He fiddled with the knife stained with the thick drops of blood and looked at it quite disturbingly as the red drops trickled down from the knife on the black tiles of the kitchen of his home, the one with dead walls and dim lights.
It was 1:30 am, the time when usually he'd dream about the peaceful room of his parents, untouched by the misery that comes with fights, arguments, pulling each other's legs and dragging the ancestors into it. The sound of the water draining out from the thin blue pipe, fitted to the RO, to the bare surface of the sink was the only thing he could hear, apart from the tick-tock of the old clock that hung on the wall of his room, right above the poster of Michael Jordan. He could see him from the kitchen which was attached to his room, lifting himself up to put the ball into the basket, and for a moment dreamt about a life just like that famous basketball star, too busy to get muddled by the chaos his parents, both aged fifty-five, brought.
Sweat trickled down his temples, and itched under his t-shirt, as he began feeling queasy, uneasy, restless. How quiet it is at this point of time, he wondered. Right beside the kitchen, after crossing the path of a few steps, maybe eight, was the room from where howls and screams and sounds of the breaking of the lamps and thuds at the door when stuffs were thrown, had become a trademark. That was the room of their parents. He would hear them every night, especially when he would read some novel (right now he was reading Jeffrey Archer), and learn that they perhaps never loved each other. All those pictures he had seen of them, holding each other's hands and playing with him, all those stories he had listened, right from when he was six-years old to today when he was twenty-two, seemed nothing more than a sham. A big sham.
They would humiliate each other, disrespect each other to the core. At first, he thought it was the father who was the oppressor, but later, he realized his mother was no less. Both had their own perspectives about each other, both told each other they cheated, and both had already given him proofs to claim their point, through which, he had come to a disheartening conclusion:
Both were guilty.
They wouldn't accept it, but he knew. Who accepts his own fault after all? Especially when it can turn his or her life upside down, and ruin his image to the extent he would feel like dying everyday, only to be set free.
He looked at his belly, at his fat-less belly, and sighed in pain. As he pressed his hand where there was a deep cut and the flesh was visible, and the blood continuously streamed from that part of his body, he realized that this was it. Taking the support of the wall, he stood up, after two attempts, and his gaze once again went to his bleeding belly.
He had stabbed himself six times there.
Leaning against the wall, he made his way to the most disturbed room of the house. For once, he turned and looked at his trophies. Not only he was the captain of his basketball team in college, he had a flair for writing too. He had won several essay competitions, poetry competitions (though he believed he sucked at it) and the like. Still his parents criticized him for all his activities.
'First there was you, now this useless son of yours', both would say to each other.
He remembered three years ago, when he won the Super Basketball Tournament in his college, and was awarded a nice, well-carved trophy, along with an NBA t-shirt, he felt that was the proudest moment of his life. As soon as he reached home that day, with the only thought of sharing the joyous moment with his parents, they divided the task of eliminating his happiness, as his dad broke the trophy into pieces and his mom tore the r-shirt.
'There's so much fight in this home and you want to celebrate?' the reason for their act.
He had now reached a white door with a sticker of Santa Claus sitting on his sledge and waving his hand. The sticker belonged to the last year and was now torn from borders and had turned a bit dull. He pushed the door to open it, making the mark of his blood-stained palm on the Santa, and as soon as it opened, he leaned again against the wall.
He looked deep into the darkness. Only a tiny light that the new lamp on the bedside produced helped him see his parents lying under a blanket, asleep, unaware of their child and perhaps planning next day's topic to fight on. A pillow lied between them, acting as a divider. At least they still shared the same room.
He knocked at the opened door repeatedly, fiercely, causing some movement on the bed. The parents were awake now. The mother switched the light on, only to shriek in horror at the sight of her son. The father had his eyes opened wide.
'Oh dear! What have you done to yourself?' The mother screamed from the bed and removed the blanket and stepped out of the bed to reach him. The father was still dumbfounded.
'Fed up...I'm fed up of you both.'
'What?' Mother's eyes began to show anger.
'I've got astonishing parents!' He dropped the knife on the floor and placed the other hand on the belly too, making the blood pour out of the body to his now partially red t-shirt. His blue jeans had turned purple too. He gasped, he sighed, and looked at the faces of his parents.
'No appreciation, no happiness, nothing!' He said. 'All you both dwell on is sadness, negativ...'
Before he could finish, he collapsed.
This time, the father stepped out of the bed and reached him, and placed his sweaty, grief-stricken face on his lap. The hair that had turned wet thanks to the sweat, made a grey mark on the old man's white cloth on the portion that covered the lap. The mother came from the other side and sat beside him.
He looked at both of them, wondering what if his parents were same as his friends'. Since his childhood, he had never actually been able to develop that bond, especially with his mother. He feared both of them, always. There might have been a slight liking for them, but he knew he didn't love them. They were fierce in his opinion. So, unlike his friends, some of which called their moms their best friend, he couldn't even imagine sharing anything from his personal life from them. He envied his friends always.
'Don't close your eyes.' His father slapped him to keep him awake.
But he knew that his father's slaps would do nothing. He would close his eyes. He was about to close his eyes. Not to fall unconscious, but to die.
Just like someone says something absolutely random, absolutely off-topic to change his mood, he looked away from their faces and his eyes caught attention of the even bigger clock than the one in his room, hanging on the wall. He heard its tick-tock too. And the time was the last thing he saw in his life.
It said 1:40 am.
The father shifted his son's face from the lap and placed it on the floor and slapped him twice, thrice, and even more, and harder than the previous one, but of no use. Their son, their only son, was gone.
He looked with his red eyes at his wife. She was too astonished to say anything, and kept staring at her still son, whose eyes still glared towards the mighty clock.
'Our son is gone. Why?' He broke into tears, and his eyes showed disbelief. His wife still stared at the still body of his son.
'Because of you.' She uttered, her eyes still on her motionless son.
'Me?'
'Yes! You, asshole! You never understood me and this went on for years and years. And why would you? You were busy sleeping with whores!'
'Really? And what should I call you? A mindless retard, seeking sympathy from everyone, from her neighbour's husband?'
'Don't you try to blame me! Don't!'
'That's the truth you ugly lady!'
As they resumed with what they did best, their son's eyes, lying motionless, looked towards the clock. From nowhere, an ant came and ran on his face, trying to find a hole perhaps to sneak in.
His blood was spilled on the floor, which was now half-red, and the lamp fell just beside his body and broke.
The light went dimmer in the room now.
