To the rest – with love (Part 1 of 5 )

 

“I am not you. I am an evolved person”, Arun shouted and banged the fine cutlery off the dining table. Little pieces of the left over food flew across the room. His mother watched these fall on the neatly-spread blue engraved carpet, while standing silently in the corner, her head shaking with unparalleled rage, and insurmountable fear. He lit a cigarette, and almost threw the lighter at his father’ face. It nearly gave him a tiny scratch. He came out of the house, banging the door behind him and went straight ahead to the neighbourhood park, to his cave of fury. He found the little-found solace in his life, all emanating from sitting at the little crouched spaces between the trees.

He did not like the benches. They were too comfortably designed.

He picked his favourite rough spot and sat there, looking around. “Today was the same”, he was reassuring himself in a way, “This will pass. This will all pass, soon enough.”

He disconnected the phone. Mom was calling. He switched it off and kept it back in his pocket. Remembering the first time he had raised his voice against his father, when he was 12 year-old, a strange laugh came to him. Mom has not changed much – she still wants to make sure I come home and sleep in the house. “After all this time..”, pausing a moment in his head to understand why. Why has she never said anything against those bruises, those slaps, those burns, to none of that? Why has she never called the police, or alarmed the neighbours? Why does she still obediently serves food for his good-for-nothing father when he returns back home from wherever he goes?

He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want to answer.

She never did say a word, not to anyone, except those ones which one had to speak while living with other people in the same house – with requests to eat the food, drink the water, update the status of the laundry – things like that. The rest of the time she was quite, she didn’t even probably speak to herself. Or perhaps she spoke a language nobody else understood.

Nobody could know. Nobody wanted to know.

Something crossed his mind, juxtaposing his already-filled mind with a sense of horror, and shame, and pleasure – all at the same time. His mind had wandered off this way before, but he had never really given this a serious thought. “This naïve sense was now coming back, how else could one seriously consider murder”, he wondered, in his head of course.

Delusional he surely was, at times – that in itself is not a bad thing at all. At school, when the guys would tease him when he came to school with that sore eye, or with a broken wrist – day after day, these thoughts had crossed his mind – that of cold-blooded murder – that of thrusting knives after knives into the bare chest of his father. He had imagined it in his head for all these years.

He was now ready.

But that was just school. This was 20 years back. He couldn’t still think of doing this, really do this – or could he? Could he really?

He stood up, checking his phone if it was still switched off. It was. He went finding something. All it took him was another hour.

Today was the day. Today is the day.

The staircase today took him forever. He knocked, and waited. Mother was in the kitchen, cleaning up some broken glasses. He could hear his dad opening the door and shouting at her, all at the same time. He saw his father’s eyes, drunk with alcohol, red with anger of being made to leave his drink – all staring at him, with the numbest expression he had seen.

His chest seemed bigger today. “It would now be easier to strike then”, he smirked. Reaching for the knife inside his pocket, he smiled again “Today is indeed the day”.

 

(I shall update the next part as soon as I can. Your comments are most welcome)

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