White Blood

People say your loved one always shows his/her true colors after marriage, and I couldn’t agree more. My husband was a real pain in the neck. Always drinking, even for breakfast he drank hot water and rum — he said it helped him with his motions. He lost his job and was behaving as if it wasn’t his drinking habit that kicked him out in the first place.

I had to take up all the responsibility of running the house and paying the bills. But I was just an elementary school teacher, and handling school, as well as my tippler husband, got too much at times. Where did all that love go, I thought to myself.

A few months went by and our fights increased day by day.
One day, he came home sloshed and demanded money. It had become a usual sight, so I ignored him while I was cutting vegetables for dinner. But he was apoplectic. His eyes were red, and I felt a chill down my spine. I could see that he would harm me if I didn’t give him money.

He had a baseball bat and was about to hit me, and in a blink of an eye, he crashed against the glass cabinet and was on the ground. For a moment, I didn’t realize what happened and everything was spinning around me. I saw the knife in my hand, I shrieked and threw it. I knew I wasn’t wrong. Yet the situation looked as if I murdered him in cold blood.

I quickly got rid of the fingerprints on the knife and called the police. They said they would be there in 10 minutes. As soon as they arrived, the police sealed my house and took me to the station for interrogation. They asked me where I was at the time of the murder. I said I was asleep and got up after hearing a crashing sound and saw my husband on the floor and immediately called the police.

I knew it sounded far-fetched and was dreading what they would do next. I just didn’t want the blood test. That would give me up. I killed a person, my own husband, and my blood would be as black as vantablack.

My fears came true. They drew blood from me. I was astounded by what I saw. It was white — as white as snow. The police didn’t have any option but to let me go. I tried to squeeze out some tears to show some remorse. So fine was my charade that they didn’t ask me further questions, promising me to find the killer.

I walked out of the building, wondering how my blood was white even after killing a man, that being my own husband. That meant I could get away with any wrong! A strange feeling of desire crept up — of killing another human.

I found the perfect candidate — an old man, in his late fifties, walking in an empty lane. I sneaked up to him and as I was about to strike, he turned and dodged, and I could just lacerate his upper arm. Grey blood oozed out. Someone saw what had happened and called the police.

The police arrived and I pleaded that I didn’t attack him. Then and there my blood was drawn, and I chuckled to myself that I would walk out of this in a few moments. But I was aghast. The blood was pitch black! I couldn’t understand. I was immediately taken to the police station. The next day, after the court hearing, I was sentenced to four years for assault with a deadly weapon.

I was put into a women’s facility. And all I kept thinking was why did my blood not turn black when I killed my husband? Was it because I did it in self-defense? That seemed to be the only logical explanation.

Two years went by and one day, I overheard two women talking about how a man tried to force a young girl to please him and that wasn’t the only time he did that, he went on to molest many young girls at bars and pubs. I went to them asking for more details.

One of them said that she was in jail because she tried to attack the man who sexually exploited her daughter but he got away. The police caught her without any proof and threw her in prison. I asked the name of the man. When she said it, I froze. It was my husband’s.