Dear Diary

9th October 1995

2.47 PM

Dear diary,

I still remember what happened on the 9th of September. Today, as I was arranging my clothes, the same olive green shit I had worn on that unfortunate day came to my notice. Not a second later, I was already living that day, again. I’m surprised I still remember each and every little detail.

At precisely five in the morning, the alarm rang. I saw Maria still in bed, in a deep sleep. Seven minutes later, I finally gave up the urge to sleep more and got up. I took a bath and got dressed up in my favourite olive green shirt and faded black jeans. It had been more than four months since I had moves into the hostel and still Maria’s arm had not gotten better. Her whole left arm was fractured in an accident in which her parents died.
When I returned to our room, I saw her all dresses up in her Sunday best. She looked gorgeous. At six in the morning, I prepared our breakfast. Maria did not like to talk while eating. Seventeen minutes later, I ended up in the kitchen washing the utensils and heard Maria call my name.
“Christine!” she screamed.
I rushed to Maria. When I reached the bathroom, I saw her all covered in blood. But thankfully, she was still alive. I rushed out of our room and started screaming for help. Soon, the warden arrived and I took her to the bathroom. Precisely nine minutes later, we were sitting in an ambulance. Maria was unconscious, by then. But the grip of her hand on mine was inseparable. As I held on to her, I later realized that my outfit was red with her blood.

She was immediately taken to the ICU, and two hours and fifty six minutes later the doctors arrived with the bad news. Maria was no more. The reason of her death remained mysterious.
The doctors had no idea what had happened to her.
Though she did not talk much to me, or share her thoughts with me, I had grown very fond of her in the past four months.

This is the last time I’m writing about Maria. Though writing about her has made me feel a tad bit better, I would definitely not like to go to a psychiatrist again. For me, the grief is still too near.



9th September 1995

4.16 AM

Dear Diary,

Today, I’ll be taking a huge step. But I’m so glad that nobody is suspicious about my fracture. Lying to Christine makes me morose. But how can I tell her that I suffer from the alien hand syndrome? I can’t. Two think layers of Plaster of Paris on my left arm are the only reason I’m alive today. The doctor said it was remarkable, but soon one way or another, I would kill myself. It is a rare disease and I do not want anyone to know about it.
Christine is different, in a good way. She is sensible and takes good care of me. My end is coming. I know it. But I do not wish to die in a helpless way. That is why, a few hours later I’ll kill myself. I’ve had it all planned. As soon as Christine would finish her breakfast and go to wash the utensils, I’ll cut my plaster in the bathroom and pour my own blood (which I had donated and brought from the blood bank) all over my torso. My hand would do the rest. The doctors would never know how the blood would have come. They would never be able to diagnose anything.

I can clearly see that Christine is fond of me. I do not wish to hurt her. So, I’m going to my parents as soon as possible. And also because Christine can be fine soon.
To my last entry, and last day on this beautiful world.


– Shreya Sharma

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