See No Evil

by Kendra Mei Chailyn

  Down here, the freaks ruled.

  Happy days were definitely back.

  Finally, he was before Mrs. Howell’s house. Her husband used to be the postman until he was shot and killed in a drive-by. Then no mail got to the ghettos. If anyone wanted mail, they had to drive into the city to the post-office. The boy looked both ways and when he saw no one, he hunched down and proceeded to yank every rose and all the other flowers from the ground and stomped them to death. When his task was finished he smiled down at his destruction with satisfaction, laughed and was on his way. The thought of why he’d just done that flashed through his mind and for a moment he stopped in his tracks to think about it. He finally stopped on the thought it was simply because he wanted to, shrugged and carried on.

  He checked to see if his mother was home – like she’d be anywhere else. She was sitting in her usual spot. Humming to himself he climbed the stairs to his room. He spent the evening, in his room, putting things into their rightful spots. He placed his shoes in order by color then by style. He hung his shirts by color and his pants by the reason he would need to wear each. Often his mother called him an obsessive compulsive but he liked things in their rightful place and order. He recently started shaving—later than most boys his age—but he was proud of that. He bought a whole lot of razors. He laid those out on the shelf over his bed in alphabetical order by the company that created them since he hadn’t decided which would be his brand yet. That was how he would use them until they were all gone.

  That night, he sat down at the table and silently ate some cold cereal. His mother, as usual, sat in the living room puffing on a cigarette even as the previous one was still smoldering in the ashtray. As long as he could remember, she never cooked anything major for dinner and he would have been lucky if she was sober enough to remember to feed him; this meant he had to learn to fend for himself early. One day he almost burnt the house down by catching the stove on fire when he tried to make soup. It boiled over onto the burner, got caked on and started a fire. When he felt the heat and saw the rising flames, he got scared and darted for the phone. He called emergency services and the ambulance, fire department and cops all showed up. His mother lied—told them she only meant to sit down for a second and was so tired that she fell asleep. They bought the excuse.

  No surprise there.

  He was ten.

  When he was finished, he washed his bowl, turned it down in the sink and proceeded to his room and changed. He was still in his work clothes and didn’t think it was right to wear that for the special occasion. He got dressed in a black pair of jeans, a black t-shirt with Pookie for President written on the front—even though he didn’t know who or what Pookie was he found the shirt to be perfect for his ever changing moods. The Pookie shirt was for days when he felt silly and happy. That unbelievable happiness that girls must feel when they gathered around each other, held hands, jumped up and down and screamed at the top of their lungs. He didn’t get much of those days and the truth was, he couldn’t tell when the last time he had one. That was why his Pookie shirt seemed fairly new.

  Slicking his hair back, he smiled at himself in the mirror, did a corny gun salute to himself with a wink and took a deep breath to study himself. He was positively giddy.

  His eyes were hollow and lacked life. He had bags underneath that told the tale of countless sleepless nights. His chiseled face sunk in as though he had been smoking for years but he never had a cigarette. Personally, he detested the things because they stink and caused everything around him to smell. He hated cigarettes because when he was a kid they caused him to cough for so long that sometime he would holler that his throat was on fire. True to form his mother would only ignore him and light up another just to blow the smoke into his face.

  Picking up the bag with his toys and then a second bag he got a week prior he walked down the stairs and sat down in the living room with his mother. The room was fogged up with thick cigarette smoke that caused him to cough when he entered. He fanned a hand before his nose to try and get some fresh air in but gave up after a few seconds because he knew it was futile to even bother.

  Sitting down across from his mother, he watched her. Over the years, her beautiful black hair had changed. It was now a dull, silver color and he marveled at what damage age caused. But age wasn’t the only thing to blame. His father had used her as a punching bag and the cigarettes took away the vitality that her skin once had. To add to it all, karma seemed to be kicking her butt. Age didn’t have time to work on his father. One night his father had messed with the wrong man while in a drunken stupor. The teen didn’t think six feet under was enough to bury him. At his father’s funeral, he stood and screamed. “Deeper! Bury him deeper!”

  “How many times,” he started after a while, “had you seen Dad beat me?”

  His mother didn’t answer. She simply puffed on the cigarette. Being ignored only made him angry and he growled. “Answer me!”

  “Don’t you raise your voice at me!” she snapped back and he moved from his seat. “I am your mother!”

  She tried moving but he was quicker and grabbed her from the sofa. He pushed her roughly against the wall near the window and hauled off his belt.

  “What the hell are you doing, you little jerk?” she questioned. “Get your hands offa me!”

  His mother began fighting but he just continued working calmly as though she was a willing participant in what was about to happen. Strapping her hands against the window rack screwed tightly into the wall, he backed away from her and pulled his chair up to face her. He sat down and crossed his legs.

