbed shelter he was under provided little relief; maybe in the loincloth yes, but not in this absurd outfit.

She was not embarrassed by her mother’s unkempt appearance, but she was ashamed of her mother’s actions. She was desperately cleaning the place, swiping spotless areas to welcome the presence of her husband. Her reverence was daft, but understandable. Despite attempts of shackling his residence in the hazy house, he signaled for the papers to be brought out, and supervised as she trembled in tears, scratching the paper in his fountain pen. He snatched it back from her coarse hands, years of accommodating, tolerance and long-suffering etched on it. He wiped it futilely, just to degrade her, and turned without looking back into the comfort of his air-conditioned transport.