How Often Have You Killed Father?

God,

if there is one,

finds it amusing to entertain with “their” creations!

As I have asked,

How often,

How often have you killed your father?

I for now, a thousand times.

Now, of all those times, how much have you enjoyed it?

I, every single time.

How often have you killed your father and never regretted it?

I, have never and never will.

I liked it. That night.

Silent night.

My holy night. When I was baptized in my father’s blood.

His eyes, shocked and traumatized;

that imbecile never thought I would dare do it.

In fact, I myself, never thought I will.

You see, I was always bound by responsibilities, expectations and lived my life to fulfill others dreams.

Thus, he never, never once in his life,

expected that I, his cowardly, weak son would do it.

When you and I, don’t find answers, we seek to a higher power.

I have a million of those left to be answered.

But no one seems to care.

Now, sitting inside my prison cell,

staring at the vast blue sky,

feeling the breeze of “what freedom once felt like” brushing my hair,

I envy others.

Those who, not even for once,

killed their father!

I have strangled him,

watching him struggling for air.

That brings a smile on my face.

I have stabbed him, right across his neck, watching him drown in his own blood.

That gives me satisfaction.

I have burned him alive, watching him

scream and every cell of his body

turning into ashes.

That, That my dear readers,

is the epitome of peace and hardcore bliss.

I sit here, smiling, thinking of ways to get even with him.

With exams right around the corner,

my math book, stares back at me.

Differential equations pondering, when will I ever go through them.

I sit here everyday.

In front of my books.

Yet, my mind is elsewhere.

My mind is doing what I always dreamt of doing.

Kill my Father!

Kill that wretched excuse for a man!

Do my family a favour,

and remove that weight from the face of the Earth!

“Aren’t you eating anything? Lunch is ready.”

Damn it mom.

Why?

Why would you always come in between?

You, you my mom, are the only reason why he is still alive and walking.

And you, yourself will be the cause of his murder.

My mom or should I say wonder woman?

There are no limits to the rain and sun she’s faced.

No limits to her endless suffering.

A survivor is what she is.

The moment this demon came to her life,

she somehow forgot to live.

She plays a lot of roles.

Roles that I know no one can even bear.

My mom.

I am sorry.

So sorry for shattering your dreams.

You wanted to see me in my white uniform, glistening with stars and stripes.

Alas, I’m here, in my prison whites!

“She’s here again. Do you wanna see her?”

The guard. Damn it guard.

Why? Why does it always have to be you, between me and my mom?

“Ask her to go away please. I don’t want to see anyone”

I don’t remember how many times I’ve sent her back.

Yet, for every visitation, without fail, she

comes.

Hoping to see her son, who failed her.

It wasn’t a sudden urge.

It was well planned, 19 years to be exact.

Now is the time.

I am as tall as him.

I am as strong as him.

I can stand up to him.

A rush of confidence runs across my spine.

I can feel his fear.

Fear that he’s lost control.

Fear that no one is his slave anymore.

Fear that no one fears him.

I sense it, I enjoy it.

Funny how I used to be scared of him.

This bastard.

A sorry excuse of a father!

Tonight is the night.

Tonight is the night of my salvation, liberation, and my

resurrection.

Now I am thinking.

How selfish was I.

I never thought of anyone else but myself on that night.

I was a raging horse with blinders.

Never have I ever paid my mom back.

Not even a single penny.

She taught me, fed me, cared for me for 19 long years.

What have I given her back?

More pain, more misery and one more reason to spend her life in tears.

My siblings.

I took the easy way out.

Gave all those weights on my shoulders onto theirs.

They must hate me.

They have the right to do so.

Not only have I spoiled my life, but theirs as well.

I don’t have the courage to blame myself.

So I blame him. That dipshit.

It is this guilt that robes me of my courage to face my mom.

She eats less. Sleeps less. She’s always on her feet.

She has her children to take care of.

She’s always on the run.

Run to feed them, teach them, care for them, pay the bills.

And in the midst of all this, her hair turned gray, middle aged woman turned old.

Cause she never has time for herself.

Gotta run, should keep running.

Or else her family would collapse.

As that’s the only world she knows of.

And then there’s him.

Sleeps four times a day.

Eats on time and well.

Never bothers on bills.

Even have forgotten we exist.

On top of all this,

she has to hear abuses, suffer assaults, she bears them all, like her God,

who carried his cross.

What a life he lives.

No worries. No concern. Nothing.

I thought marriage was a shared responsibility.

What an idiot was I.

Well, I grew up knowing it isn’t true.

I sat there.

The same chair and desk.

Instead of working out sums,

I held a shiny knife on my hands.

Clutched it hard and kept it tight.

It shouldn’t slip when the time comes.

I was watching him sleep his last,

through the small gap of my room’s door.

There, there he is. My prey.

I anxiously waited to hear him snore.

That’s when you know he’s deep in his sleep.

So I switched off the room’s ceiling fan.

There, There it is. I heard it.

My heart’s beating fast. Unusual.

Am I scared? No.

I prepared for it.

“Come on. Don’t be scared. You can do it.”

I used to say this during the best part of

my life, a life where I never failed.

Always first. Always on top. Always the best.

Now I say to console myself, to commit a murder.

With the courage I found,

I slowly opened the door.

Should not startle your prey.

I tip toed. Very carefully.

Like a cat.

Again, you should not startle your prey.

If he wakes up too quickly, before I reach him, he will escape.

I am not physically strong to fight him.

I might end up dead.

So,

with at most care and patience, I inched closer and closer towards him.

Something’s happening within me.

My stomach’s turning.

My heart’s beats, I can hear it.

My lips ran dry.

I found it hard to breathe.

I am sweating and shaking.

Am I scared?

Should I do it?

Is it too late to turn around?

Then something else also happened.

I leaned forward.

Squatted down.

He is now closer to me.

Closer than he ever was.

Closer, as to how a good father should have been.

Bastard.

Shameless Bastard. Useless Coward.

Fear has eluded my thoughts.

That hatred, that same hatred I’ve been feeding for years engulfs me.

I have no doubt.

I have no remorse. No regret.

And then I did it.

With all the might I had, I stabbed his neck deep and twisted that knife.

I should damage as many arteries as possible.

He should bleed. Bleed a lot.

And he should drown in his own blood.

Suffocate and die like a pig.

Just how I had envisioned.

And he did.

He looked at me in shock, a feeling I can’t put into words.

He wanted to scream. But only his blood

came out.

One hand on his neck, and he stretched his other arm out, it felt like as if he is begging.

Yeah, you should. You should die begging.

I loved it.

Enjoyed every single second of it.

That made me wanted to stab him more.

I have read, hatred crimes makes people to disfigure their victims.

So that’s what I wanted to do.

I disfigured him.

My second stab was at his face. I aimed for his eyes.

My third stab, after I adjusted my grip, was at his neck again.

I wiped my hands and the knife’s handle.

You see one’s hand could get hurt, if that knife slips in all those blood.

I stabbed him again.

This time, after I kicked him to the floor, I stabbed that heart of his.

Did he ever had a heart?

Stabbed it. Stabbed it until my hands gave up.

He was dead.

Finally.

I sat back. Knees closer to my chest. Hands on top of them,

I sat there staring at his pathetic body.

Yes,

I Killed my Father.

ONCE; and for all.