Waves by Batool Hasan

“See you on Thursday,” I had promised him.

I hastily open the pink bag, which was hidden at the back of my closet, to reveal the pearly white bra and matching knickers I had carefully picked out. After undressing and putting on the lingerie, I open another bag. Mesmerized by the velvety material, I spend a few minutes losing myself in the void of black fabric. I slowly pull the dress on, careful not to ruin the black roses and delicate lace that line the short sleeves. 

He said, “I want you as you are.”

The corners of my lips twitch in a smile as I sprint to the dresser, picking up the makeup I’ve chosen. I take my time to make sure it’s perfect.

Today is Thursday, 10th of January 2013.

Today is the day I’m finally going to do it.

I open the small, blue boxes of jewelry and put on pearl earrings and a single line of diamonds for a bracelet.

I run my fingers through my hair, smoothing out the small knots. I meticulously arrange it in a bun on top of my head, and slip a few jeweled hairpins around it.

He had told me,“ Suicide takes you to hell.”

Funny how that sounded more of an invitation than a warning.

I pick up his gift and pass the dull threads of his necklace between my fingers.

I leave the carefully written note on my bedside table.

Why, hello mother and father!

So, you found me, huh?

Was my body still warm?

No? Didn’t think so either.

You should be glad I didn’t leave a bloody mess on your overly expensive Persian carpet.

Let’s cut the crap and get straight to the point, shall we?

I think you’ve told enough lies to earn you a lifetime of scrubbing those filthy tongues. Don’t disrespect me by telling people that I was loved and happy.

No, father, I am now happy.

Mother, don’t bother prettifying my grave with flowers; adorning death with more death is just too fucking depressing.

Sorry, but the “You’re young and dumb” lectures didn’t balance the chemicals in my brain.

What a shame.

To my benevolent friends,

Well, thank you for the 15 minutes of pretend love you so graciously offered me.

Just a suggestion though, maybe you should use your immense wealth to buy yourself a good set of manners and morals.


I am not a sob story.


I hate you all.


I step on his stage and wrap the tightly knotted noose around my neck.

I will die on my terms. By my hands.

I am the crime scene.

I am the evidence.

I am just another battlefield, soon to be buried under generations of dirt.





And I will soon be a pile of decomposed youth,

Having no value,


Or use.

I kick the chair and dive into his icy embrace, feeling his frosty welcome spread through me like tidal waves.

Oh, how I longed to feel you.

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