I did not want to do it. I hit his head hard with a pan. I swear to the holy God I did not want to.
The resistance my nerves offered was subdued by my urge to make him stop. He just would not stop.
How much more did he want me to suffer?
How much more did he want me to cry?
Blood seeped down his wound. Too much blood.
I did not want to. He was exhausting.
I could see the blood pool expanding as it reached out to me and touched the sole of my feet.
I was making fried eggs. I cooked them and was going to add salt. I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday. It was after so long that I felt like eating.
But he started again. He distracted me and I added too much salt to the eggs.
It’d just been one month since we became inseparable. And I loved him more than anything in this world. Even when everyone left me, I decided to stick with him.
And after all that I did for him, he kept making me feel hopeless.
His dainty body was struggling for breath. And I was standing there– completely frozen, my eyes had lost tears as they swelled up.
But how could I help him? He’d lost too much blood already.
I thought we’d forever be happy. Just the two of us, making our life a paradise. But all I got was a life equivalent to a living hell. I had to manage everything on my own.
The extra salt in the eggs could have been adjusted by lime juice. But he didn’t let me eat. He started again. And he was not stopping.
I whimpered as I saw him taking no more breaths. He was gone, wasn’t he?
The ocean of realisation drowned my consciousness. I broke down on my knees. I killed him. How could I? I should’ve controlled my anger.
I picked one of the kitchen knives and brought it close to my arm.
“Why did he not stop crying? I killed my baby. He was so tiny.” I shouted before sliding the knife on my wrist.