My memory of our cotton year is a vivid image of bright red on our sheets. He had been coughing incessantly all night, and only now had we realised that something was not right. The next year - paper - saw him become exactly that, frail and paper-seeming. The tiniest of things would have him trembling in his weakness. Speak a little too loud and he'd shiver. Come leather, and we were picking out his funeral dress - a brilliant black suit complete with a ridiculous tie and belt that seemed out of place for the occasion - his usual, humorous style.

On our fifth anniversary, wood, they nailed his coffin shut and lowered it into the ground.

I was obviously heartbroken. Anyone who has ever lost someone they loved will be able to tell you exactly how it feels. Heart wrenching. The feeling of having nothing to live for. Perhaps you'd have to face it someday too, God forbid, and I hope you have the strength to keep going through those terrible, terrible days.

For months, I had refused to speak a word. I slept little, even went without sleep whenever I could. Days went by without me eating or drinking properly. One might make an improper joke about how I began to look more and more like him in his final days. I couldn't care less, though. I had lost most of my will to live.

Yet, not all was lost. In the afterglow of all things done and dusted, there is a magical warmth that keeps you going. The hope of him coming back someday was perhaps my source of warmth. I knew it was impossible and that I was crazy to keep to such preposterous notions, but living in isolation for months does make you a little insane. Exactly the amount of insane he'd appreciate, I told myself.

For our next anniversary, he'd managed it somehow. It was later that I learnt what brought him back. You see, when a person dies, they get to rethink their life. If they ever had a last wish that somehow couldn’t be fulfilled, they'd hang around till it was. And that was what made him come back to me.

"Hello, sugar." I turned around to see whose voice sounded so perfectly like his and I was surprised to see him - pleasantly so. Though he didn't look the way I'd have wanted him to, devoid of any traces of his illness, I guess all that mattered to me in that moment was that he was back. His torn, rotting lips, empty sockets where his eyes were - he had donated them - and his liquid arms devoid of nails didn't deter me even a little bit from being happy that he was back.

He took me to the woods where we loved to picnic in our younger days when the illness hadn't begun to consume him. It was the middle of a summery June night filled with the fragrance of moisture and dead things, and a fog loomed over our surroundings. Alone, I would have found it scary; but with him, all was well. We danced and we sang and we revelled in our day just as if the metaphorical 'happy old days' were back again for good, never to end.

It was one of the most amazing nights I had ever spent in my life.

He had to leave soon, and just like a good wife, I let him. It takes magical days for a miracle to happen, and our anniversary was the best example of one. He promised he'd return, though.

It's been fourteen years since that day. Technically, our twentieth anniversary. By now, I was exactly like him when he died, pale and brittle like a china doll. A minute to midnight, and I was waiting in my chair, facing his empty one, dressed in my wedding gown, ready to be his bride once again.

Every June 25th, we celebrated our wedding anniversary. This one would be no different.

She bowed to the mighty tree in front of the arena, and cut open the sacred thread that was tied to it upon her birth. She was a warrior now, set free from the shackles of birth. Tomorrow would be the day her teacher would recognise her training of seventeen years and bestow upon her the weapon he deemed fit.

As a warrior, she was most fearsome and ruthless. That was the reason everyone in the village had already decided in their heart of hearts that she, undoubtedly the best warrior from amongst them, would surely be given an axe; the symbol of death without a new beginning, of closed doors, of chopped, lifeless trees. She, too, believed in the words of the villagers. Unknown to her teacher, she had been training with the axe for years in preparation of what she thought was inevitable.

The sun was setting. She had to go to the forest soon.

Clad entirely in black from head to toe, she wrapped a black cloth around her face. The only thing one could identify her by was her eyes, left uncovered. She retrieved her axe from a tree hollow that she knew all too well. She cleaned it up and examined its edge. The old axe had finally begun to lose its sharpness. The metal had worn off at the ends and it had become blunt. She smiled dryly; as that night was the last time she would use it.

