#12. One Picture. One Sotry || The Pause that Arose

WARNING: Look carefully at this picture because it has so much to tell you.

source: minimalbeing

Downtown.

She enters the building which has now become a bank, she will withdraw money or make a bank transfer; a common action in this area or any area for that matter, nothing out of the ordinary. But what she isn't aware of is the fact; that the events that are about to happen will place a mark upon her life.

Inside you could make out sounds, sounds for some, noises for others. The sound of people talking. The usual sound of people passing over papers, people writing, people signing, or people counting money. The sound of important people, people who cannot handle that their life without money would have no meaning.

She will queue, waiting for her turn. Quiet. Thinking about what she will do next, whether she will call her mother, or perhaps her father to see how he is going on with his European tour. A trip to which she would have gone if it hadn't been for her job.

She could have gone with him. She should have gone with him. She should have made ​​that trip. She shouldn't be here, right now.

She turns her head, looks at the people around her, how they dress, what they do. That way she entertains herself, letting her imagination flow and that's how the time runs until only two people are left in the queue and soon will be her turn.

She stares at the decoration of the building, the paintings on the ceilings, the high inscripted walls and the large french-style windows.

Only one person is left, it will then be her turn.

The building is old but very well preserved. She would have liked to know in what century it was built, who built it, to run her hands along the inscripted lettering. She would have liked to stay here for more time, she would have liked to watch the painted ceilings for some more time. She would have liked to stare some more at the strange mixture of the plushy office furniture and the ancient elements of the building.

But it's her turn.

- Good morning, ma'am. - An old lady greets her, no less beautiful for that. The amount of makeup, she's wearing stands out, those thick and red lips, the pronounced cologne. Her wrinkled hands, accentuated with long neon pink nails. 'It is a work facing the public', that would be her answer if asked.

She turns to her, back to reality, and just at the same moment at which she was going to answer with a weak "Hello", just when she was about to explain to her what she needs, at that same moment a yell is heard.

Her misfortune has just begun.

#11. One Picture. One Story. || The Rain of Reconciliation

                                                img source: tumblr

    Even the best marriages hit rock bottom. One minute, you’re giggling intoxicatedly over drinks, combing your fingers through her hair, tickling her to death as she pleads for mercy , and the next, you’re burning with anger, as ready to walk out the door as you were walking out of your parents’ door, 15 years prior. The downfall comes by such surprise that the ground beneath your feet trembles and the foundations come perilously close to crumbling.

    Ever since he had opened his eyes that day, Dan had a nudging feeling at the back of his mind, the same feeling he always got when something bad was supposed to happen. His friends regarded it as his ’superpower’, but he knew better that it was a superpower or a death trap. Terming it as a false alarm, he shoved it away and got off the bed, absentmindedly prodding his feet on the sherry red carpeting, in the search for his slippers. As he turned around, Anna was still sleeping, unaware of the world and it’s business as usual. Bending, he rubbed her shoulder, in an effort to wake her up. As was the usual, she shoved him away, murmuring some unintelligible syllables, and if it was possible, buried herself even deeper among the silk covers.

#10. One Picture. One Story. || Suicidal.

No picture this time. No place to feast your eyes on except for the words that are being shared here. 

"Be brave and look at me in the eyes because I do exist, I do harm people in front of you, harm you, I do harm whole lives, whole families. I'm a bad choice even if some of you don't notice me."

 This is the tenth "One Picture. One Story", we are so happy of being part of this project, of seeing it grown to be, close to our hearts. Today we make an exception, for all those who are suffering and feeling alone, for all those who think they are alone, who think no one cares and who cry behind closed doors and hide behind long sleeves. Because we do care, your family cares, your friends care. This story we are posting here isn't ours to claim for, but since the moment we read it, we knew we had to share it. We really hope it reaches those who are in need of help, we really hope it helps them.

It's a story, heartbreaking, but a story. Source of the story: kittenzilla

Suicidal feelings.

Suicidal?

Don’t ever say no one cares.

#9. One Picture. One Story. || Familarity & Unfamiliarity

WARNING: Look carefully at this picture because it has so much to tell you.

