The Departure

Nikhil Kothari
Nov 3 · 3 min read

Journey is in for a close, kid!

I need to unburden my mind before the release.

My mom, your grandma, was a charming woman until the day she got married; her friends say. I was the reason for it. She was only 16.

Those days the society wasn’t kind to the outliers. It still isn’t. All these years, civilisation, with its alluring sophistication, more organisation and subtlety, instead of making the society more accommodating, has given it a podium for its faceless voices and has attached a depleting mask of politeness to its front which in combination, it uses to dismantle the outliers to death.

She wasn’t ready for it.

She wasn’t ready for me. She would often get angry, would lash out and lock me in her wardrobe. As a kid, I used to get scared inside, but then gradually, I began to enjoy it. I would get her angry, get some beating to arousal and get myself locked inside. Inside, I would wear her lipstick. I would smell her bras and masturbate for hours. I got too creative with it at times. I would get aroused looking at her sometimes and would hope for a cleavage crack all day. I loved her. And I have had times to believe that she loved me too.

Amidst the loneliness, I had devised a game.

I would collect pebbles and call them names. The rich and pretty guys would be the clean and polished pebbles and bitterly scratched were the poor and ugly ones. I would put them in situations and would role-play each one in a conflict resolution. The arguments and debates were civilised. The contest was fair. It needed more excitement, and that’s when I turned the situation. The vegan became a carnivore and suddenly had a bigger menu for his meal.

It was a new uncharted territory full of new dangerous possibilities. I got my mom’s lipstick, an old knife from the kitchen, a blade and my pistol toy. The arena had opened wide for some wild imaginations. The blood I would mark on the pebbles with a squeaky dying voice had become the new obsession. God! I loved the adrenaline. As days passed, the names of those pebbles got real faces and the arguments got heated. Also, the arrangement became more engaging; like the parking lot, the subway, my bedroom. All still in my game, of course. The porn now had some sex pleasures. As I grew old, the obsession desensitised me. I killed a man for the first time. A very handsome one. Truly unique. I met him in the supermarket, invited him to my place for a drink and drugged him. The first few cuts sounded like music. Then carefully came in the knife, not to shock him to death but to slowly cut down the jewels. It was a meditative state, cutting him down limb by limb. I put him in several garbage bags and buried him in our backyard. To feel that ecstatic night I still dig out his skeleton sometimes. He was my first kill, the very beginning of my possessions.

Then I met your mom. Urges and obsession found a new direction. They would come out as sexual desires for her, steady but strong enough to engage. I thought she was my cure. We rushed into the marriage before the honeymoon period got over and by the time of the actual one, desires to possess had resurfaced. I would often sexually abuse her, humiliate her and hurt her physically. I loved the assault, but she wasn’t fond of it. I loved her too much. I had to turn again to the society to quench my urges. I was back to where I started with just one more obstacle now to deal with, this person I got in my house. Now I couldn’t bring the victims home. I had to buy a new place for my arrangements. That’s where I used to be when you didn’t see me around.

Whatever you do, son, never kill a man. For you do, it’s an obsessive spiral you go around. Every scared face drops the mask, every fearful scream is music and every kill longs for another one.