Psychopath. Psychopath. Psychopath.
You’re sitting in a small room with paint peeling out from the walls. The only thing talking back to your physic talks is your echo. You look around for water and get up to fetch some, only to realize there is nothing around.
They call you a psychopath. Your shirt is always torn and the pants you wear are too baggy for you. There are dark circles underneath your eyes and your once blue eyes look almost colourless now. Your teeth are yellow and rotten for you only dine in on squirrels and dead rats. Your nails are long and dirty. They hate you.
It was a December morning when it happened. You had gotten into a fight with your wife, Petunia again. All she had asked you was for some money and you had hit her again and again and again. You had chained her up and left her, bleeding and begging for her life up on the attic only to find that she had died, two days later taking along your unborn child with her.
There is a slight push on the door and there at your feet lies food: uncooked fish and stale bread. You push it away with your right foot. Ungrateful, a frail voice whispers from inside you, like it has been all these years. You deserve it.
There is darkness all around you and the only light you’ve been able to see in these five years is the little bulb that lights up your room, dim yellow. Your stomach growls in hunger and your throat aches with thirst but there’s no water around. The only normal food you’ve got is the stale bread and uncooked fish from earlier. You look around for your bag, your only belonging. It has the dead squirrels, the only food you eat nowadays. Someone knocks on the door lightly but without waiting for your answer, comes in. It is the same maid who has been serving you for the past five years. She hasn’t changed a bit. The brown in her eyes and the freckles on her face are still the very same like they were all those years ago. She smiles shyly, the same way she has been doing everyday, for all these years. She has brought a water bottle for you. And that is when you remember that you’re thirsty. Sighing, you gesture for her to come forward and give the bottle to you. She quickly moves forward, hands over the bottle to you and leaves. Your God always creates a way out of little troubles for you. He doesn’t hate you. Not yet.
You often wonder why hasn’t your God forgiven you for the crime you committed five years ago? Why have you been kept captive for all these years when there are so many criminals roaming around freely with nobody to look out for them. Suddenly, there is a spark in your room and the bulb that had been the only source of light in your room, finally goes off. Darkness engulfs you once again and all you’re left with is an empty room, staring right back at you.
Petunia was beautiful and smart, lively and happy. She was everything you wished for in your partner. Where did the things go wrong? You can’t remember now. The only things that you remember are that you had lost interest in her, the once jolly Petunia who used to appeal you had become a mere responsibility to you. A responsibility that felt more like a burden back then. If and only if you had treated her right, the circumstances would’ve been different now.
You smell awful: of the rotten squirrels, of the smell of the dirty sewerage which is somehow linked to your room. You smell of everything bad. You can’t remember the last time you took a shower: maybe a week or two ago. You remember how Petunia never let you miss a day without a shower, how she never let you go hungry to your work. You remember how she took great care of all your needs. If and only if, you had treated her right, things would’ve been different now.
You’ve been sitting on the floor with your back facing towards the door. There is a ‘thud’ and without looking back, you know. You know that this time it isn’t the same maid who had been coming since all these years. You try getting up but fail. Someone grabs you by your neck and pulls you backwards. The strength by which you’re being pulled backwards tells you that the person pulling you is a guy. The guy then tells you to stand up. After a lot of efforts, you stand up but as soon as you do so, the guy slams your head in the wall. All you can see before passing out is Petunia’s face: bruised and damp. All you can see is her begging for life.
Even though, they know that you’ve been long awake, they kick you and slap you again and again.
“Get up, you loser,” one of the guys calls out.
“I think he’s dead,” says the other.
“He’s a tough nut. Don’t think he would die that easily,” laughs the other.
There’s too much light around you: so much to which you haven’t been accustomed to. Before they can hit you again, you get up. You stop the punch aimed your way with just one hand and in return, hit the guy on his legs. All of a sudden, there’s strength in you: not only to defend yourself but to fight off these people by your own self. It feels unreal to be this strong. It feels as if you had been robbed off this power but now it has been given back to you.
You hit the guys so hard that they’ve all passed out. Two years ago, you had gotten the same opportunity but you hadn’t been able to avail it. The guys had caught you running and had locked you up in the guest room of the mansion, giving you stale food from time to time in order to keep you alive. You aren’t going to repeat the same mistake again. Now is the time to escape. So you run.
You’re finally out of the mansion. Being able to see the sky, the grass and the outside world seems unreal but you’ve done it now.
Only you know. Only you know that it wasn't you who had stopped taking interest in Petunia. It wasn't you had hit her and locked her up in the attic. It wasn't you had killed her and your unborn child. It was her. It was Petunia who had started to like someone else. It was her who had stopped taking interest in you. It was her who had played the fake victim card. It was her who used to hit herself brutally whenever you stopped her from meeting her new man. It was her who had locked herself up in the attic and had killed herself along with your unborn child. It had always been her. Always.