The interview is scheduled this week, and I have been so worried about it that I could not find much time to meet the boys. Mother tried to initiate a conversation about what I would like to do when my terms are over, but she gave up after I ignored her for three times in a row. She doesn't even know about the interview at the new company in the city, and I figured I'd tell her that I'm moving out if I get this job. I had thought of waiting until I complete my university, but the dour silence and the new versions of parents I now know to be not mine is more than I can endure. I think it would be relief to leave the place that holds no good memories for me.
I went to shop for the clothes in the morning which now lay in front of me in a haphazard mess. I just can't decide what to wear. They looked alright when I picked them up, but now that the bruises have inched their way to my forearms, I don't think any of these are going to make the cut. I throw them down in frustration when I remember the concealer I bought two years back to hide my acne scars. It's probably expired, but if the interview board see the bruises on my arms, my parents would be informed that I have been pulling the ropes beside my bed whenever the panic attacks come up. It was the only way I could have stayed away from the blades.
I don't check the date on the concealer, but put it on. If any reaction occurs, I could tell them about it and apply some cream on it. It would probably be better anyway. The infection might hurt as much as the rope burns, and it would give me something to hold on.
The interview doesn't go bad, seeing it wouldn't be paying much, so the questions were not hard. I come home to deliver the news to my parents, to tell them I'm moving out, and instead I find the house unattended. Running hurts, and one single step could lead me to an accident, but after my neighbour told me that my mother was taken to the hospital, I could not stop.
I pause to catch my breath only after I reach the hospital. I can see commotions, but I can't make any sense of them whatsoever. My eyes look for anyone I know, my father, or my neighbours. And then my eyes fall on Sayani, who has a harried look on her face as she runs down the stairs, instructing someone on the phone in a calm voice. She doesn't see me standing, so I run to her.
"Where the hell have you been, Azalea?" She is out of breath just like me. "And where is your phone? We have been trying to reach you for so long!"
"I was… somewhere. Aunt Sayani, is she alright? Is mother…?"
"She's stable, now. The doctors said she was lucky. Half an hour more would have cost her her life."
She takes me by the hand and I realise that I am shaking. I reach the room to find Katherine sitting on the chair outside, and my father pacing agitatedly. They look up at the sound of our steps. I breathe a sigh of relief to see that they are functioning okay, which means my mother is alright. I sit down on one of the chairs near Katherine and she holds my hand.
A few more hours drag by and then we are being reassured that my mother is alright. She suffered a minor stroke, due to the stress and emotional instability she has been experiencing, and though she would make full recovery in due time, she needs bed rest for six months. And in the aftermath of the shock and despair, the selfish part of me realises that my chance of leaving the house has decreased to negative.