He fiddled with the knife stained with the dense drops of blood and looked at it distressingly 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 on other nights he’d dream about the peaceful room of his parents, untouched by the misery that would come with fights, arguments, pulling each other’s legs and dragging each other’s ancestors into it. The sound of the water draining out from the thin blue pipe, fitted to the RO, and falling on the 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 he dreamt about a life just like that famous basketball star, too busy to get affected by the chaos his parents, both aged fifty-five, brought.
Sweat raced down his temples, and made his t-shirt stick to his skin, and he began feeling queasy, uneasy, and restless. How quiet it is at this point of time, he wondered. Right beside the kitchen, after walking a few steps through the gallery, maybe eight steps, was the room from where abuses and screams and sounds of the breaking of lamps and showpieces and thuds at the door when things were hurled, had become a trademark. That was the room of their parents. He would hear them every night, especially when he would try and deafen the noise by engrossing in a novel (right now he was reading Stephen King), and assume that they perhaps never loved each other. All those pictures that he had seen of them, holding each other’s hands and playing with him, all those stories he had listened to, 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 and disrespect each other to the core. At first, he thought his father was the tormenter, later he realized his mother was no less. Both had differing perspectives about each other; both accused each other of cheating, and both had supplied proofs to claim their point, through which, he had come to a disheartening, unspoken conclusion: both were guilty.
They wouldn’t accept it, but he knew. Who accepts their faults after all? Especially when it can turn one’s life upside down, and ruin their image to the extent of wanting to die every day, only to want 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 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. Damn, that’s what frustration did to him.
Leaning against the wall, he made his way to the unhappiest 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 had won the Super Basketball Tournament in his college, and was awarded a nice, shimmery, well-carved trophy, along with an NBA t-shirt, he felt that was the proudest moment of his life. As soon as he had reached home that day, with the only thought of sharing the joyous moment with his parents, they divided the task of eliminating his happiness: dad broke the trophy into pieces and his mom tore the t-shirt.
Right beside the kitchen, after walking a few steps through the gallery, maybe eight steps, was the room from where abuses and screams and sounds of the breaking of lamps and showpieces and thuds at the door when things were hurled, had become a trademark.