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Wailing Banshee


After that fateful knock on the door, I spiraled into utter destitution. It felt like I traversed through over forty-something layers of hell, plummeting to rock bottom or my limit. At that juncture, I lost all semblance of control over my mind and body.

In that overwhelming state of shock, I transformed into a frenzied figure, pounding my head, ripping my clothes, and entertaining thoughts of leaping from the moving vehicle. Instead, gingerly treading around the house, I ceased to walk, consumed by a profound sense of helplessness, feeling as though life had condemned me, weighed down by both its burdens and my guilt. I had transformed into a wailing banshee, mourning not a physical demise, but the death of my own psyche.

Yet within the depths of despair, a glimmer of goodness persisted, perhaps emanating from my soul. Even amidst the inferno where control eluded me, I remained connected to my humanity. It whispered tenderly of compassion towards fellow beings, of recognizing the inherent good in humanity, and of steadfast belief in the potential of human goodness.

Reflecting on those moments today, I grasp the profound essence of being both soul and human, even amidst the engulfing flames of hellish circumstances. I prefer not to dwell excessively on the hellish experiences I endured. Yet, I firmly believe that our inherent goodness and soul remain with us until the end, never abandoning us.

A lingering question plagued my mind throughout the ordeal, one I've yet to be asked in an investigative way. Why did nobody close to me stop from their busy life for a second to ponder the sudden slipping of a seemingly ordinary, happy girl they had known for years? It was like she had been pulled away into an inexplicable and unrecognizable world of hell. And now, without warning, we label her as a mental patient when, just yesterday, we referred to her as a dear and loving family or friend.

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