Death Visited Me-Chapter 4
I am dead now; but is it? I do not feel dead at all. I seem to be hanging somewhere between life and death; afterlife is something that still eludes me. And so I lay hanging around the place that I once called home; which is still home to me in more ways than one.
I can still recall that night, when he had come in. I knew him, of course, and was gladly surprised to see him at that time of the night. “The more, the merrier,” I had privately thought. How foolish of me to even think like that! I still recall bitterly how he had slashed me up as if I were nothing more than a piece of meat. And there I was, struggling in vain to save myself. And he was watching in from outside, as I was being torn apart, being nothing more than the mute spectator like the moths that had fluttered around in my house that night. I was always told that when you see these moths which have the skull pattern formed on their backs, death is sure to visit your house; these moths are the horses that pull the chariot of death forward, for it to reach the opportune destination on time, right on its schedule.
He was there, standing out there, staring at my naked body that was playing hide and seek with his eyes from behind the partly drawn curtains hanging on my window. I always was aware that he was standing outside, and got a secret thrill from the very sensation that his sight created in my body: an invisible touch would race across my body, which I enjoyed a lot. And yet, this admirer of mine did not come to save me from this demon who came in and killed me; instead, he reveled in the murder, and was equally complicit in this gruesome assault on my senses that were inflicted by him.
Do I know that man? I do, but what good is it? The dead have no voice of their own; they can talk to only those who believe in them, who care enough to listen to us folk. But then, in this world of humans, does our word stand a chance in the eyes of this sham, this so called creature called law? No sir, it does not. It requires hard facts, real alive witnesses that it can hear, feel and see; who can swear upon some shitty book, and still babble out a whole bunch of fucking lies; who can fuck up the truth to the extent that the only shred of truth left in it is the fact that is goddamn witness spoke it out in front of some black-robed man and twelve assholes pretending to be jury, delivering verdict over someone by blinding themselves to the real truth. No sir, thank you very much, but I am glad that my word cannot be counted in as the truth, for the nincompoop defence lawyers would twist up that as well, and contort it into some evil one-eyed gargoyle to fit their versions.
That bastard, who reveled in his lust for me, who would derive some pleasure by staring at me at all times: why did he abandon me now, when he could have been of some use to helping my spirit to get some peace by getting its due share of justice (as if its some form of fruitcake!)? No, that shit-head decided to end his life, and now lies someplace that I have clues about. I still recall that first day when he had laid his probing eyes on me, as if he could pierce my breasts by just staring at them, making me hell nervous about myself for the first time ever. I admit to being the kind that every man would lust after; I even use it to my advantage. What’s there in it to be ashamed about? All of us humans are like that sirs and madams; we will use our best asset as a weapon in this dog-eat-dog world. But he was something different; he made me feel like I was vulnerable, that I was weak in front of him. He made me aware of things about myself; of how sexual was the mundane activity of undressing our body, or when we just even pour juice into a glass with the flick of a wrist. This secret admirer of mine I knew by face; I could identify him anywhere that I went; at work, around the neighbourhood; even on the subway. I never shared this with anyone, for in secret I enjoyed that a love-forsaken woman like me was getting from a man. To be pissed off was not on my mind ever; but guess what? Now I am mad at him. He tried not to save me from this jilted lover of mine, whose name I shall not reveal, for the words of the dead cannot reach the living, even if they asked God or whatever it is called to help them. I want him, wherever he may be now, to come and help me, now that I am gone; to help my spirit to get some peace. My body has been consigned to the realms of earth by unknown hands, for I had no living relatives. At least, in death, I shall get to see them. I want the police, with all its weapons and cars to scare this asshole; to beat the shit out of him to make him to confess his horrendous crime. I had not given anyone to play the angel of death, and allowed anyone to take my life away from me just like that. I want this man to be brought to the hook, and want it bad. I hope this man will come to be of some use other than just giving me cheap thrills of carnal nature. I want justice for the horror inflicted upon my body, and want it to be given back in equal amount to this monster who had swooped down on me that fateful night.
