Loss

1. Mademoseille Emelie

When I entered the establishment, the first thing I did was lower my hat and avert my eyes. There were clothes hanging from every wire, which were altogether too many; coils ran across flats divided by the narrow passageway on which I walked, forming a web of clothes overhead flapping about in the wind. The cause of my aversion was the indecency on which the entire building seemed to live. I stood there, perplexed. "hullo? Who you may be?" a fat pig of a woman walked towards me, carrying the smell of a cigarette smeared with the red of her lips.

I coughed to clear my throat. "I come from Bash&sons records. I have some business with a resident here, a one named Emelie." I came out sounding inquisitive, but I felt that was rightly so. Surely, an amazing singer of her calibre, and the winner of several awards wouldn't choose to live in a place like this. "oh, you mean mademoseille Emelie? Oh my"

Her face positively lit up with an evil sort of glee.

"all the way up, 9th floor, third flat from the elevator. The door would be open, go on ahead"

And with a short laugh, she pushed past me, pointing all the way up with one pudgy finger.

When I stood in front of the open door of room 903, I realised why the fat lady derived so much pleasure. Emelie's entire flat stank of opium and probably other drugs, and a stale smell of perfume. I left my suitcase by the door, and cautiously looked about.

I found Emelie in the balcony.

There was a used injection next to her, and badly treated wounds all over her arm. Her short black hair lay around her in disaray, her eyes closed and her tongue lulling out.

I sat down on the floor, disgusted. The famous idol, someone who was heralded as a revolution in music, now lay wasted beside me.

An hour or so passed.

Suddenly she moved, and in her stupor, her lips parted. She began to sing in her sleep. A sweet lullaby. It was that simple.

It was a fast evening then, and a faster night approached, but for now, I sat by her in the balcony looking at the fading sky.

Next morning, I came again, and was greeted by the fat lady once more. "oh you came back? Dont bother, mademoseille Emelie is sky high again."

2. Blue.

For someone like Dr. Linda Riktor, who had spent the last 26 years of her life practicing psychiatry (which of course included an endless cycle of study and research), the mind wasn't just a tool; it was the quintessential evidence of the existence of one's self. Needless to say, she respected the power of the mind over body.

It felt unreal, even now, as Linda inspected her grey hair and looked back at her years leading up to them, how the brain held the power to feel. Anger? Hate? Despair? Pain? Love?

All could be traced back to a few electrical signals that sparks brain activity.

Linda was awoken from her thoughts by a loud rap at the door.

"oi, morning"

Dr. Herbert Yates, a colleague of hers, fitted his tall frame through the door, passing a coffee and a quick smile to her.

Linda sat back and let his eyes survey the office. It was an old habit of a psychiatrist, she guessed, sipping at her coffee silently.

"you sent me an email." herbert's way of explaining his presence.

"Ah, yes. A patient came last night and her case is... Atypical."

"How so?"

"She told me she had amazing sex with her husband last night."

"oh really? How tragic." Linda shot him a glare.

"her husband has been dead for several years now, Herb"

He didn't say nothing, only looked at her.

"she says she can hear him, touch him, talk to him... She says she can feel him."

Herbert looked troubled.

"Worst part is...she knows he is dead. She knows... But every time her mind plays tricks on her, she succumbs to it."

"guilty pleasure?" Dr. Yates asked in a low whisper.

"No! It's not... " but Linda trailed off. She couldn't explain. "sometimes she feels like he is still there. Like her husband is real. I wonder..." her eyes were going blank.

He sighed. "whether if you kill yourself, you will be able to see him again? Linda. Listen to me. It's you. You were a psychiatrist. Now you are a suicidal widow. Its been 3 years and you have to get over it."

Linda had tears in her eyes. "lets start again. What's your name?" he asked.

"Dr. Linda Riktor." 

"he is dead Linda. Accept it. What's your name?"

"Linda S. Taylor."

Depression? This was just the blues, Herbert figured.

3. The seaside widow.

I found her in Pondicherry, after 23 years. She was in that ashram, or dharamshala, or whatever these Indians called it. How strange to find a Catholic English woman wearing a saree and serving khichdi from a bucket to the homeless. I didn't know what to say.

And then our eyes met. I had never seen a more radiant smile on her.

"What a surprise! I can't believe you are here in India, Eddie". She stood there with a ladle in one hand. "what are you doing here?" I asked slowly. It had been 23 years! Or had she forgotten?

She simply smiled. 

"Your husband got lost in the sea. Here in the Indian ocean. Is this why you are here? Some kind of freakish love? Enough of this nonsense, you are coming home!"

Everyone was looking at me. I didn't care. I didn't feel at peace; I felt like murder, like death.

"I am home." she said simply.

I raised my hand to slap her, but immediately lowered it. She neither looked alarmed, nor made a single move to turn away.

"come home." I pleaded.

"I was twenty when I left. Yes, it's true I came here waiting for my husband. It is also true he is lost at sea. I have let go. It's been 23 years now.This is home." I looked at her. "it's been 23 years." she repeated with a soft smile, "and I have let go. When will you?" I hated myself as I walked away, leaving her smile on her face.