  “Well, now are you more inclined to answer my questions?” he asked in a composed voice. “I mean I have all the time in the world…but you, dear mother, are on borrowed time”

  Leaning over, he picked up his first bag and removed a gun. The gun was bought a week before with money he had stolen from a neighborhood bully. That kid didn’t have any responsible use for all that cash anyway. His mom’s eyes widened as he screwed on the silencer. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb the neighbors. They had to work or rob and pillage in the morning. He sat back toying with the tip of the gun for a while; feeling the weight in his hands, twirling it around, pointing it at himself then at her. It was as if he wasn’t holding a dangerous weapon. Each time he pointed it at her she would gasp and press her eyes shut. He would simply laugh so hard tears streamed down his face.

  “Any answers for me, mother dearest?” he questioned. “No? All right then.”

  Aiming the gun, he frowned and fired. Because she refused to answer his questions, the bullet tore through her head.

  Silently in the dim light of the room, he removed her eyes carefully with the hunting knife and placed the orbs on a plate. Now she wouldn’t be able to watch him get beaten up again. He had helped her.

  Being a good son, he cleaned up after himself, buried the body in the backyard and dropped the eyes in a bottle of water and covered it.

  He climbed the stairs slowly as he thought the urge to kill would stop…

  Those delicious urges…

  Chapter One

  Tick tock. Tick Tock.

  The giant clock in the hall was the one of the only sounds that emanated from the room until it had started raining. The sound of the rain falling outside was not noticed by the occupants of the small home until thunder crashed across the heavens and lightning streaked across the sky. They had much more important things to think and worry about. More important than the rain outside that would cleanse one's soul should they stand in it. What in the world could be more important than being pure?

  Life?

  Darkness.

  The one thing that seemed to be more important than anything else was also the one thing that was followed by a gasp and said in a whisper.

  Death.

  Death was placing his hands over the family within and taking from the midst of love, a mother.

  What would be left when the mother was gone? She had alw
ays been the lifeline of the house; the one parent whose prayer was said to be stronger than any other. It was said that she had the ear of the gods and it was said that of all the gifts to the earth, the most precious was mother.

  A home will never be a home without her and no one could love more completely than a mother. The love and comfort of the arms of a mother would be gone with her and there was nothing anyone could do to stop that.

  A miracle?

  The remaining occupant of the house no longer believed in miracles, for miracles are for children who are still naive to the evils in the world.

  Darkness flowed over the small house like an eerie cloak covering everything except the small room where the teenager hunched over the bed. She was gently dabbing a cold cloth along the forehead of the woman that occupied the small bed while whispering a lullaby the old woman had long since forgotten but found comfort in.

  The tick–tock of the clock was a distant memory now as the sky opened up and sobbed for the loss of a cherished one—mother. The loud roll of the thunder outside drowned out everything except for a sound of love and sweet memory. The melodious voice carrying the Hindu lullaby cut through the silence that had returned and plagued the house ever since the month before when the same scene had happened. Death had arrived and taken the man of the house. When the song ended, the silence came back and wrapped its arms around the house once more.

  When the rain eased, insects could be heard chirping away outside as the darkness grew thicker and thunder rolled above. The rain wasn’t back but the sky showed its displeasure of the injustice of the lost angel.

  The teenager looked up to see if lightning would follow but it didn’t and she looked back at the pale woman.

  “Ma,” she whispered because she knew what was coming. It was a feeling she knew all too well. The sensations of tiny fingers dancing on the back of her neck and then reaching down to twist her gut into knots. The cool wind that only blew against her neck as though a spirit stood there breathing against her.

  She knew the end was near and she didn’t want it to be. How could a mother leave her daughter in a world that seemed so foreign? What would the daughter do; she was an outsider in her own life.

  “Don’t leave me, Ma,” she begged, pressing her forehead to her mother’s chest. “You can’t leave me. I will die. Kripyaa—Please.”

  In a way she was being selfish. Her mother was in pain and all she could think about was how lonely she would be if her mother passed away. She couldn’t help it, she was only human.

  When her mother’s voice caught her ear, she didn’t lift her head until a feeble hand brushed her hair. “If it was up to me, Beti,” the woman spoke in a voice that was barely a whisper, “I would stay. But the gods don’t see it that way.”

  She shook her head stubbornly causing her tears to topple freely down her cheeks. “Nahi,” she whimpered. “No.”

  “It’s time, Priety…”

  * * * *

  Priety jerked into sitting position on her bed panting for air. It was like someone was holding her nostrils shut and as she tried to breathe through her mouth they sat on her chest. Her neck felt as though she had twisted it the wrong way during her sleep and she massaged it. She prayed the action would alleviate the pain and allow her to breathe normally again. Holding her breath, she counted to five with her eyes closed before exhaling and opening her eyes.

  With shaking fingers, she shoved a mass of black hair from her face and looked around. Her eyes traveled over the framed picture on her bedside table of her parents on their wedding day. Her gaze moved to the clock and then the vacant dresser. The fleeting thought of why she didn’t have anything on the dresser breezed through her mind and disappeared like a puff of smoke before her gaze moved again. Eyeing the coat rack behind her door she wondered why it was still there. After her parent’s death she carried it up from down stairs—to do what? Priety couldn’t remember.

