You may call it the selfish act of a mother; you may call it a farcical doing, my cowardice or imprudence, whatever you may agree with. Last night, I burnt away the reality of my daughter. I killed her history. I hid her story forever and ever. The ashes of the thick white envelope that decorated my safe for the past so many years are her truth. The truth that is hers but those that will never find her, revelations that will never be revealed to her. Those ashes are the ashes of the dead, forgotten and to be never exposed. With the closure of the gates of the grave, the story of the dead must be put to rest too. Their story must not outlive their corpse. Even then, there was absolutely no guilt in me on having committed this murder. Instead this brutal act gave me a sense of satisfaction of having saved a soul from all the possible confusion that may surround her.
Copyrights @ 2015 Elsa Thomas