Skip to main content

Death's Suicidal Moments

Father

 I held the gun in my hand. Stared at it for a few minutes. It was either me, or him. He was not my son. How could he be? To see what he had grown up to be? He was not my son. I had loved him every day, for 17 years. When he was a baby, I had fed him, changed his diapers, woke up in the middle of the night to make him feel comfortable. We had done it together, my wife and I. But he was not my son. I could feel it now when I looked at him.
He resembled me in many ways, his eyes were dark and deep, they looked like they had a lot of depth and wisdom but they were empty pits. Had I raised him wrong? Given him too much attention? Given him too little? Had I spoiled him beyond hope? Or had I given him nothing that he wanted? What had made him this way? Nothing of the man I had hoped he would become. We had fought today again, about how he was not in the right place in life. I argued that the way things are going, he would never be. He argued that it wasn't his time yet. 17 years and not his time. He didn't even stand to finish the conversation, he simply walked away. 
What I held was hope, in my hands. A hope that death would bring a purpose, death would clear his path. Death would no longer be a procrastinator. It would be in his face. My son, my son, he was not my son. I held the gun, I had a choice: I chose him. My hands were trembling, would I go through with it? I held the gun to my temple.


Son

I held the blade in my hand. Stared at it for a few minutes. It was either me, or him. He was not my father. How could he be? To see how much he hated what I had grown up to be? He was not my father. I had loved him every day, for 17 years. When I was a child, my whole world was him, I lived for him, I wanted to grow up to be like him, my sole purpose in life was to make him comfortable in the future. I had worked things out in my head. But he was never satisfied. I was never good enough for him.


I resembled him in many ways, his eyes were dark and deep, they looked like they had a lot of depth and wisdom. But they were empty bottomless pits. Where I had love, he had pure regret. Pure regret for having raised me for so long. Where was he when I needed advice? Where was he when I needed him? He bought me expensive toys, everything in the world I wanted. But where was he to help me with homework? Or talk to me about girl issues? He would turn up every term in school, and berate me about my report card. Was that the kind of attention he thought that I deserved? Nothing of the man I had hoped he was. We had fought today again, about how I was not in the right place in my life. He argued that the way things are going, I would never be at the right place in my life. I argued that it wasn't my time yet. 17 years was too little time to be more than what is expected of a 17 year old. I couldn't stand there listening to the conversation anymore. I walked away, he thinks that is what I do best. Maybe I will show him the same.


What I held was hope, in my hands. A hope that death would bring a purpose, death would clear his path. Death would no longer be a procrastinator. It would be in his face. My father, my father, he would no longer be MY father. But I had hope that he would change for my younger brother. I held the blade closer to my wrist, tired of being the disappointment that I was, I had a choice: I chose me. My hands were trembling, would I go through with it? I held the blade to my wrist. That's when I heard it: the gunshot.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Blink

  The criminal I look at you. I remember I gave you the chance to break me. I didn’t leave, when I knew I should have. I stopped you when you were about to leave. I let myself be bruised. I blink to see if there are any tears in my eyes. I remember the last time. I had thrown it at you, that book that I had painstakingly made as an anniversary gift. I had thrown it at you, hoping, hoping that you’d see it and you’d know what we were losing. I had begged for forgiveness from you, craving for something I knew we had no way of getting back. I had blinked just hoping the pain would go away. I remember when you had told me that you wanted to be with me forever, when you had promised forever. That blue checkered shirt, with its sleeves folded up, the smell of my favourite deo, the half eaten plate of chicken wings, and that playful yet perfect smile. I had blinked, just to make sure that I captured the moment.  I remember when we had first met, how you’d sat across from me, just wai...
Post a Comment
Read more

The train

The T shirt The morning of my first train journey alone from the city of Bangalore to the huge city of Mumbai, had me seeing the interiors of a train for the first time in 25 years. The last time I traveled by train I was 5 years old. A lot had changed since then. Flights were frequent, my father had made huge amounts of money, and I never had to bother taking the train. But as a 30 year old unmarried woman, trying to prove herself in a patriarchal society, I had cut off from my family- financially and emotionally. I had my hand sanitiser, wet tissues, pepper spray,  packed food (enough for 3 days), and I was ready to fight the germs and the assholes that could be in the train. I was dressed in my ex boyfriend's t shirt which was a few sizes too big, so as to not "entice" the lewd remarks or actions. A woman shabbily clad in a Saree came and sat next to me with her 3 kids and her husband who smelled heavily of alcohol. They were jittery and excited. There was a stron...
Post a Comment
Read more

The Mirror

The girl I see her staring at me from the mirror: contemplating insignificance, contemplating disaster.  Who have I become? I stare at the girl whose innocence is lost. I want to hold her, comfort her, and tell her that things will be okay. The scars of my past, reflected in my eyes, hauntingly leering at me from my reflection. The only one, who knows me, is me. The only one, who can comfort me, is staring at me through the mirror judging me, judging my actions. I see tears rolling down my face, before I feel them. I am so used to them now that they are almost a part of me. What have I become. I look down at the reflection on my wrists. Scars, that deface my once smooth flawless skin. Did I hate myself that much that I absolutely had to draw my own blood? Healed lines, bumps, I feel them with my other hand. Looking up, I see her, taunting me. “What have you become, you silly girl?” my eyes ask me. What have I become? Meaningless, defective, useless. What broke me? Wha...
Post a Comment
Read more