 

img source: Love-Athetics

         Grabbing my coffee from the usual Starbucks, I started walking the way I had been travelling since I started working at Dr. Nelson’s office, two and a half years ago. The steam warming my face, I drew a calm breath. The Dr. was generous with my holidays, if not with the pay. It was n’t a much crowded road, but then the small town of Woodtread didn’t boast many people either. Some people found the atmosphere morose , but the quiet suited me. I could do without claustrophobia.

     

     It was n’t until I reached 'my' place that I broke out of my reverie. I had stumbled upon this lone piece of  scenic beauty and had been captivated ever since. I leaned across the railing and gazed at the sea spread below me. It was beautiful. My father who had been a marine biologist for 20 years before he passed, always said that you cannot just look at a sea. You gather it with your eyes and you can never let go of the memory again. Maybe it was the sea that had forced me not to leave this place when I was fresh out of college, hunting jobs and drinking way too much tequila.

#8. One Picture. One Story. || The Dress.

WARNING: Look carefully at this picture because it has so much to tell you.

source: http://golden-versxce.tumblr.com/

          They say it is worth it, all the hard work and constant anguish is worth it. That all those tortuous months are repaid by a few minutes. That momentary happiness encroached to us is unique, in that window of time,  we are special and we are blessed to be able to possess that allurement. I believed it, I grew up with the thoughts of that special moment, 'my' moment, jostling in my mind, I grew up with the excitement of wanting to experience that kind of happiness, but now, after three years of forced smiles and faked obedience, I wasn't so sure and it is for that reason only, I am here, standing still in front of a door with a sign saying 'EXIT', ironies of life.

           I was hesitant.

        I was afraid of taking the wrong decision, my palms were sweaty but I felt that if I did otherwise I would lose myself forever. My body no longer belonged to me and that made me choke in the gloomy darkness that prevailed, uncomfortable to the bone. Feelings that were stuck in my head for quite some time now but which I wasn't able to get out of my mind.

        But not today.

      I had been chosen to be the showstopper, the model deserving enough to wear the dress that would close the show of the trendy fashion designer of the season and that privilege was taking its toll on me . Months of hidden anguish, intensive working out every day, diets, tests ... I had been torn apart to to fit into that dress. It seemed like the roles had been reversed and the dress had become a human being who had to find the perfect clothes, and those 'perfect' clothes were me, I had to shape myself so that I would fit in the dress. But I couldn't complain, I was fortunate, they said.

    After many months of work, the result, the feeling of having achieved the goal lasted only for a few seconds, the time that takes you to walk through the catwalk wearing the dress. Seconds in which the pressure and anxiety were palpable in the air. Because, ironically, the protagonist weren't you but the dress, you were only the necessary means to show it, like some disposable item.

   The fashion show, and with it the whole event was over. My work here was done, but I wasn't sure I wanted to go through it once again, that I wanted to go back into the world of fashion.

        I was lost in my thoughts when a feminine voice interrupted me, asking me for help, she gestured at me so that I would accompany her. I was dragged to the bathroom and there I found another one of us, another model, lying on the floor. The demands and pressure had failed her. You could tell she had not eaten in a long time and that the little food she managed to force down her throat had taken care to expel itself as vomiting. I was told that she had fainted, and as a result, had received a blow on her head. I went outside and asked for help from the event managers, who after several shouting matches from me, had paused their celebrations long enough to call an ambulance. When I saw that peace was beginning to be restored, I  walked away from the bustle. I wasn't able to do anything else.

      This whole situation had rushed my decision and without even showing a sign of doubt, I walked out the door for good. That simple act gave me back my dreams, made ​​me feel like myself again, the owner of my body and soul. I closed my eyes in contentment as the breeze tousled my hair and the sun's rays caressed my face.

     At the same time as I walked out of the door, at the same time as I undid the chains bounding me to that world, other girls, some with less than 20 years of life behind them, went through the door, walking inside the building, condemning themselves to become mere objects, mere means to distribute a product.

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All the stories found in this blog are written by both of us, and are original. Don't use them without asking our permission first.

#7 One Picture. One Story. || The Price of Poverty

WARNING: Look carefully at this picture because it has so much to tell you. 

