THE REFLECTION

He sits hunched over, arms hugging his knees to his chest. His knuckles are white, blanched by the firm grip he extends over his arms. His head is bowed, as he rocks back and forth. A faint hum cuts through the still night. Intent listening identifies it as a whine melting into a moan, that stifles a sob.
I draw closer. I put my hand on his shoulder and he goes still. But the murmurs continue to escape his lips, appearing involuntary and in complete control of his constitution. But otherwise, he pays my intrusion no heed. I stop short of shaking him to grab his attention, as I feel tremors run through his body, and a contraction of his entire torso -- like he’s bracing for more pain.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
No answer.
“Why are you sitting in a corner all alone in this state?”
Silence.
“Is there anyone you are waiting for?”
A moan.
“Who’s done this to you?”
A sniffle.
“Can I do something to help?”
Stillness.
“Are you lost? Did someone leave you here?”
A moan.
Can’t tell if that’s an answer to the question. I give his shoulder a squeeze and a shake.
Nothing!
I take two steps back, give him some space. Utter my questions again.
Silence.
Then, as if he’s in a convulsion, he uncurls himself. He stands. He turns towards me.
I recoil in shock.
Crumpled face.
Swollen lips.
Puffy eyes.
Bloodshot eyes.
Tear-stained cheeks.
Disheveled hair.
Dull eyes.
Dilated pupils.
Blood-clotted lips quivering, but still.
The moans keep coming: Mechanical. Monotonous. Insistent. Persistent. Continuous. Rhythmic. Piercing. Soft.
They send a shiver down my spine.
He walks towards me. I stand rooted, unable to move, staring at him in horror and fascination.
His walk is unwavering. He closes in on me. Reaches out. His fingers close around my wrist, clammy and cold.
All feeling leaves me.
His form turns hazy. Ethereal. He fuses into me.
And I am him.
I feel what he feels: Despair. Hurt. Anger. Pain. Misery. Fatigue. Fear. Desolation. Betrayal. Rejection. Loneliness. Melancholy.
But worst of all, I’m mute.