Page 108 - KCN 2020

Sierra was burdened with the gift of memory.

The blazing colours that adorned the tents of the market brought the cheeriness of the square to its peak. As the throng of people
pushed and pulled, heaved and sighed, and loosened as if a part of one living organism, she weaved her body between the clusters of people,
moving against the rhythm of the mass and never along with it.

The people of the market saw multitudes of colours before them, but she could only see grey, as though she was seeing through a
monochrome film. Though the market was pregnant with the sound of buzzing of flies and the tumult of the growing crowd, Sierra’s mind
was filled with only deafening silence.

Her face was of a deathly pallor. It started to glisten with sweat. Yes, her world was devoid of colour, but she did not mind. What joy
could an array of colours bring if he wasn’t there to share it with her?

The crowd gave her a wide berth wherever she went. She was already inured to the cold rancor of the community. The inordinate ani-
T mosity she received from her neighbours turned her into a myth; she was a fleeting shadow, a tower of grey, a dull figure in her otherwise vibrant
neighborhood. Once articulate, now taciturn, Briskly, as to not get enmeshed in the web of people, she made her way towards the fishmonger’s
stall.
O ered in a dull sheen, bloodshot and lifeless. Their unblinking eyes, devoid of life, were all too familiar.
The fish surveyed her as her gaze shifted from row to row. They stared through her as if she were transparent, their eyes cov-

She could already feel her fingertips trace the outline of his figure. The image of his feet suspended in midair, the unnatural angle
W of his neck, the dead weight of his body as she lifted him off his noose — thoughts of her husband intruded her mind. She did not shudder,
nor did she make a sound; just as silently, she left the market and drove herself home.

Knives, a cutting board, a fish deboning tool — Sierra, cool and collected, set the fish and her utensils on top of her kitchen
E counter. The fish was icy and slimy in the palm of her hands, and she struggled to get a good grip on it. She didn’t mind cooking fish —
in fact, she used to enjoy frying fish for her family.
R Her hands started to tremble. But the smell. Oh god, the smell.

It reminded her of the flies and the cold unforgiving depths of the deep, blue sea. The fish stank of the stench of the feverish vir-
of ulence the people in the market gave off. They reeked of hate, of hostility, of contempt.
They smelled like death. They smelled like him.

G ified mountain air. Her wrinkled hands, spotted with moles and veins, continued to tremor and shake violently.
She suppressed the urge to gag. She was stricken by a sudden listlessness, as if her physical body had turned into thin, rar-

Summoning her remaining strength, she grabbed hold of her knife, and with a great effort started slicing the fish with rough,
R jittery strokes. The knife, honed to a gleaming, sharp edge, swayed dangerously to the rhythm of her convulsing hands. Was it just her
obstinacy that fueled her refusal to stop? Or was it because of the relentless venom spat on her by the community? Was that why she
repudiated any display of emotion, why she had put on an imperturbable mask, a phlegmatic façade to conceal any sign of weakness?
Why did they resent her for something that was so out of her control?
E A stream of blood spurted out of her finger, dyeing her marble white counter a deep shade of crimson. Parts of her blouse were

stained a rich shade of scarlet, but all she could see was the usual shades of grey. Although knife met skin, red met white, Sierra had not
yet met reality.
Y Her wound continued to bleed. She barely felt a thing.

The creaking of the opening door broke the silence of the house. She heard the rumbling of plastic wheels on her wooden
floorboards, the loud clattering of luggage bags, and the familiar jingle of keys. She turned around, her fingers clenched tightly around
Grace Anoushka Lee the hilt of her knife, and met the green, vibrant eyes of her daughter.
Her fresh cut started to throb painfully under her skin, as if her finger were on fire. Her shaking hands steadied themselves, before
finally slowing to a stop; her fingers, slender and skeletal, suddenly became lax. She heard the dull thud of the knife hitting the ground. She
caught sight of the red that stained her clothes, but her eyes were fixated on the emerald of her daughter’s eyes. The emerald of his eyes.

105 Her heart, although shielded from the harsh blows of reality, could not withstand the powerful waves of nostalgia. For the first
time in a long while, the tower of grey started to crumble.