"No!”
Tristan awakened with a start, his body streaming with sweat. His chest heaved, his heart raced so fast his body shook with it. Another bad dream. Another nightmare. Another well-written scene of Stephen King playing in his mind. In his dream, he saw Indira as she burnt in the fire she started. He saw her as she roasted and cried for help. He saw as the flames came at her and consumed her flesh. Tore her skin from her bones. And devoured her tissues and limbs. He saw it all. Her eyes as they filled with horror and dread. And he heard it all. Her scream. Her wail of excruciating suffering.
He sobbed. Guilt roiling in his stomach as a rain of tears poured down his cheeks.
“Tristan”
A bang came from behind his bedroom door.
“Tristan. Are you okay?” His flatmate, Josh asked.
He has been back to college for less than three weeks now yet everyone has noticed that there was something off about him. Unusual about him. Different about him. Even his professors had noticed he wasn’t as active in class as he used to be but they all believed that it was his uncle’s death taking a toll on him.
“I’m fine, Josh” Tristan replied.
“Are you sure?” Josh asked “I heard you scream. I can help you with…?”
“I’m fine” Tristan said, trying not to raise his voice.
No one can help me. None of you can. Not Megan, not Josh, not his hundreds of friends, not his professors, not anybody! He used to claim that he wasn’t a devout believer in God, but in the last months, he has prayed so hard and often to God (for Indira) that he might as well become a priest. And now, he had started to fear that even God might not be able to help her.
“Sleep tight” Josh said.
And Tristan heard his footsteps, as he walked away.
The tears within him poured out harder again as he felt his guilt swallow his heart whole like the shark did to the biblical Jonah.
“Hah!” He hit the headboard of his bedframe.
“Hah!” He howled.
“Tristan”
“Tristan” Josh called.
“Go away. You can’t help me!” Tristan shouted.
You can’t help me!
He couldn’t confess to anyone, else the four walls of a prison cell would be his next companion.
Go away. You can’t help me.
No one can. Not God. Not anybody.
He crawled from his bed to where he arranged some of his books on the floor. He lifted his biggest textbook and pulled out what was beneath it. He unwrapped it.
Only this could help him.
Only this could give him blissful moments without his guilt.
The next second, a syringe full of heroin flowed into his vein, while his mind started travelling to a world of oblivion.
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