This was the last time, she promised herself
(and her father) as she wolfed down the large Hershey’s bar. A moan escaped her
mouth as the chocolate melted on her tongue. Those who heard her were too used
to it to be concerned. People jumped as the door suddenly slammed shut. Feet
moved swiftly down the road, but a memory of the intoxicating taste lingered.
It was when the key turned in the lock that the
craving hit. Squeezing her eyes shut, she desperately tried to recall what the
book said on how to stop a chocolate addiction. When you’re craving it, eat
something healthy instead. Making a beeline for the fruit basket, her fingers
closed upon a spherical object, fuzzy under her fingers, and so unlike smooth,
sticky Lindt chocolates. Hurriedly cramming it into her mouth, she willed the
sourness to morph into creamy sweetness as she chomped down on the peach with
urgency.
Heavy footsteps startled her out of her
reverie. She looked up to see her father walk into the kitchen.
“Hello Salma.”
“Hello.” Out of habit, her hand wiped the
corners of her mouth, only this time, there was no chocolate there.
“Glad to see that you’re eating something
healthy for a change.”
His avoidance of naming the thing he so
detested did not go unnoticed, but Salma replied with a simple “Yeah.”
They looked at each other for a minute, each
searching for some conversation topic to bring up, before Salma scampered out
of the room. The awkwardness chased her up the stairs and all the way to the
room. A frame clattered to the ground when the door was slammed shut. As she bent
down to pick it up, her thumb gently ran over the picture, pretending it was
actually her mother’s straight hair she was twirling around her finger.
“Give me some words of wisdom, Mama. I know
what you would say. But how can chocolate make it better, when chocolate is the
problem?” The bed sank under her weight. The coolness of the metal frame seeped
through her thin shirt as she hugged it to her chest. The wind whispered ghosts
of past conversations:
“Once the sweetness fills you with energy, go
for a run,” a honeyed voice said.
“But won’t a run just drain my energy?”
“Well then, I guess you don’t know the feeling
of wind hitting your skin and whittling away the worries. And sweetie, if it’s
raining, I’d be surprised if you came back with your forehead all creased up
like that.”
Her mouth watered. Outside, the trees rustled.
Hitting herself on the knee, she sat up, set the frame on the pillow, and was
down the stairs and out of the door without disturbing her father, who sat in
his usual spot on the couch with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. A slow
jog built up to a race. The wind blew past and she tried to ignore the way it
hissed ‘Cadbury’ and ‘Snickers’ as she pushed against it. By the time she
decided to head home, the children were running back indoors. The streetlamps
turned on one by one as she ran past. Cars rushed past, none sparing a glance
to the lone pedestrian.
It was as though each day was being knitted
together by an arthritis-ridden woman. Every hour was a test against her
willpower, but the lengthening dinner conversations reminded her of the reason
for this resolution. If her mother could see them, she would have smiled as she
used to in the brief moments when the two of them got along. The smell of smoke
even grew fainter with every day.
Three weeks from that day, her heart pounded in
the last few minutes of class. Mrs. Selyse dropped the paper onto her desk.
“Good job,” she said. The number on the paper
mocked her. If she stared at it long enough, maybe the 80 would morph into a
90. The bell cut off the chattering voices. Robotically, Salma stood up and
walked out.
Three years ago,
her father would have lashed out at her for not being the best. But in those
days, she sought comfort in her mother. Since the fateful day when typhoid took
her mother, her father would simply nod when she fearfully muttered her bad
grades. There was no further acknowledgement of any sort. Instead, he continued
to blow smoke rings at his wedding picture.
She was right in
assuming that it was her resemblance to her mother that caused her father’s
gaze to avert hers. Chocolate boxes in the fridge and cupboards were too sharp
a reminder of his beloved wife (who was, after all, nicknamed the chocolate
fiend). Without her mother to bridge the gap between the two people she loved
most of all, they were thrown into isolated grief. But what brought Salma
comfort simply brought her father pain. It really was her drug; she
continuously needed her fill; and it upset her parent. She saw the
disappointment in his face when he realized it was not his wife eating M&M’s
in the kitchen, and she knew that he did not actually have to go get a hammer
from the garage at that very moment.
Salma reached the school doors. Light drops of rain kissed
her skin, gently caressing and assuring her. The cold air chilled the mixture
of tears and rain on her face, but the relief was welcome. Legs started moving
faster and faster until she found herself on her knees one block away from
where she started. Without the start-up energy, her gangly legs could not carry
her to comfort. A hand touched her shoulder.
“Is everything alright? Was it the test?” Rania was standing
there looking concerned.
“Yeah. It’s…well…” Salma could not muster the strength to
speak.
Rather than pushing her to speak, her friend pulled her up
with ease and gave her bony shoulders a reassuring squeeze. Salma’s eyes grew
wide like Maltesers, fixated on the dark skin of her friend’s arm. The colour
burned. Leaning forward, she stuck her tongue out to taste the chocolate. It
was salty, and it jerked back at the contact. Her head only dipped further,
with her teeth sinking down, not allowing room for escape. A noise fought
through the haze in her mind, but the protest only made her bite harder. Copper
and iron ran over her teeth, and then she was shoved backwards.
“What the hell!”
Red ran down Rania’s arm, like strawberry filling dripping
out of a bon-bon. As her gaze moved upwards, a horrified expression snapped Salma
out of her delusion. Tripping as she stumbled backwards, she turned, ignored
the call from behind her, and ran.
The energy was there. Drops of rain landed on her skin,
filling the hollow of her shoulder blades. Her hair
stuck to her face like melting chocolate. Nature joined her passion, tossing
down buckets. People around her ran for shelter, but she only continued to run.
Darkness settled in, and so did the wet chill. Streams gushed out of the
sidewalk. She slipped and fell, a scream ringing through the thunderous night.
When she regained consciousness, she was sitting with a
blanket wrapped around. A hand offered her a hot mug. Chocolate fumes rose up,
fogging all thought. A tentative first sip, then she gulped down the liquid,
not noticing how it burned her throat. The second cup was swallowed with the
same haste. In her impatience, the contents of the third spilled onto the
floor. Anxiously her gaze swept around the room, but the man who had offered
her the sinful sweetness was gone. The room was empty. Liquid swirled lazily on
the floor, taunting and tempting her. A part of her should have realized that
quitting was not so easy. Chocolate was her
cigarette. In stress and despair and sadness it pulled her out. Her eyes
lingered on the door. It remained still. The pent up longing had her on her
hands and knees. Hair and chocolate blended into one as she bent over. And this
was how her father found her, clinging desperately to the addiction she failed
to break.