The next day, they would be acquainted anew.

She swung the axe with all her heart and practiced with it; her every move channelling the energies of the ancient warriors whose tales of fortitude she had heard as a little child. Her every step was like a dance; even with the most ruthless weapon, she moved with grace and poise. She swayed and she charged, she hacked and she danced. At last, she swung her weapon in the air and caught it like it was an old lover.

But woe befell; the axe fell from her hands to the ground, and with it fell her last two fingers. She winced in pain. Blood oozed from her missing digits. She looked at her axe accusingly and then shut her eyelids tightly. It was her mistake. She shouldn’t have underestimated her only childhood companion; for after all, the axe was the only one she trusted after her parents died.

She ripped apart the cloth from her face, exposing her face, and tied it tightly around her hand, grimacing as she did so. When the bleeding stopped for a while, she picked up the axe, and her fallen fingers, throwing them back in the tree hollow. The axe, which had given her so much, had decided to keep a part of her for itself too, it seemed. The axe, once light as a feather to her, now seemed as heavy as the burden of a life.

Tears flowed from her eyes as she was unsure of the future which she had already painted with her colourful dreams. She came to the woods as a woman sure of her ability and knowledge; but life had taught her a lesson to never think ahead of herself.

Dawn came much later than she thought it had.

She trudged to the temple on top of the hill, where her teacher had imparted to her the knowledge of weapons and what it meant to be a warrior. As the familiar, intricate arches came into view, she sighed and stared at the black bandage on her hand, still wet with blood. Thinking that it would attract too much attention in the arena, she carefully unwound it and threw it away below the hill into the forests, where no one went.

Every square inch of the arena was packed with all the villagers and had an air of palpable excitement. Everyone cheered for her as she walked up to the warriors’ pedestal, where a few of the boys were already standing in wait for the ceremony to begin. The others arrived shortly after her, waiting for their teacher.

The teacher came after quite a while and lay down all the weapons on the stand on the pedestal. The villagers were elated to see a shiny, brand new axe among them. The teacher then walked up to face the young people. Everyone waited with bated breath as the teacher called out the names of his students, one by one, acknowledging their presence at the ceremony. He then picked up a sword, and gave it to the tallest boy of the lot. Everyone cheered.

The timid, short boy had been chosen by a spade. The muscular boy received a mace. Subsequently, the other boys were given a trident, bow and arrows, and a dagger.

The master then picked up the axe. Faces plastered with smiles; everyone looked on as the expression on the face of the teacher had morphed into a questioning one. The young warrior, expectant of her weapon, looked towards her feet, her good hand covering her injury. No one noticed the teacher slip his hand away gently from the handle of the axe, revealing a scrap of black cloth tied to it. No one saw that she had finally uncovered her arm, revealing her lost digits. Everyone observed that the teacher put the axe back on the stand, and went forward to his best student instead with a pen. There was a wave of shock and surprise amongst the spectators, the hushed silence slowly growing into a chaotic hissing.

The ceremony had ended. Everyone left with disappointment in their hearts.

She, however, had found a new beginning.

"Hellow?" The voice from the other side was accented and sounded weird, somewhat deep. But it felt like home. The overbearing scent of cologne pricked my sensitive nose, and I felt an allergic reaction on its way. But now wasn't the time to fixate on things I couldn't help. The sun shone brightly over the grass in the university lawn.

"Earth to Alex! Can yew hear this?" He spoke again, summoning me out of my thoughts. He was standing next to me, waiting for me to respond. "Hm?" was the only intelligible thing to come out of my mouth.

"I just finished telling yew my entire life story, and this is how yew react?"

"Well, for starters, I've been through it all." I replied.

"And howw exactly does that help mey?"

"You can learn from my experiences. It's not like changing a little bit will hurt. Watching sappy romances, reading what you like, and listening to your kind of music is going to kill you. Of course, you might become a little unpopular, but who'd rather be popular and unhappy?"

