I was around four year old, when I witnessed a murder.
(I later understood, it was my first 'witnessing' among many.)
Ah! A gruesome death, if you ask me.
It was a girl.
I don't remember much about it now except some chit-chat and few noises at the back
But there's this one thing I can't forget
It's a thought!
That kept tapping again and again at the back of my head.
I can not be like her. Should not be like her.
"A rotten apple in a discarded mango crate
Long forgotten, before its existence even began."
Years passed and it became a habit
A ritual of sort
Witnessing murders I mean
The little me,
sitting in the corner
Of their ways
acclaimed to be much stronger and braver than before
convicting, killing, slaughtering, raping
'others' among their own
Stabbing their own mind
Turning a blind eye
Taping their mouth shut
Time to time
I never dared to question their ways
If you ask.. Simple.
Because i was 'not supposed to question' their ways
They were 'The Adults'
Superior among all kinds
And people like me
We were just 'Newbies' in the game.
And mind you
'The Adults' were always right
In each of their ways
They took good care of us
Their 'orders', not too difficult for our hands
They had this ritual though
Which I could never understand
It was their habit
Of placing a mirror
In front of the tied up boy or girl they killed beforehand!
I was eighteen, when I witnessed the last murder.
It was a girl.
Her death seemed least painful among all.
It was the look in her eyes, that I remember the most.
To taste 'acceptance'
It went dark after that!
I woke up to this world of grey, black and white
I like it.
Things are more organized here
I now don't wake up to the splatter of red around me all the time
People are happy
Things have a specific deadline
I avoid mirrors though
They leave a chill down my spine
I had seen my reflection once
And it was there
Without any life
Those same pair of eyes,
Staring back into mine!
Title: A doom? We belong!
Image credits to the rightful owner.