The first Ray of summer woke me up. I was lying on the floor right in front of the open French window. The cuts on my arm, I assumed had stopped bleeding. I saw blood on my clothes and the floor, like an artist while making his masterpiece.
I couldn’t move a muscle, and felt too weak to move. I laid there staring at the floor and slowly shifted my gaze to the open windows. The curtains danced on the edges, within the ring that held them.
I looked outside the window.
The little backyard I grew up on, it has changed so much over the years. A decade ago it was gigantic with trees, a well, Open area to wash utensils and clothes, there even was a line to dry clothes. That is where I lived with my two older brothers and a loving family of nine people.
Now the garden has just a few remains, a couple of coconut trees on the edges. The maid washes the dishes in the kitchen now and we have a washing machine for the clothes, but we still dry them right outside.
I don’t have older brothers and my family doesn’t live with my uncle’s, like before.
I find a little energy to move, and I try to move. But I roll into a puddle of my own blood mixed with the vodka and glass shards from the broken bottle.