"Yew don't get it-"

"Oh yes, I do. You're exactly the person I was ten years ago. Wanted to be little-Ms.-Popular, but in the end realised that being happy with your own self is much, much more important."

"Not tow mey, it's not."

"Oh, you feel that way now. But things will change. Believe me, they will. There'll come a time when you're forced to listen to that music you so utterly despise right now, and you won't be able to do anything about it. But midway through the song you'll realise it's not actually half bad. You might even become a fan, who knows. You'll slowly realise that pretence is a waste of time. Your definition of 'cool' will change - drastically, if I might add. You'll change, you see. Actually, you don't right now, but you will. That's a given."

"Fack yew. I'll stay troow tow myself." He argued, smiled, and hit me playfully over my head.

I smiled to myself. "You'll see in ten years. Or maybe change will come sooner for you, Tom."

And as Tom and I walked to our next class, I couldn't stop myself from thinking of all that was ten years ago, and all that could have been.

Nila was a little confused by the events of the day. She had never seen anything like that happening before; she hadn't even expected it. Even the mentally strong and usually gutsy servant of the Light was shaken by the incident when she saw the Mother behave as if she were possessed by some entity belonging to the Darkness. 

The Mother's explanation calmed her down a bit, but it was, visibly, not enough. She had to go to the Temple of Light and meet her own mother there before she could begin to function normally again. 

"Mother!" She called out as she reached the Temple. The white marble structure and its glass dome shone brilliantly in the sunlight as if it were made of a thousand sparkling diamonds. The steps of the Temple were white-hot from the blazing sun but it was no difficult task for Nila to climb them. She had often played there as a little girl when her mother, another servant of the Light, would perform her duties during the day. She had later taken up the orange robes herself when she grew up and realised their sanctity. 

"I've heard about what happened, Nila. Don't worry. Things like this happen from time to time."

"Did you ever see such a thing happening to Arya the Elder when you served her?" Nila asked her. If her mother would confirm the fact, then her worries would all be set to rest. Her mother's face turned contemplative as she tried to remember. "I don't remember." She said, after a while. 

Nila's face turned pale. "Mother, I fear that the Darkness might overcome the Light." 

Her mother smiled. "If it is so, my child, I don't think we would be able to do much about it. Come, pray to the Light, it is all we can do for now. Or pray to the Darkness and beg it not to harm the Light." Nila nodded. Admittedly, the meeting did not help her get rid of her fears, but she did feel a lot more relieved that she had related her fears to her mother. Now, all of Nila's worries were her mother's. She paid her respects to the Light and left.

She then went to the gates of the Temple to inform the guards about the visitor who was to be expected. Dusting her robes, she went up to the formidable guards with their huge moustaches rolled up onto their cheeks, which themselves were barely visible. 

"Sir? I have a message from the Mother." She coughed out to one of the guards in a voice that was barely audible. 

"Speak up, girl, I can't hear you." The guard said. "Sir, I have a message... from... the Mother." She said, trying to be louder. The faces of these guards are enough to keep anyone from entering the Temple, she thought. 

"Ah, a message from the Mother." He said, bowing. He removed his helmet and laid it on the ground beside him reverently. "What does Her Holiness command us to do?" He asked, his voice surprisingly softer. 

"She believes there's a man to arrive at the Temple today. You are to permit him inside the Temple."

"Without asking the questions of the Spirit?" 

"She did not say anything about that." 

"I will send the man inside, then. The Mother's judgement is unquestionable. She is a gift of the Light and Darkness."

"Yes, sir. She is a gift of the Light and Darkness."

Nila looked out of the gates of the Temple to the city, bustling with activity. The scent of firosas filled her noses. It was a snack prepared by drying the fleshy flower of the same name with some salt, beautiful to look at, and extremely sweet in taste. Sweet, sour, salty and even somewhat bitter, it was a perfect explanation to every taste. When powdered and mixed with water, it made a refreshing drink to help beat the harsh summers of the Open Lands. 

