Life was a two faced mockery of life itself. She had stopped fighting to live ' life just came to her and went by. A collection of different circumstances ' one by one, second by second ' life was just like that.

She dreaded to take the first step up the stairs to her house or maybe home ' it didn't matter. Couldn't stop herself from thinking about the dark gloomy stairway ' yet she had to, step by step and with every step her life seemed to turn the other way ' another direction which she willingly wouldn't take. Unlocked the door with her key and went in.

Today was different. She didn't turn on the light immediately to scare away the fear like she used to ' just stood there enveloped by the darkness which was being mercilessly cut by a thin ray of light from under the door in front of her. She wanted to feel it ' dissolving in her. She couldn't afford another self illuminating experiences ' 'no voices please'�, she pleaded to no one yet someone she was sure heard her 'please not now'�, - too much far off, too much at stake. At times she thought she could almost feel the other existence '� of another world in the darkness ' a silent yet moving world hidden around her. She could feel someone from that world staring at her, looking at her and this unnerved her. Without any further hesitation she turned on the lights ' blinking back to her routine.

She went to her room, put down her bag and put on the face that would be 'HER'� for the rest of the evening.

Mother and siblings on the tea table ' that table ' with everyone glued and staring lost at the television. A nod here and a greeting there and exactly the same questions, 'How was your day? Aren't you a little late today? Did anyone say anything to you?'� 'Yes, mother! No, mother! It was ok mom.'�, were the usual replies and then there would be that endless bickering about the day's routine and schedule and neighbor news and activities and gossip which would fill her evenings daily. Her body tired, her mind trying to give attention to the continuous attack of words and the news on TV, her face just the same smiling face - unchanged and emotionless ' 'yes mother I am listening'� 'no, I didn't know that!'� 'Yes mother this was coming to her!'� ' and the eyes dead in a silent stare.

Finally at the time of prayers did this odd gathering broke up and she returned to her room but this time with momentary peace as if she preferred the gloomy silence over that table talk. Yes, she did - maybe. Even though just temporary but a change indeed.

There was still something, something linking her to that table scenario ' yes the prayers ' the voices from the mosques ' calling calling ' inside her head, invoking call but she doesn't respond. The voices die away with the faint promise of returning but the source of the voice just follows the routine just like breathing. The person calls out - like we blink - with unmistakable regularity and so the person calls like we open our eyes to see what we can, like we comb our hair, like we sit, stand or sleep, the person calls ' the voice calls but doesn't grip ' fades away without any result. Her inner self much more persistent and clear than that voice, it holds her and then the scenario ends.

As if on cue the sandman sprinkles his dust and the world goes blank for an hour or so. Traveling deep in the folds of the dreamland ' or the real land ' so peaceful when suddenly something hits her ' voices ' laughter, cruel demonic laughter ' the heat and fear ' her body rigid and paralyzed ' want to call out for help but cant ' want to move away ' get out from this dreamland but no response, no motion ' if real land is like this than is it not a blessing we stay in our dreams ' she just lay there until it passes ' a bright white light shuns her eyes and all is finished ' such peace as never before she felt, but no comprehension of what the voices said ' all mixed up ' all jumbled in some sort of confusion , a concoction of the unknown calls and the messages from the beyond. No time to think now ' put on a face ' get out.

There is the father figure ' a fatherly symbol she calls her father ' the conventional yet a different being ' she got her love for language from him ' her down to earth attitude and her free spirit. From her mother she got a nice toned voice, thoughtful stature, an air of dignity and above all innocence.

Yes, the father was there ' demanding respect and getting it. But the questioning looks ' was she home early or late? Did anything happen to her? Why is she tired? She was never tired before, are you sure she is ok? ' My loving father figure. Yes she is fine, but she has changed. She is not like she used to be. I don't like this change. Don't know what will be her future ' my loving mother.

A time to work ' a time to play but yes it was time to work. She opens her bag and drags out her notebook ' a collection of the day's memories. Every moment becoming a memory and every memory becoming a part of her ' she works.

A knock ' 'hi bro! What's up?'� 'Hmm nothing much.'� 'You know I saw a guy today wearing a shirt just like yours.'� 'Cant you lay off boys ' all you think of is boys ' don't you have anything else to so than disturb me?'� ' Silence and exit stage ' Silence prevails. Work, concentrate on work.

Another interruption 'why don't you come and help me in the kitchen ' you know I have been working all day while you spend it wandering here and there ' come and help me.' 'yes mother, I'll be there as soon as I complete my search.'� 'I don't believe you will find much staring at this computer ' don't understand how you run these things anyways ' leave it and come, I need you right now!'� 'OK mother.'� Shut down ' exit.

'Come sit with us ' we don't get to see you ' you are always busy ' give us some time ' we are your family ' we have rights over you!'� 'Yes father I am coming.'� Silence ' tick tock ' that's how the clock goes.

Another day gone ' a good day ' no fights ' no scolding - she tries to calm herself. Alone at last ' the cool night breeze ' alone. Just like a busy road that becomes isolated and peaceful when no car is passing over it and crushing it under the tyres ' just deathly silence and peace with nothing to fear. Then the voices come again and again ' leaving her trapped in the night ' burning ' 'Go away!'� ' For the first time in eight years ' she senses tears ' of misery? Of surrender? Hurt? Or just Insanity? ' voices and more voices ' laughter ' 'STOP!'� and as if by magic ' the deathly peace reigns again.

This has to end. She has to talk. She needs to unload her burden ' her childish fantasies or whatever they were; they have to go away now!

She gathers her strength and her family ' voices ' fading ' talk out and she does 'I sit alone, though people surround me, watching superficial people imitating one another, disguising what hey really are. These people are the illusion of perfection. Outsiders deprived of esteem, are forced to wear masks. These masks create the perception of perfection. Reality, where sorrow and suffering is invincible. It is a place where fears feed on insecurity. The insecurity caused by the taunting of those superior. Those who are superior are oblivious to reality. Inside they are empty, unable to look themselves in the eye.

Perfection is the distortion created by those who cannot escape the bitter taste of deceit that comforts their shallow minds. I long to be different to escape from their blind confusion. I'm losing myself in their hate. I am becoming the HATE itself and I don't want it ' I know you love me but I need space ' please understand. I am trying my best to be good ' I love you too I know you do your best but I am losing myself ' you have to adapt and accept now the changes.'�

'We understand ' we love you!'�

Today she stands free of nagging doubts and questions ' of poisonous words ' free! But voices remain ' as if an old foe that is there but not to fight just to remind her of the presence, that empowering presence around her, ready to take over, waiting and waiting when there would be something wrong and there still is or the presence wouldn't have been there, inside her ' it plays ' it laughs and she dies.

Yet she is free.

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