THE HARROWING TALE

picture source:pinterest

THE HARROWING TALE
BY TEGGS
I have a grim ironical story to tell, it happened two days ago. I write from the dark chasm of a cell. I am racked with regrets and my pen trembles within my grip, as I pen this morality tale on this fair page before me. I beseech my readers to read this narrative with rapt attention and grasp the lesson enshrouded within. I do not write to showcase the sleight of my pen, neither do I write to dazzle with words and expressions. I write to achieve a cathartic release.
I was noted for the docility and timidity of my disposition. My heart was as tender as a heart could be. I never did kill a fly or mosquito without shedding a tear or two, such was the nature of my soul. Everyone regarded this characteristic aspect of me, as a weakness; and exploited it, to suit their end. My sisters would always solicit for every candies and chocolates that comes within my reach, with the certainty and guarantee of my yielding it to them. I soon became a puppet, strung along, by all and sundry. As time went by, I started developing what I’ll term an odd fascination and interest in animals. I pondered and reflected upon how these animals fitted together. Dragon flies, frogs, rats and insects of all kinds and species, were collected avidly; and stored in glass jars. I pursued this avocation voraciously and it constituted a huge chunk of my teenage years. I was indifferent towards everything else but this.
Well, fast-forwarding to the point and crux of this discourse, so as to avoid boring you with irrelevant details and trivialities; I grew up quick and mean, becoming the black sheep of the family. The general nature of my much revered character underwent a sudden change, by virtue of unfortunate circumstances. But the pedestal of my heart, on which I placed women, persevered and remained untouched, neither weathered away by time nor the aforementioned unfortunate circumstances. I never could withstand the female folks being treated unfairly by the opposite sex, regardless of what transpired. This partiality and prejudice towards women, seems to have developed, due to my having sisters upon sisters, all around me and my mother suffering domestic violence at the hands of the man who bore me. I wouldn’t sully this page by regarding him as my father. He was everything a father was not and I do not see any reason conceivable, to refer to him by such an honorable appellation. Referring to him by that title would be a misnomer. I sincerely apologize for straying off once again. Having been tossed out of my home by the man, I lived alone in a bachelor’s apartment; adjoining mine, was the apartment of a young couple with just one kid- a daughter. I had just taken up residence there. The wife and daughter received me cordially and even went as far as helping me carry some of my properties to my new abode. I developed an instant liking to them, doted on the demure and charming little girl, who frequently waltzed into my room, every now and then, to keep me company. The spirit and character of the husband and father of these two loving fellows was quite uncongenial with theirs. His visage only wore a singular stern countenance. His little daughter was literally scared of him, fleeing in extreme horror, at his approach .He shouted and scowled at her at the slightest provocation. Every of her actions repulsed him. He always comes home at night, drowned in alcohol, raining intemperate words on his darling wife .Bruises and scars were imprinted on her skin like a tattoo. Every time my eyes fall on them, an unnatural anger overtakes me, as I knew what it all meant. Each time I sought to inquiry about how she sustained them, she veers off the topic and on one particular occasion, even cautioned my intrusions. I made a resolution to pay a deaf ear and blind eye to these idiosyncrasies, for it was no business of mine. I made a point of avoiding him (husband) like a plague and spoke to him (husband) only when necessary. His very sight curdled the blood coursing through my veins, it was I could do not to smash his head against a wall. I actually fantasized about bashing his head in and listening with pleasure, to the sound of his head pop like a balloon.
On a cool Sunday night, as I lay asleep on my bed, I heard screams and cries, leaking through my room wall. I was roused from my slumber and soon discovered what the cacophony and disturbance portended. I quickly slipped on my shirt and slipper, started towards their (the couple) door, knocking incessantly, entreating the brute of a man to open the door. The feeble sound I made was eclipsed by the kerfuffle within. A paroxysm of emotions swept over me, from head to limbs and in a blind rage, I slammed my foot to the door, smashing it to splinters. The picture revealed before me, resurrected a long concealed fury, reminiscent of that which I felt while growing up. The woman was lying on the floor, with her back to the ground, struggling under the weight of her husband, who was raining series of blows on her. Their little girl was simpering and crying, huddled in a corner, with her annabelle doll in hand, clutched to her bosom; and from the looks of her, she appeared to have received her unfair share of blows. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen with tears. I stood for a moment, weakened and touched by what the window of my soul beheld. A loud thud and bang startled me from whatever momentary trance I was in. I quickly ran towards the animal, wrestled him off his wife, and started visiting my wrath upon him. I was bent on teaching him a life-long lesson, such that he would never forget. My karate training came in handy. Before he thought of throwing a blow, the third of mine was already upon him. Long forgotten skills and techniques all started coming back to me, finding expression in my extremities. I fancied myself as an instrument of God, passing terrible judgement upon his person. Before I could beat him into a pulp and to my heart’s delight, I heard the sounds of sirens without. On this accord I gifted him respite. In a twinkle of eye, I caught sight of a policeman with cuffs in his hand and the other to the holster of his gun. I was glad and overjoyed at their intervention and I reckoned a sequel to follow the show I had recently just concluded. But to my utmost surprise, I soon found myself lying on the floor, wrestled into submission, with my hands cuffed together behind me. Out of the corner of my eye, still lying flat on the floor, I caught a glimpse of the wife helping her man to his feet. now within the confines of my prison cell, I vow never to stick my nose in other people's business.