Excerpt from: The Aswala House
By: Keith

Cynthia stood in the pouring rain at the bottom of the steps of the three-story Aswala house, oblivious to the twenty-five acres surrounding the house. She wanted to believe she has good reason for standing in the rain with her packed bags, driven down the gravel driveway by taxicab, even though she owns a brand new Mercedes Benz.

A woman scorned is a woman who is unable to control her own thoughts and sometimes, actions, especially when she is at the very brink of suicide.

Cynthia was unsure if she actually wanted to step inside or even wanted to take the steps under her shoes. She stared blankly at the house, which looks pleasant enough but earlier, her thoughts were somewhere else.

I know it is still haunting me because after three years and two suicide attempts later it remains a part of me like it all just took place yesterday. The last time I had the thought of attempting suicide, earlier today at work, I was standing on the ledge of my window in my fifth floor office, trying to figure out the best way I could get it done without making a mess of things. I didn't want the people cleaning up behind me having a hard time doing it.

Then I saw a girl down there on the sidewalk. She immediately grabbed my attention by what she did and for some reason I was trying to make out her nationality, not that it mattered but I guess I was trying to keep from feeling all of the pain I'm in. Either way, I couldn't figure out what the girl was, whether she was black, Indian or Hispanic. It was one of the three because she had brown skin but wore a hoodie over her head so I could not se her face. maybe she was hiding the pain she was going through.

She was down on the street working a lock on a chain connected to the wheel of a scooter. She looked around suspiciously as she glanced at the people walking by her. She hurried and snatched the chain away, threw it over her shoulder, rolled the scooter down the street a ways then hopped on it, started it up and sped away.

Five minutes later, A Chinese man wearing a business suit was standing in the scooters old resting place with his hands interlocked on the top of his head.

Even though I knew the girl stole the scooter and she was rust-orange thief, I still wanted to hop on the back of that scooter and ride away with her; ride my pain to an unknown address out in the desert somewhere and bury it but my pain is far greater than a desert floor.

Cynthia smiled as she climbed down, stepped away from her open window and was immediately saddened by her reality, the constant reminder of events that kept her in such a slumber mood. She sat at desk and looked in her hand mirror. Even her mascara ran down her face in an attempt to get away from it all and ruined her white shirt. Her yes were puffy from her never-ending tears, hands shaking, nerves shattered with no hoe of repair.

She stared at her multicolored face, unsure of what color her skin should be really be. Brown, her natural color, red-mountain angry, Blue-confused or white-transparent, exactly how she was treated that day, like she was not there, like she was the one doing the wrong to someone else instead of the other way around. At first, she wanted to kill then she figured suicide would be better.

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