A knife for him.

             

Contemplation. In my words trying to figure out where the fuck did I go wrong. That drowsy afternoon was yet again its victim. I let my imagination run wild and free, thinking about the what could have been. Its a wicked thing, imagination. Shows you the deceitful pictures of a happy wonderful life you could have had, pricking and rubbing salt in the already existing wounds of reality. Imagination. Such a bastard.

As a sat down on the edge of my bed, something I had grown particularly fond of, I began to make a map of my life. From the time I was born, to going to school and no college, falling in love with a man who respected me, to marrying a man who raped me all night every night. Of course I live in India. I am married and liable to be raped by my husband. All of those rituals of marriage, all those years of me trying to make myself fall in love with my husband and vice versa, yet the only thing I find myself attached to is the edge of my bed. The lower left one at that. It has a pleasant view of the balcony. Through my years of torment, my parents abandoned me. The judicial system tells me that I have no right over my body. But the edge of my bed always soaked in my tears.

So as I sat down on the edge of my bed, my wicked imagination took over. What if I was to murder him? My husband of course. But reality answered back. Jail. I could run away. They would find me. What if they did not? Where would you go with no money and absolutely no qualification for a job. I could beg. Whats the difference then. You beg here as well. After an hour of tired conversations. I decided to kill him. And kill myself.

Told you imagination was a bastard. But it seemed like a doable idea. I could kill him and then I would just kill myself. I would rather burn in hell than tolerate his vicious hands touch me, his crooked lips kiss me. I couldn't tolerate another minute of his disgusting self inside of me. I would kill him. And then kill myself.

A knife for him. To make him go through death slowly. To make him feel the pain I had felt for the past 7 years. To make his skin red with all the blood as he had made mine. Slowly. Painfully. A knife strikes best when its coated with lust for vengeance. A knife for him.

The doorbell rang. My reality awaits me. My legs are numb. What fate was it of mine to have brought me on this crossroad? What fault of mine. I remember the face of the man I truly loved. Calm, beautiful, filled with love. I saw the light in his eyes go out. My shrieks could not get him back. My father made me see his body being mutilated. He died. But more importantly I died. A thump on the door. I died 8 years ago. What difference would it make if i were to die twice?

I see myself getting up. Moving. The thumping on the door is now restless. Yet I move slowly. My imagination has taken its flight. My reality has surrendered. I move. Small steps. But not towards the door. I am now standing on the edge of my balcony. 7th floor. Its like the 7th circle of hell. I have no fear of death. The devils I played with made me numb. Fearless. This flight is for my freedom. For my salvation. I hope to meet my love and be touched the way I have longed for eternity.

I hear the thumping on the door, I hear the birds chirping. Its a beautiful day. Hopefully a start to a better life. The drowsy afternoon shall stay inebriated in the melody of the mockingbirds. My imagination, my wicked imagination, has already taken its flight. Now its my turn.