I am drained.

Everyday feels the same. It’s like being stuck in a never-ending loop of absolute horror.

My second least-favourite thing has to be the unescapable boredom. There is absolutely nothing happening. No buildup to the action, no foreshadowing. I am an anxious bundle of nerves the entire time, impatiently wishing to be done with it. I clutch my dress, leaving crumple marks on the white fabric. To my surprise, I found myself preferring a spiralling cascade of unfortunate events, rather than these treacherous and uneventful scenes that lead up to the last act. This boredom makes me want to pull at my skin until it separates from the fat in my body. I hate it more than almost anything in the world. Anything except for him.

Sometimes, I wake up in the two-story house in Mount Lavinia. Other times, it is the ceiling of the old, yellow house in De Mel Road that greets me a good morning. No matter where I am, or how big the room is, it constantly feels suffocating. I feel like a body trapped inside its own skeleton. A baby outgrowing the womb.

That is why, I think, the boredom kills me alive. You see, I have no trouble entertaining myself when I am alone. In fact, that is what I did for the most part of my life. But, you see, when you know the script like I do, when you know the ending, all you would want to do is get it over with. I never liked reading the same book more than thrice in a row. Try acting the same play for 6 WEEKS in a row.

I trace the pattern on my dress with my nail. Is it shrinking?

The onlookers never fail to irk me. Watching them bend their heads like obedient slaves and move around with unshakeable perseverance makes me sick to my stomach. The way the hold the lights and set the stage, the way they religiously pray for the repetitive play to end this time. Their constant lifeless stare feels like acid on my skin. I am starting to hate the white on this dress. Gosh, I am a ball of rage now.

Trying to express my distress to them is like talking to Her mom. “Just do as you are told,” they would say, “We do it, why can’t you?”

“Aren’t you tired of going through the same thing every day?” I’d ask.

“You speak like we have a choice” they’d reply.

Oh, how narrow their minds must be.

On this particular day, I woke up in Mount Lavinia. Despite being an atheist, (how could I ever believe in a God that failed to protect me?) I still found myself habitually praying for an end to this. The blood gushing through my veins was boiling hot today. One minute, I am in bed at home, and the next I am at school. The change in scenes happens so fast that you hardly notice it. As much as I hate the onlookers, I have to admit they are good at what they do. I act scene after scene after scene, sometimes as her younger self in school, watching amazed as other kids speak fearlessly. Other times, I am her adult-self, people-watching in the university’s common room.

Every now and then I see another character act as her mom. But it’s definitely mom, I know it in my heart. She puts a fish in a tiny glass bowl and watches it struggle inside. I think the choice of glass walls is especially cruel, since the fish gets to watch what the rest of the world experiences, without ever getting to live it.

“It is the right thing to do” says the mom-in-another-body.

Another bizarre part of the play would be the people that change. For example, this morning I was having a conversation with my brother about our careers, when all of a sudden, I realized that I am now talking to my neighbour. As usual, I did not notice the change. Clever production, I have got to say. I pull at my dress that is now starting to tighten around me, as I anticipate the worst.

And there it is, the bus. I am talking to my neighbour, but we are in a bus. I look out the window and see the sky turn an ugly yellow. The collar of my dress is strangling me. My neighbour is nowhere to be seen. The whiteness of my dress is blinding me. The bus is getting crowded.

I hate it. I hate the bus. I hate the passengers. Reclining farther into my seat gives me the ability to make myself smaller. I know it fuels him, and yet, and yet..

The bus hits a deer. I do not know how a deer appeared in the streets of Colombo. I don’t question it. All I do is look at her face. She looks like Her. She looks like me.

It is usually around this time that I start to hear the loud thumping of my heartbeat. Or other people’s heartbeat. I don’t know. I hear every sigh, notice every little movement. I feel a hand graze my elbow. Is this it or was it an innocent mistake? I could never tell them apart. I feel the hand touch my arm now. Is it the swaying of the bus or is this it? Where do you draw the line? When should the words leave my mouth?

Is it when the hand touches you for the third time? Is it the fourth? Or should I be concerned when it touches my waist? My chest, perhaps? How about when his leg starts pressing against my thigh?

The dress is changing its colour. It is no longer white

“Do you see it?” I frantically ask the other passengers. “This dress. It’s trying to choke me! It has greedy eyes and possessive hands”

Silly girl, they seem to say. How can dresses have eyes and hands? The passengers and onlookers avoid my pleading eyes. After all, it is in my head. On the outside, I am barely moving. A somnolent, immobile body on my childhood bed. Frozen, like the deer. Awake, but pretending to be asleep. I don’t understand what is happening yet. All I know is that I hate it. I want it to stop.

I know he loves me. He tells me that he does. That’s why he buys me toys all the time, right? But I don’t like how it feels. It feels wrong. Even though he loves me.

I rip apart my bloody dress. I will not take anymore. It is time I spoke up for her. The onlookers watch with horror on their faces as I try to speak.

“Please stop. We are almost at the end of the script,” they say.

They don’t understand. It is easy to watch it happen when you aren’t the one covered in handprints. I cannot wait any longer, so I scream, only to find my words vanishing in thin air.

“You selfish moron! You startled her enough to wake her up. Now we have to start over tomorrow” I hear the onlookers say as we all slowly fade from existence.