INVISIBLE

  A Teen’s Perspective ⚠️ Trigger warning: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of self-harm (blood). ⚠️ ──────────────────────────────────────────── The familiar feeling snakes its way upward yet again. After being on edge for so long, it seems my very soul has started cascading into the depths of this black hole. Empty dizziness combined with the lack of energy to move a single muscle- to even breathe! I’m scared. I close my eyes to shut out the assault of sheer panic, but of course, it doesn’t work. There’s this sense of foreboding that something will hurt me- I will hurt me. I don't know what to do! I’m unable to shake off this feeling of dread. The feeling that I need to be rescued… rescued from none other than myself.  I aimlessly pet Floofesh, the cat, sitting next to me like a snow poff. But even that doesn’t help anymore. There’s only one way out.  I reach for the desk drawer. It houses my only escape: a knife, which I sharpened out of a steel ruler. The n...

  A Parent’s Perspective ──────────────────────────────────────────── Dhub Dhub Dhub Dhub. Ramesh Venugopal trudged down the hall in his white night kurta. His destination: the masala peanuts packet in the kitchen. His feet plonked on the wooden floor as he stumbled his way through the darkness. His 50-year-old knees creaked like abandoned doors, protesting at the very idea of waking up. The utter blackness in the hall was broken only by the faint yellow glow coming from underneath a door… Ayesha’s door…?? Aiyyo ! She was supposed to sleep 2 hours ago! What is she doing awake at 1 AM when she has to leave for school at 7? When will this girl learn…  He continued grumbling about how she probably was on Instagram or some other kachra* until he reached the door. He took a breath, thinking of what he was going to say, and the masala peanuts he was being denied. *Kachra is trash/garbage in Hindi Boom. He opened the door. Red. A flash of red. And then it was gone.  “H-hi Appa ...

A Clueless Friend’s Perspective ──────────────────────────────────────────── Sara put on her sneakers and got on her bicycle. She cycled down a few blocks to the park down the street, where she was to meet her two best friends. She saw a mop of brown hair speeding towards her. It looked like it had never seen a comb before. It belonged to Allesandro, who was cycling towards her just as she was about to enter the park. She slowed down, waiting for him to catch up. They waved at each other and rode together towards their spot.  The path was flanked by tall trees with branches reaching out to the sky. The sun shone through the leaves, casting a dappled glow on the ground. As they cycled, the sound of leaves crunching under their tires filled the air. They arrived at their secret meeting spot - a clearing in a particularly wooded area of the park, with a table and two benches. The table was made of wood, weathered and rough to the touch. It was once painted dark green, but most of the ...

A Foreign Guy’s Perspective ──────────────────────────────────────────── Alessandro aimlessly pedalled around the park. He liked it there. It reminded him of the parks in Italy. Why did everything remind him of Italy? It was a beautiful evening. The birds were singing, flowers were blooming. But he wasn’t looking. Something about the jasmine-laced breeze and the lighting was conducive to thoughts. He got off his bike and walked around a small lake. He was reflecting on the last conversation and all the unsaid things. Reflecting on his life. “Hah, ‘ the world crashing down !’ I know what that feels like,” thought Alessandro moodily as his mind sucked him into his most painful memory for the billionth time.  “Alessandro, piccolo*… You probably aren’t going to like this, but… we’re going to India,” His mom had said, her face unusually blank. Huh? A vacation!? That sounded like GREAT news to 14-year-old Alessandro!  *piccolo = little one in Italian “Forever.”  ‘’...” He wa...

A Teacher’s Perspective ──────────────────────────────────────────── Vivek Puri sat at his desk, staring at a paper. In all his 17 years of teaching, he had never met a student so exceptional as Alessandro. Mr Puri couldn’t find one mark to detract, on a writing paper, that too. As an Italian, he probably found French rather easy. But still, seeing such high-quality output reminded Mr Puri of why he had started teaching all those years ago. It was so he could nourish the minds of his students, and watch them grow academically and as people. And doing so was immensely satisfying. He scribbled down a nice big ‘ (42/42) ’ on his paper, and pushed it aside to grade the next one. AYESHA VENUGOPAL He just had to look at the first page to tell that this was not going to be like Alessandro’s paper. He noted down corrections, of which there were many. Did she seriously forget the gender of a table?? And she forgot to put accents on half of her é’s. He turned to the next page, but he wasn’t look...