It has been three years and yet sometimes it hits me, why did I do it? Was it really necessary? Although there were a lot of reasons but no reason comes close to satisfy me, its like I left some stone unturned. Only if I could go back and do it better, may be inflict more suffering in him to get a pay back of what he had done to us or may be just undo it.
I remember suddenly waking up from deep sleep and being swung onto my mothers arm, “take your litter with you” he’d say and throw us out of our own house at 4 in the morning only to shiver till the morning light came. I was too young to differentiate between the good and bad but I certainly knew something was wrong with my father. My father ,who was otherwise a revered and God fearing man in society, weirdly changed when the doors closed, it was like two people living in one.
While growing up I saw all sorts of violence in my three bedroom Bihar household and when I say all sorts, I mean it, I saw things that I still don’t understand and are difficult to explain. I experienced getting beaten to the pulp, and lying in my blood scared of getting up or moving till he left the house.He never let us go to church he would use our bible pages to clean up dog feces, he would burn my mother’s hands with a hot knife sometimes.
He never showed any remorse, after a long session of fight he would ask mom to get ready and look nice for guests in half and hour. It was horrifying. The greatest mystery was we never understood where his money went he contributed very little for household expenses but we never dared asking, my mother was the bread winner, yet I don’t understand why she could mutter up the courage to leave him.
Indian wives and their cliché principles imprison them. I harbored some sort of passive aggressive, feeling towards him I didn’t outright hate him but often fantasized, burning his face with an iron when he slept, gauging his eyes out with a knife, beating his head with a cricket bat till it was smashed to pulp and what not, but none of these were possible because it would look like an obvious murder and an obvious murder would lead to a culprit. I even wondered how bad juvenile prison can be. But he wasn’t worth going to jail for and I couldn’t live with his hideous face one more day.
I saw how careless he used to be, he never checked his car before taking off in the morning. I am a good reader I always read a lot of things, once I read an article on how car breaks fail, I did the same thing on his car, with his rash driving he came right under a truck on a highway trying to engage his breaks, although I despised his very presence and I feel hypocritical writing this but somewhere my heart broke after all I was a part of him.
But I couldn’t let this go on, being the eldest child I felt responsible for every bad thing my mother and my siblings suffered. But did I have to do it? I didn’t come close to the satisfaction I felt when I had fantasized killing him, I rather felt an insatiable thrust in me, I turned into a psychopath over time. Could I have done it better of should I not have done it at all? May be it is this lack of satisfaction turns killers into serial killers.
#001 Guest Post Written By: Shradha Ghosh
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