her writing. When her parents had died in a brutal car accident, everything about her became
unstable, like fragile glass in a moving vehicle. She had severe depression, which had exacerbated
and turned into craziness. Wanting to deny reality, her genius had pushed her to a world of creativity.
She would be swept into her own fictitious world at times, and swept out at other times; gradually, her brain started to muddle reality with fantasy and fantasy with reality. I think there was more
though, something that even the doctors couldn’t figure out, some traumatic incident of a sort that
had to do with her parents’ death.
And yet, despite all this mysterious sickness, I loved her. To think back, I don’t know why.
But I did, without a doubt, love her. Her simple beauty was enough to draw the attention of many
men, but they left one by one when her craziness became evident. I didn’t. I was different, dare I say,
even better than all of them. I thought I could handle her craziness armed merely with the pure love
that I had for her. I should have known better. Nothing is certain today, for I can’t think straight right
now but only one thing is for sure: Delilah had loved me too, no, she had loved me more, she had
loved me first.
This love twisted me to make irrational decisions. Worried about her condition, I had taken
Delilah to a psychiatrist after work, as I had been pondering over visiting a mental hospital for Delilah. “She’s not severely ill, so a mental hospital is not an option you should be considering,” were
the doctor’s words. “But her depression and instability is still severe to the extent for her to be in a
rehab clinic and be assigned an official care taker.” When I took Delilah to the nearest rehab clinic, they offered to provide a voluntary caretaker who had been a fan of ‘Rose.’ The fuss created by
Delilah w \