A killer instinct

I shuddered when I saw blood. Dripping nonchalantly from the table to the white marble floors in a haunting rhythm...I saw blood.

Reaching for the end of my duppata, draped neatly around my neck, I covered the velvety spots that were becoming bigger by the minute. The knife that had effortlessly cut the veins looked at me accusingly.

The cotton cloth soon lapped up the blood in a parasite-like frenzy and asked for more. Shivering and afraid, I rushed to the nearest wash. As the first stream of cold water hit my wrists, a surge of pain traveled across my body and I arched in agony. Sweat, tears, water and blood filled the wash, creating arbitrary patterns on the smooth ceramic.

Willing the flow to stop, I opened the tap to its fullest. I could suddenly feel my knees going weak. I clutched the wash tightly to steady myself. The ceramic gave way and I caught hold of the stairway banister just in time to cushion my fall. I looked back at her.

She was still sitting where I had left her. It had hurt me. Didn’t it hurt her too? It made me retch. Didn’t she feel like throwing up? When I cut my wrists I screamed. Didn’t it wound her too? How would I know? She didn’t say a thing. I could feel the knife as it cut my hand. Didn’t she feel it too? Why didn’t she tell me if it hurt her? Her eyes that were perpetually set in a meek surrender looked at me even now. A spurt of anger surmounted me. Why couldn’t she react? Why didn’t she protest? Why didn’t she shout? Why on earth did she have to be so good? Even when the knife drew meticulous lines of precision across her neck, she didn’t tell me a thing.

How could she tell me? I had gagged her before I killed.