                                           image source: www.google.com

            I could n’t sleep. My limbs were jittery, my fingers numb with exhaustion. I rolled around on the tattered excuse for a matteress for the millionth time. I could hear my mother swearing at me to ‘stay put or get the hell out’. I couldn’t blame he, she juggled three jobs a day. Not wanting to piss her off anymore, I forced my body to cooperate, and scooted further under the dusty cloth. In the dim light coming from the lamp across the street, I could make out the cobwebs lining the corners of the room. The walls once used to be white, but after suffering the weight of spills, five chidren and a fire, one could call them a grey shade of black. I could feel the dusty grimy floor as my fingers wiped it clean, no one was bothered by it anyway.

        

         The children stayed indoors all day, the streets in this part of the town were dangerous. That was why she was even able to pay the rent. Sometimes, if you were careful enough, you could sweep down and peep through the keyhole to watch the latest fight. Blood was splattered, weapons fished out, and a colorful string of obsceneties thrown, often about each others’ wives and mothers. I once tried asking the meaning to one from mother, and the stinging slap that followed, left me with a swollen cheek for days. I was careful afterwards.

         

        I was the bigger one, at 12, The rest that followed, were Maria 7, Hina 5 and Shahbaz and Amir, the twins, 3. This meant, I could go outside, as long as I stayed out of the bullies’ way. They wouldn’t want to pick on a scrawny awkward kid like me, my father had once remarked.  He had his motives so, since he was the one always asking me to go grab another paan or a new pack of cigarettes. Sometimes if the cheaper brand was available, I had just enough pennies left to buy a candy, or even a bar of cheap chocolate, if I was lucky. I hid in a sideways street and ate my treat ravishly, trying to make it last, as long as possible. A sweet harmony enveloped my tongue and trickled down my throat. After that, I went without a drop of water as long as I could, not to wash the taste away. But one look at the childrens’ dirty drooling faces and matted hairs as I went back, sent me drowning into a pool of guilt. I swore that next time, I’d share the sweet with them, but the greed always overcame the resolve.

         

            My reverie was broken by shuffling at the door, there was only one person trying to unsuccessfully open the door at this hour. I carefully made my way to attend to the issue, before any of the children woke and started crying those endless tears they stored in some infinite pool inside. As I unloked the door, I found my jobless father, in all his glory, standing there. His clothes were ruined, suggestive of some fight he must have gotten involved in. As he drawled, his breath reeked of alcohol, I had to force myself not to gag. His horrible attempt at some old song was the only sound penetrating the chilly cold, And then he dropped down at my feet. Sighing, I shoved him inside and left him to fall into deep slumber on the cold floor. He probably deserved it since he was going to make the day even  more miserable now, owing to the hangover that would follow,

Suddenly exhausted, I drooped down onto the pillow and before I knew it, I was far off, in the world of my dreams, where only, I found peace.

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All the stories found in this blog are written by both of us, and are original. Don't use them without asking our permission first.

#6 One Picture. One Story. || I'm not homless anymore

WARNING: Look carefully at this picture because it has so much to tell you. 

image source: www.airesmateus.com

"I have always been alone. I have always felt lonely even when I wasn't alone at all. People telling me they will be there for me but disappearing when I most needed them. I could see life pass through me without meaning. I met people who weren't able to give me the feeling I was looking for. They weren't able to reach to the deepest of my soul, and most of the time I wondered if it was because they didn't try harder, or it was because I built a wall so that they couldn't reach me.

I never had a place to call home, someone with whom I felt myself. My soul was craving that feeling. 

Loneliness. 

That feeling was consuming me. I was dying slowly without even realizing it. Every step I took, every decision I made was drowning me more and more. 

That's why when I reached to this place I couldn't believe that I have been living my life anywhere but here. The sky filled most of the landscape, a vivid blue, clear sky. A sky containing the brightest sun I had seen. The land, plain, with pasture for livestock was fertile and healthy. The sound of air moving leaves reached my ears, the birds chirping. My heart was filled with excitement and joy. 

Never thought a place like this could get to exist. 

I never thought I would end up calling home to a place like this. 

Finally my soul  found that feeling that it was craving. 

I was happy."

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All the stories found in this blog are written by both of us, and are original. Don't use them without asking our permission first.