My father died when I was 19. It was a dark stormy night and we were having supper, when he suddenly gasped and slumped over his plate of food. The doctor who managed to brave the storm, came home and pronounced him dead. There was little we could do that night. Mother’s wails rend the night air, drowning the sound of the rain, while I waited for the morning to arrive.
Father was a drunkard, with little regard for his family’s welfare. He was kind though, unlike others of his ilk and during his sober moments talked about his dreams for me. But dreams need money and we didn’t have much of it – which made me hate him.
Days later, after the storm had subsided, the lawyer came on a visit. He handed me some papers and informed me about the lump sum my father had saved for me.
I froze.
That night the storm raged again. The lightning coursed through the darkness, and tore at the walls of my heart. I sat crouched in a corner of the room – the corner furthest away from the dining table. I dared not look at him. He was sitting, slumped over his plate of food, foaming at the mouth. When I managed to steal a look in his direction, I shrunk back in terror. His bloodshot eyes were staring at me.
I rose and rushed out.
If only I had known the truth, I wouldn’t have poisoned his drink that night.
Image : Sivani Bandaru (Unsplash)
