Let Me Die

The nurses and doctors who had accompanied Idhil from the radiology department returned—this time wheeling her from the accident and emergency unit. They seemed calm, collected. But with doctors, you never really know what’s going on until you ask.

“Is she okay?” I asked, my voice trembling with unease.

“Yes…” a young female doctor replied. “We’ll have to wait for the scan reports.”

It was an agonizing thirty-minute wait. I sat beside her bed as she groaned and cried. Her face looked like a ripe pumpkin—beaten and swollen. Like a sponge, it had absorbed every blow a man could give. Her lips and cheeks, streaked with blood, looked ready to burst. An intravenous line hung beside her bed, dripping pain medication into her veins. I didn’t know what to say.

“Pain,” she groaned. “Pain.” She clutched her ribs.

“Doctor!” I called out.

The doctor rushed over.

“She’s in a lot of pain,” I muttered.

“She’s received three different painkillers already. Maybe it’s time to consider morphine.”

“Yes, please,” I said.

After the morphine injection was administered, Idhil sank into a deep sleep.

A few hours later, she woke up.

The scan results were finally out. Miraculously, her brain had not bled. The bones of her face, nose, arms, and legs were intact. The bruises on her abdomen didn’t suggest any internal damage. In short, she had suffered far less than we had feared. In layman’s terms—she could nurse her wounds at home, or anywhere else, so long as it wasn’t a hospital bed.

The young doctor was courteous yet empathetic. She offered a few contacts specializing in the care of gender-based violence survivors. Idhil declined. Why, I didn’t know. In that moment, I felt the weight of care I had placed on myself was uncalled for. I regretted it. A voice whispered within me: What are you doing here?

She had refused, in her obstinate reluctance, to let me contact any of her relatives—not her mother, her brother, or anyone else responsible for her care. To test the limits of her resolve, I asked, half-jokingly, if I should call her husband.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Please call him.”

I was stunned.

“Idhil, do you realize what you are saying?” I asked.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I am so tired. Take me to him.”

I pondered hard. In my recollection, she turned to me and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Ayden,” I replied.

“I’ve thought long and hard,” she began in a soft, tender voice. It was almost a whisper, but I heard her clearly. “I’ve always wanted to die. Not a single day passes without me questioning the purpose of my living. I am worthless.”

“No, stop it!” I interrupted.

“Please… let me speak,” she said, her voice breaking.

“I am unloved. I am inferior. I do not even love myself. I long for death—not because it’s good, but because I need rest. I cannot do it myself, though I’ve thought about it many times. I need a break—from myself, from him, from anyone in this world connected to me. Take me to him, so that he may take my life. He owns me. I am his sacrificial lamb. Let him do what I have feared doing for months.”

“No,” I said sharply.

“You don’t understand my pain,” she replied. “I find no pleasure in living. I find that this world has no love. It’s been designed that way—especially for me. And if I die, my soul will rest. Perhaps I’ll find solace in the afterlife.”

“Idhil, please allow me to speak,” I implored.

“Go on,” she said.

“Honestly, if nobody cared about you, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t bother. The doctors who escorted you to radiology wouldn’t have treated you. It’s duty that compels us—just as it compels the doctors to take care of you, so long as you came to the hospital. But might I remind you—there are humans who are compelled to love, to be bothered by injustice.”

“I’ve never met one.”

She paused for a few seconds. I said nothing.

“I just want to die.”

“You long for peace—is that not what you truly want?” I asked.

“I’ll find it in death,” she said. Tears streamed down her cheeks. In defiance, she wiped them away—courageously entertaining the prospect of death. She had been a woman battered. No inch of her body left untouched. Her self-esteem in ruins. She had nothing else to lose but her weary soul.

I left briefly to settle the hospital bill. She sobbed, wailed bitterly. Her hair was ruffled; she blew her nose endlessly.

When I returned, I found a woman who had stood. Her scarf was perfectly tied. Wearing her battle scars proudly, she turned to me and asked,
“Where do I go now?”

I knew exactly where I’d take her.