I can still recall that night, when he had come in. I knew him, of course, and was gladly surprised to see him at that time of the night. “The more, the merrier,” I had privately thought. How foolish of me to even think like that! I still recall bitterly how he had slashed me up as if I were nothing more than a piece of meat. And there I was, struggling in vain to save myself. And he was watching in from outside, as I was being torn apart, being nothing more than the mute spectator like the moths that had fluttered around in my house that night. I was always told that when you see these moths which have the skull pattern formed on their backs, death is sure to visit your house; these moths are the horses that pull the chariot of death forward, for it to reach the opportune destination on time, right on its schedule.
He was there, standing out there, staring at my naked body that was playing hide and seek with his eyes from behind the partly drawn curtains hanging on my window. I always was aware that he was standing outside, and got a secret thrill from the very sensation that his sight created in my body: an invisible touch would race across my body, which I enjoyed a lot. And yet, this admirer of mine did not come to save me from this demon who came in and killed me; instead, he reveled in the murder, and was equally complicit in this gruesome assault on my senses that were inflicted by him.
Do I know that man? I do, but what good is it? The dead have no voice of their own; they can talk to only those who believe in them, who care enough to listen to us folk. But then, in this world of humans, does our word stand a chance in the eyes of this sham, this so called creature called law? No sir, it does not. It requires hard facts, real alive witnesses that it can hear, feel and see; who can swear upon some shitty book, and still babble out a whole bunch of fucking lies; who can fuck up the truth to the extent that the only shred of truth left in it is the fact that is goddamn witness spoke it out in front of some black-robed man and twelve assholes pretending to be jury, delivering verdict over someone by blinding themselves to the real truth. No sir, thank you very much, but I am glad that my word cannot be counted in as the truth, for the nincompoop defence lawyers would twist up that as well, and contort it into some evil one-eyed gargoyle to fit their versions.
That bastard, who reveled in his lust for me, who would derive some pleasure by staring at me at all times: why did he abandon me now, when he could have been of some use to helping my spirit to get some peace by getting its due share of justice (as if its some form of fruitcake!)? No, that shit-head decided to end his life, and now lies someplace that I have clues about. I still recall that first day when he had laid his probing eyes on me, as if he could pierce my breasts by just staring at them, making me hell nervous about myself for the first time ever. I admit to being the kind that every man would lust after; I even use it to my advantage. What’s there in it to be ashamed about? All of us humans are like that sirs and madams; we will use our best asset as a weapon in this dog-eat-dog world. But he was something different; he made me feel like I was vulnerable, that I was weak in front of him. He made me aware of things about myself; of how sexual was the mundane activity of undressing our body, or when we just even pour juice into a glass with the flick of a wrist. This secret admirer of mine I knew by face; I could identify him anywhere that I went; at work, around the neighbourhood; even on the subway. I never shared this with anyone, for in secret I enjoyed that a love-forsaken woman like me was getting from a man. To be pissed off was not on my mind ever; but guess what? Now I am mad at him. He tried not to save me from this jilted lover of mine, whose name I shall not reveal, for the words of the dead cannot reach the living, even if they asked God or whatever it is called to help them. I want him, wherever he may be now, to come and help me, now that I am gone; to help my spirit to get some peace. My body has been consigned to the realms of earth by unknown hands, for I had no living relatives. At least, in death, I shall get to see them. I want the police, with all its weapons and cars to scare this asshole; to beat the shit out of him to make him to confess his horrendous crime. I had not given anyone to play the angel of death, and allowed anyone to take my life away from me just like that. I want this man to be brought to the hook, and want it bad. I hope this man will come to be of some use other than just giving me cheap thrills of carnal nature. I want justice for the horror inflicted upon my body, and want it to be given back in equal amount to this monster who had swooped down on me that fateful night.
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