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Here's one of my latest short stories, based on a true story. I do not know the protagonist however, but her story inspired me.
Bald Sensations
I look out the glass boundary, while listening to the monotonic melody of medical mercy. Its teardrop, traveling through the clear suffocating tube, whose final destination is my pessimistic vein, has metamorphosed in a serenade of exhaustion now. My desire to live became the inspiration of the requiem that the vagabond night is bestowing on me. I have grown immune to the prescription drugs, chemotherapy, experimentations, and the only remedy that gives my fragile heart enough courage to keep on battling with time are my daughter’s eyes that sparkle of virtue. I feel like I was ridiculed by fate, reliving my Medieval Childhood twenty-two years later, but this time playing my mother’s role. I allow my lethargic eye-lids to rest, and the scene comes to life once again.
On a bed in a hospital in Tirana breathes my mother, while I look through vacuum, cowardly envisioning our future. I am just twelve, but the experience taught me that the chances of me escaping the despotism of our genes are slim. Mother tells me to lay my head on her belly; I silently and mechanically obey her command, and she starts caressing my long blond hair while whispering a lullaby. Her singing is sublime, and I cannot help but fall asleep. Playing with dreams, I lose touch of reality for some time and do not realize that my mother’s hand ceased to caress my head awhile ago. Now that I open my eyes, I find myself hugging the weary shoulders of my father. I ask for mother, but he takes me to the store to buy me an ice-cream, instead. After handing me the gilded delight, his voice starts shivering while he tells me that from now on, mother will be looking out for us from Heaven. I tenaciously refuse to believe it, but in anger I throw the ice-cream away, and outstretch my arms towards my father’s loving hug.
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I open my eye-lids, because otherwise the Past’s Sonata of Misfortune will sway me away from my Rea, before I feel ready. If Victor Hugo would have known me, he would have probably found a home for my story in his odyssey of Les Misérables. Should I be happy my tragedy is worthy of elegies of prose?