A Red Afternoon

It was a hot afternoon in the middle of May. He hurriedly opened the window, for ventilation. It also diluted the smell inside the room. Wiping the few pearls of sweat from his brow, he looked calmly around at the mess. Blotches of red could be seen on the floor & the platform. It was dead silent. It was done. He would not think of the consequences.

He silently opened the tap and washed some stains from his hands. Slowly discarding his t-shirt, he rubbed the stains off it. He had had enough of the nagging, the complaints, the constant taunting. Today he decided to take matters into his own hands. He had spent all morning preparing himself, mentally more than anything else, while she had gone out for her regular Sunday morning walk and groceries.

The next thing he wanted to do was clean up the bloody damn mess that it was. He sprinkled some water around the room and started wiping away the stains of the event. A few objects in the room had been strewn about, even though he had gone about the whole thing in a meticulous manner. He set them straight and in their place. He looked at the knife while picking it up, breathing heavily. His mind was blank. He had almost inflicted some cuts on his fingers. He took the cleanest cloth he could find around and scrubbing the sides of the blade, he placed it into the rack from where he had taken it.

He did not feel any remorse or regret. He understood deep inside that this was the only way he could shut her up. He could not and would not discuss this with anyone he thought to himself. But it was a victory of sorts.

After the cleaning and removal of all traces, he stood there staring at his doing, like a gladiator who had slain his enemy after a tough battle. “My masterpiece”, he said to himself like Aldo Raine in that movie, Inglorious Basterds . He moved to allow himself a glass water, when he heard some footsteps coming in through the gate.
Suddenly the air of stillness was disturbed. He panicked. Gritting his teeth, he finally surveyed the room for any traces of anything that would implicate him. Then picking up his slightly damp t-shirt in one swift movement, he waltzed into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

He sat on his bed. He sat on the edge of his bed, to be precise. Beneath the unflinching exterior, his heart was pounding. Slowly stroking his French beard, he was conjuring up a million scenarios in his head. He had promised himself to not worry about the consequences of the action, but he was now a little scared.

A few minutes had passed. The moments were unbearable. Then a sharp scream pierced the silence. It was his wife’s voice. The door opened, they stared at each other for a second. Then with a doubtful smile on her face she shouted, “ Aye, did you make that rasam ? ”.