Martin woke up screaming and trembling in his bed; drowned in sweat. Dazed by his own dream, that almost reflected his hopelessness and fading strength, he ran towards the mailbox. Surprisingly, he found three envelopes- exactly as he had found in his nightmare. He knew by instinct what those envelopes contained. Sitting on the kitchen table, he read his rejection letter and almost instantly, as already rehearsed in his sleep, rushed into the washroom. His dream portended his reality. The drawers opened. The bottle of poison dropped into his hand effortlessly. It was time.
And then it was all but a sudden silence. He had crossed the boundary-less verdant field and was running down the long stairs that rose high into the sky when he realized that the voice was not following him anymore. He turned around and looked to the top, into the heavens he felt; his eyes narrowed from the attack of powerful sunrays glaring back at him. He started ascending the stairs calling out for her but there were no answers, no hushes and no heaving breathes. He panicked and started running with strength more than his physical body possessed while screaming, “Maah-mee!”
Poverty crushes a person in so many ways. My mother's husband (he has lost the title of a father for eternity) was a victim himself. He was not as strong as he thought he was. Otherwise, which father on earth would even think of giving away his own blood for some money. But that man did and hence he is not a father anymore to me. Only the devils of hunger know, he was innocent and I am still awed at the courage he might have had when he decided to sell a seventeen year old.