When I was younger, my sister once told me a story. It was about the day I diedTST.  

 

    

    One day, a young woman was giving birth to her third child. Her husband had rushed her to the hospital after she had exclaimed that her labour pains were far greater than her previous two childbirths. The husband ran red lights, stop signs, and had almost driven off of a road to prevent himself from getting into a collision in his haste. When he carried his wife from the car to the emergency entrance, he noticed one thing. The hospital’s door handles, ablaze with the full moon’s light, shimmered so luminously that he had to avert his eyes.

 

As they got inside, the wife’s screams became louder and louder, and her grasp on her husband’s hand became tight enough to draw blood. The wife soon fell unconscious, and her grip on the husband loosened. The doctor came inside the room in a hurry, slamming the door shut behind him. He took one quick look at the husband, and then proceeded to examine the wife’s belly with a computerized tool. An image came up on a nearby screen, showing a young alien-like body, with its hands trying to rip out the serpentBa that had coiled around its throat.

 

    “This childBb has no heartbeat. It has wrapped the umbilical cord around its throat numerous times and is now beginning to rip the cord from where it is attached to the mother. We will perform a caesarean section and remove the umbilical cord, but this child is not due for another week. Even if this child is alive, it may not survive outside the womb. You must make the decision to save your wife or to hope the child lives with the burden of its mother’s death.”

 

    The husband was a rational man. He took minimal time and decided purely on the probability of survival. He did not want to risk his wife’s life.

 

    “Dispose of the child. My wife will not die today.”

 

    And so the doctor did.

 

    It’s my favourite time of year, early October. The sun’s rays greet me in the morning as they pierce perfectly through the little slits between my blinds and land on the wall adjacent to my bed. I can feel the wind through my open window, and although it’s chilling, my two oversized blankets serve as my armor. Getting out of the bed, my toes dive into the carpet, as if it’s a warm riverSIM. I fumble to put on my glasses, and almost instantly regret doing so; my room is so unorganized it hurts to just look at it IMG.

 

Opening my bedroom door, I stumble into my mom, who is holding chai.

    

“Good morning,” I say, still groggy from my sleep.

 

“Good morning beta, I’m late for work, call me when you need a ride after school okay?” she replies, in a hurried tone.

    

Already beginning to taste the chai, I recoil and hiss after burning my tongue and can only manage a weak “Mhm.”. My mom is already closing the porch door behind her. I see her through the window pane beside the door, and watch the edge of the pane engulf her as she leaves.

 

My mother has never spoken about the night I was born. But the story has sunk its fangs into my flesh and poisoned meMET; I cannot go a day without remembering.

 

    The water is cold to begin with. The shower head slips from my hands and the water sprays my legs, catching me off guard. I sigh in disappointment and let the frigid cold shoot shards into my skin.

 

It was nothing new, in fact, it happened quite a lot.

 

Although having hot water is something we can afford, it rarely seems be present when I shower. The water is often icy enough to send shivers through my blood and turn it cold.

    Still in my towel, I walk to my room shivering; the early morning October air makes me fasten my hands around my arms, rubbing them up and down for warmth. I sit down against a wall and close my eyes while bringing my knees into my chest and hope comfort will emerge within my chattering teeth. Instead, I feel colder.

 

Colder, to the point numbness befalls me, beginning at my toes and slithering its way up towards my ears. I feel myself becoming a statue as it becomes harder to breathe.

 

    The last pockets of air escape my throat and a long forgotten feeling cascades over my mind like a shadow. I release my arms and begin to bring my hands to my neck, stopping short after coming in contact with what I fear most.

 

    The serpent was coiled around my neck, and it was larger than before.

    My eyes spring open. I stare at the first thing I can focus on: an old poster of Guru Nanak Dev Ji. Underneath it has words of prayer in Punjabi, a language I can speak, but not write or read.

 

I am not religious, and never have been. Like my father, I decided purely on rationale. My mom had put that poster up the year I had moved into my own room, to protect me from the evil that lurked around me while I slept.

 

The doctors were truly dumfounded. When they pulled out the premature infant from my mother’s womb, my heartbeat was immeasurable; the pulse so soft that it could’ve been mistaken for the sound of dripping water.

 

My mother had given me the gift of life; in that instant she had shown me that the circumstances of my past and of my birth had no say in what I could do in the present.

 

I was taught, from the very beginning, to fight.

 

I sense its eternal presence in my mind, like a lock without a proper key. I see the faint outline of the serpent, slithering in circles around me. It moves closer, until its head is only half a foot away. It rises. It is now exactly my height. Its eyes, once golden, were now as black as shadows. It begins to speak and the hymns of all hell’s tortured souls resonate within its hissing.

    

    I don’t reply. I meet its glare with my own. My hand becomes a set of fangs and poises to strike.

 

    The serpent falters.

    

    I lunge, with the force equal to a thousand years of the serpent’s torment.
    

The serpent begins to recoil; my touch has immobilized it with fear.

 

With a glint of satisfaction, I grasp its neck, and squeeze.

The warmth returns.