VOODOO CHILD

I close my eyes to feel the alcohol take effect on me. I am feeling warm and sweaty. Maybe I took too many pills. I wonder if I had taken the right bottle from Radhika aunty’s medicine cabinet. But it didn’t really matter now. My song is playing in the background. It is Jimi Hendrix. He knows how to make me feel just right. I need it right now. The phone started ringing; I am feeling too lazy to get it. Or maybe it is the cocktail of vodka and pills that is not allowing me to leave this bed. But it could be dad. I should talk to him before things get out of control. I get myself off the bed and stagger towards my phone. Picking the handset, I compose myself. This is going to be difficult.

“Hello?” I hear my father’s voice.

“Hey dad,” I slur.

“You had your dinner?”

“Not yet, but will eat soon,” I lied.

My mother had left my father thirteen years ago, when I was only eight. He had brought me up with the help of our extended family and with some kind support of our neighbours. His work would take him to different cities across India. And always, I would be left in the care of my aunt who stayed a floor above our apartment. But since the time I turned twenty, I started living alone during his work tours. It bothered and worried him. He would call incessantly to make sure I was alive. “I am alive, dad,” I always wanted to shout. But I refrain from hurting his feelings.

“Beta, you sound different, everything ok?” he starts to worry again.

“Dad, I am fine. Just tired from all the project work” I answer trying hard not to slur.

“Ok, I will be back by tomorrow afternoon, so see you then. Take care.”

“Yes Daddy.”

I walk back to my bedroom and switch on the air conditioning. It is getting too hot. Why aren’t the painkillers or the alcohol yet taking effect? It is probably because I am thinking too much. But how can I avoid thinking, considering what awaits me. I wonder if there really is a hell. I ponder over what outcome my actions of today are going to achieve. I should sleep. That would certainly bring the desired effect. But tears start stinging my eyes. I get angry at myself. This is no time to mourn. Not for myself, Radhika aunty or for Siva uncle.

I lay on my bed, going through today’s events. The chaos had been quite comforting. The serenity of my life was starting to get to me anyway. It had been suffocating me. The police had taken over our apartment building. Each resident had been questioned. Double murder, everyone was talking in hushed tones. I was too shocked to have any reaction. Smothered with a pillow in their sleep, some said. Stabbed by a psycho, some whispered.  I had spent my entire childhood in that house. Radhika aunty took good care of me when my father would go for his work tours. But the thoughts of that house are making me angry again. Tears start rolling my eyes. Why things have to end this way? But it had to be done.

I had managed to nick Radhika aunty’s sleeping pills. I wonder if anyone would miss them. But I certainly hope I have taken enough. The thought of my dad coming home to his daughter’s dead body consoled me. He worries too much. But he didn’t when he should have. I am getting angry again. Why did he have to leave me alone in that dreadful house?  Why Radhika aunty could never stand up to her husband? Why Siva uncle never listened to my pleas of mercy? Why it felt so dirty every time Siva uncle looked at me? Why no one stopped Siva uncle when he first touched me? Why was I allowed to be victimised for twelve years? Why do I still feel dirty, even if it has stopped? Why do I scrub myself clean everyday till skin starts feeling raw? Why do I feel justified in my vengeance?  It is useless wasting my last few precious minutes on this earth asking why.

I killed them. I had a spare key to their apartment. I crept into their house in the middle of the night. I smothered them in their sleep with a pillow. They looked so peaceful, which angered me further. So I took the kitchen knife and stabbed them over and over again, till my anger turned into smug smile. They both deserved it. He, for brutalising me and she, for being a mute spectator to the whole thing for so many years. Each stab had released this power inside, little doses of energy, little whispers of hallelujahs. I rejoiced in their death, as I smiled with tears rolling down my face. There was blood everywhere, but I was not done. I needed to feel it within me. I needed to feel satisfied. So I stabbed till I purged all the anger.  I bathed in their blood, to feel clean again, I cheered in their death, to feel born again. My rebirth was going to be short lived. But I would die clean. 

I can feel the effect now. My head is feeling lighter and numbness has taken over my body. I am feeling sleepy. An uncontrollable urge to sleep. I resist it for some time. I am only twenty one. I have my whole life ahead of me. I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to enjoy my rebirth. I hear the phone ring. It must be daddy. I don’t want to die daddy. I want to tell you everything. I want us to be family again. But my body refuses to budge. Save me daddy.   My eyes droop as I catch Jimi Hendrix singing,

“I didn't mean to take you up all your sweet time

I'll give it right back to you one of these days

I said, I didn't mean to take you up all your sweet time

I'll give it right back to you one of these days

And if I don't meet you no more in this world

Then I'll, I'll meet you in the next one

And don't be late, don't be late

'Cause I'm a voodoo child

Lord knows I'm a voodoo child

I'm a voodoo child……….”

***My midnight attempt at flash fiction 15/10/2013