  She looked back at the picture of her parents. Her mother’s face was covered with a red veil and her father was smiling. They were truly happy, she knew that. During the years she had them they were smiling, loving to each other and to her. That was one of the times when an arranged marriage was a good thing.

  She looked out the window to see sun streaming in through the blinds and swore softly to herself before flopping back against the bed.

  Why had the nightmares come back? It had been so long since her parents were ripped from her life without much of a warning. Priety had mourned by seeing shrinks and writing in journals to calm her nerves. She cried and starved herself and finally she managed to pick up the pieces of her life and move on.

  What was the meaning of the nightmares’ return?

  Staring up at the ceiling she continued trying to control her breathing as she closed her eyes to fight the tears. Instead of stopping, they just streamed through her lashes at the thought of her mother and father. She thought back of the pain she had gone through watching them die because the hospitals claimed there was nothing they could do for them.

  “So? How do we make this better?” Priety asked as she looked from the doctor to her mother. “There has to be something.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Roshan,” the doctor started but Priety cut him off by slamming her open palm into his desk.

  “No! Don’t you dare tell me you’ve done everything because you haven’t done everything or my mother would be getting better! There has to be something else!”

  “There is no cure for the cancer your mother has, Miss Roshan,” the visibly shaken doctor managed to get out. “And by waiting this long before seeking treatment didn’t help her case any either. If she had come to us earlier chemo and surgery would have helped. It has spread too drastically for any further treatment. We could operate but she wouldn’t live through it.”

  Priety opened her mouth to say something but her mother simply touched her arm. “You’re telling me that now I have to watch my mother die like I did my father?”

  The doctor didn’t say anything so Priety continued on the brink of tears, “She’s going to be in pain, damn it! Do something! Anything!”

  “All you can do is make her as comfortable as possible,” he advised her.

  Priya and Jai, Priety’s parents, needed a specialist and with their savings and her small salary, she couldn’t afford one. The doctors had looked at the sobbing sixteen year old and told her that the best she could do for her parents was to make sure they were comfortable for their last few days—first her father, then her mother. It was the same thing all over again. What were the chances?

  Why were the gods punishing her?

  At the time, the tender age of sixteen, Priety was still a virgin so why had they taken her parents from her? She had done everything her parents asked of her without complaints even though sometime she wondered the validity in their requests or orders.

  She was a good girl.

  Using an angry hand, Priety wiped her tears away as the alarm clock began blaring. “I’m up.” She swore and slammed a fist into the snooze button but stayed where she was a little longer before shoving her feet out of her bed. She didn’t know why she had the alarm clock set because it was her week off. She worked so much that her boss finally told her she should take some time. It was pointless to argue with him, even though she tried her best to let him see things her way. She wanted him to see she would go crazy if he forced her to stay home. He laughed and said that he would pay for her stay at the asylum. It was a big joke for him but Priety wanted to deck him.

  Yawning, she stripped as she walked toward the shower. By the time she got there and closed the door, Priety was buck naked. Rubbing a hand over her stomach she eyed the shower with contempt. It seemed everything was starting to rake at her nerves.

  She lifted her face to the downpour of water beating against her. Lowering her head, she allowed the water to throb against the back of her neck, lifting her head to try and beat the memories of the night’s nightmare from her mind. Flashes of h
er mother’s last words came to her followed by her father’s dying wish. Her father wished that she would find a husband, settle down and be happy.

  No such luck.

  By the time she showered and dressed, her mind calmed down. She sauntered into the kitchen. She had a craving for pancakes. The quiet of the house was starting to unnerve her. She needed some form of noise to make her feel as if she was all alone in the world. Taking a deep breath, she hurried into the living room, flipped on the television, cranked it up and returned to make her favorite, pancakes with chocolate chips.

  “Do something other than worry about us.” Priya’s voice came back to Priety. “I know you and all you do is feel guilty about things…you have a life to live. You are young…”

  “We are sorry we couldn’t provide more for you, Priety,” Jai spoke as he broke out into a bout of coughing. “We are so sorry…”

  Although her parents’ deaths were separate and so long ago, they were beginning to mesh together in her head. Priety squeezed the fork she held in her hand until she felt it would sink through her flesh. Looking down, through tear-dazed eyes, she opened her fist but the fork didn’t fall. She used her free hand and pulled it. Luckily, it hadn’t cut through the flesh but left an imprint.

  A defeated sigh left her lips. She wished she could go to work. Priety wanted to work so hard until she forgot her name.

  Money.

  Throughout the day, Priety tried to find something else to do so her mind wouldn’t go back to her nightmares. But everything brought back the memories; a sound, the smell of curry, absolutely everything reminded her of how alone she was in the world and she felt like throwing up everything. Self-pity had never been her strong suit but lately she seemed to be getting better at it. Everything around her reminded her of her parents and it seemed easier to be pulled down by doubt and guilt rather than fight.