A Cinderella Story

By Adharshila Chatterjee


Stains of glue on the table. I don't mind.
The lamp beside the bed is a sickly green.
It hurts the eye.
Weird. I never noticed it before.
Your eyes were green too. Deep, seaweed green. As green as jealousy. As green as the emerald ring you gave me last Christmas.
You remember how we spent our last weekend at the beach house? The smell of freshly carpentered wood and turpentine oil hung about the place. Your hand smelled of salt. And you said, “The taste of your skin drives me mad.”
I remember. Do you?
None of it matters now.
Bit by bit it will fade. Like the slow wearing away of time. Or the shedding of a flower. Petal by petal. Till it dies.
Like your love did. Your love died. And so did you.
I am happy here. Happy, so happy. The nurses in starched white have smooth, soft hands.
You had rough hands, but your touch was tender. Gentle, so gentle. Their touch reminds me of you.
They have shaved my head.
You loved my hair. You said you loved my hair every time we made love. And you would wrap your fingers around each strand and play with them all night long. Play with my hair. Play with my hand. Play with my heart. You would always play games. Like the time you said you were going on a trip and left for six months. You pretended you no longer loved me. That you loved that girl at your newspaper office. But I know a lie when I see one. You lied, didn't you? You came back. I brought you back. How could you love her? She did not have brown hair. She did not smell like me.
Then you left again. You always left. Every time I brought you back, you left the next day. You said you did not love me any more. You said you did not love my skin, my hair. You did not love her. You did not love me. You loved nobody.
Your love died.
You died too.
They give me pills that make my head soft, weightless, floating. Like the time we danced on the beach to the sounds of waves. Now I dance in my little white room, in my little white apron. You loved me in white. You said white made me look like Cinderella. I do not have a white dress. So I pirouette in my little white apron till my head whirls. But you are not there to catch me. I fall. The nurses in starched white scold me. I scream. They show up with needles. I scream again. The doctor comes. He has white beard. I do not like bearded men. They scare me. I cry. And then I think of you. You loved me in white. You did…
They say I killed you. I do not remember that.
But I remember your green eyes. Deep, seaweed green. I have green eyes too. As green as jealousy. As green as the emerald ring you gave me last Christmas.