Repeat

Prashansa Pasari

She had been here before. The sweet, mildly fermented taste of cherry wine settled into her tongue. The somehow fresh yet alluring warmth of the floral candle her mother saved for special occasions conflicting with the richness of the drink. She rested the glass by her side, sinking further into her dilapidated sofa. 

The memory, if she could even call it one, existed as if nothing but fog, blending with the fumes of the cigarette in between her fingers, before materialising into a lump forced down her chest, to fill the space between her organs. The feeling of hot air brushed her face as she brought it dangerously close to the candle, mindlessly swishing her nearly empty glass for good measure.  She listened intently to the silence that now replaced the tired slurring of her mother’s words. Words that often came as poorly constructed insults at her father, words that she only had the courage to say in the dark, towards the end of a bottle of wine. 

She always feared becoming her mother, her lingering awareness of the inevitable that the parasite which once defined her would solidify into more than just fog, which she could ignore. Only this time, something was different, unfamiliar to this cycle, standing out amongst the vices that she had long learned to find solace in. Slowly setting down her glass, she stood up and stumbled over to her bed making her way through the dark room engulfed in cigarette smoke. Her knees buckled as she spoke for the first time in a while, having nearly forgotten the sound of her voice. “Together”, she whimpered to the mirror, as her will finally gave out. 

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