She rushed to the small shop outside and bought some firosas. She knew the Mother loved them. It was one of the things she took a pleasure in, one of the only things she would ever ask for. The Mother, much unlike the Elders, lived a simple lifestyle - one might mistake her for another normal human being if she ever came out of the Temple wearing something besides her standard olive robes. 

A stray thought crossed Nila's mind. Did the scientists ever need firosas? She quickly pushed it away. Asking about the scientists might get her into trouble. The Mother was merciful, but her soldiers weren't. 

As she returned to the Temple, she noticed a palanquin waiting outside. By the looks of it, it seemed like it was the royal family. Nila hurried inside. She would be required to make the arrangements for them. 

"Girl!" The guard called out as she was entering the Temple. "Is this the man?" He asked, pointing to a tall, lanky man with long hair and yellow-grey eyes. 

"No, sir, this is not the man." Nila confirmed. "The Mother specifically said that he would come alone." She then turned to the man and flashed a bright smile. "Welcome to the Temple, prince Izumi. Please come inside." She led the prince inside and the palanquin followed them. She then turned to another servant of the Light and asked him to lead the royals to the Meeting Chamber while she went and informed the Mother of their visit.

- - - 

The princess sneered as they were told to wait for a little more while to meet the Mother as she was occupied with something. "I've always told you, Izumi. You never listen." She said. "I swear the Mother does this just to humiliate us. I can't seem to think of a single occasion when we visited the Temple and were immediately granted an audience with her."

"But, Enya, I'm sure the Mother isn't doing this on purpose. She must have some work! After all, having so much authority doesn't leave you with free time. You must know that."

Princess Enya rolled her eyes. "You and your mother, you're incorrigible. You wouldn't listen to sound advice, only your faith in the Mother. I can't seem to think of a single mountain a sixteen-year-old can move."

"It's not like that, Enya -"

"Welcome to the Temple, Prince and Princess." A sweet, gentle voice sounded from behind them. They turned to face the Mother. Prince Izumi bowed in respect when he faced her. "You look very lovely today, Princess Enya." the Mother commented. "I know." she replied, raising an eyebrow. 

"I met your mother on the way here, my Prince. The Queen expresses her concern regarding your state of mind these days. I think we need to talk about that." the Mother said. "She left after that. She was not feeling well."

"I'd rather we talk in private, Your Holiness. There are matters I need to discuss with you which must not be made known to anyone else under all circumstances." He said, looking back for a split second to face his wife, but the Mother did not notice him doing so. 

"Definitely." she smiled. "My Princess, I'll see to it that you are entertained. Nila will come with some food in a short while. You're also free to roam around the Temple and meet your old friends if you want to." 

The Princess nodded nonchalantly and crossed her legs while the Mother and the Prince went to the Temple of the Darkness. A while later, a short blonde girl wearing orange robes entered carrying some food and drinks. Enya took a single look at them and dismissed them. "Really, girl? Firosa water? Do you take me for a peasant? Is that how you treat your princess?"

The blonde girl bowed to the Princess and then spoke. "My Princess, with all due respect, this is the kind of food we have at the Temple. Her Holiness does not really indulge in all the pleasures of life, I'm sure you know that from your past experience at the Temple. Moreover, the realm has the royals for that very purpose." She kept the tray there and left. Enya was a shocked, but a smile quickly replaced her expression as she heard footsteps. 

"Enya!" squealed the three young women in servants' orange as they saw their beloved friend. "How have you been?" they asked her. 

Enya plastered a fake smile on her face and nodded silently to everything the excited girls told her. All their gossip and tales from all corners of the Open Lands couldn't interest her even if she wanted to. Truth be told, she despised the Temple and everyone in it. She had herself been a servant of the Light before, but she had been lured out of that life when the royal family had once visited the Temple. 

Izumi had instantly taken a liking to her looks - Enya was beautiful beyond measure, with her green eyes, hair red as fire and face as luminant as the Light itself. But what made her Princess of the Open Lands was the fact that Izumi's father took more interest in her than the Prince himself - he realised the potential his future daughter-in-law had that could prove its worth when time came, to restore the royal family to all its ancient power and glory. 

And Enya, too, in due course of time, had come to realise her father-in-law's ambition and develop a passion for it herself. 

- - - 

Confronted with its state of disarray over the period of the past few months, my sleep broke off yet again, leaving me alone with my thoughts in the middle of the night. Like always, it had been dreamless. The flickering streetlight illuminated the swaying slit on the drab, cream-coloured walls as the curtains danced lifelessly; the monotone clicking of the wall clock providing them rhythm. 

Aphantasia. That's what I suffered from. 

It occurred to me that I had never considered the absence of my "mind's eye" to be a kind of suffering before, but the void in what was left of my heart had perhaps made me reconsider what I had confirmed to myself before. I want to see vivid images like everyone else when I close my eyes. I want to dream.

I sighed, preventing myself from wandering off into those deep, seldom trodden topics at the back of my mind lest I lose myself and end up making the void in my heart larger than it already was. 

I felt movement beside me. I turned. The sound of my sigh seemed to have woken him up. 

Can't sleep? I nodded. Why? It's restless. It's dreamless; worthless. Since when? It's always been like that. 

Now close your eyes. Close them and think of a wondrous world; a world where you rule, a world which coexists with this one in perfect harmony, constructively moving in coordination to give birth to a mellifluous melody by their confluence. 

And as I followed every step of his instructions, despite being unable to see the wonders my mind could have conjured, every word that fell on my ears left me with a beautiful idea. A smile played itself on my lips. 

And that, my beloved, is a dream. He paused, and I opened my eyes. Tell me what you saw. 

Before I could open my mouth to tell him, the wall-clock chimed thrice - its sound soft but clear, echoing in my ears as I emptily watched his fleeting image float away to oblivion. 

---

You need to face your own fears, they said.

I shut my ears. I didn't need any of that.

Come on, they said, you can't make it in this world if you can't.

I shut them tighter. I didn't need to hear their nonsense. I didn't need to hear any nonsense.

Deep inside, I knew they were right. I knew what they said made sense. And so I sat awake in my bed one night wondering what to do about it. A whole night passed. The tiny glimmer of a needle gave me an idea. I laughed to myself. Not aloud. A laugh which no one could hear.

A few nights later, the town was silent.

And then, my phonophobia could finally rest in the sound of silence.

You're chronically depressed. Everything that's happening around you is too much for you to handle. A book lies open on your table. You can't bring yourself to read. You force yourself.

Your eyes begin to sting; you want to cry but there are none. After a long while, a tear glazes your eye. You let more of them follow.

The page you're writing your feelings on is ruined as tears smudge it. You look at it angrily. Can't anything ever go as I want it to? You sigh.

The page is ruined, and so is your mood. You think of destroying the page. You rip it off as furiously as you can. Your anger hasn't subsided. You want more. You crave more. The sudden adrenaline rush as you tore the page drives you.

Your eyes fall on a newspaper. The people who were famous for being famous did something with someone famous which made them even more famous. The ugliness in the world disgusts you. You look towards your table. You see a craft knife. Eyes glazed with tears and struck by a slowly dying heart, in a crazed frenzy, you pick it up.

I'm half mad.

No, scratch that.

I'm fully mad, you say to yourself. That's right.

You slice through multiple pages of the newspaper. It satisfies you, but leaves you craving for more. You do it again. And again. And again. And again and again and again till not even a square inch of the newspaper if left for you to slice through.

You throw the newspaper away. Cut finely, small pieces of it fall on you. As you pick the tiny pieces from yourself, you get an idea.

You slowly draw the craft knife on your arm. You draw blood. And that blood draws you.