The pool of blood is spilling quickly; the dusty ground greedily absorbs it. Two bullets were fired with remarkable precision, both hitting their mark on his head. It was as if a seasoned warrior had taken the shots; she was no warrior. She had never even killed an ant in her entire life. This man is going to be her first hunt.
Out of nowhere, a child jumps onto the lifeless body. The child weeps without tears, a look of innocence on his face. Perhaps his tears have dried up, or maybe he has mourned enough. The child is lost in deep retrospection, determined to do something unwanted, unexpected.
The woman stands on higher ground, gazing down at her prey with bloodshot eyes. Her thirst for revenge remains unquenched, evident from her ever-changing expression. She’s far from finished. Now, she is going to do something entirely unexpected. Oh, a foreboding event is on the horizon. Is there anyone to stop her?
A twelve-year-old girl in her four-story apartment is jotting down some notes. Perhaps she writes a diary, but a detailed description of her life, others’ lives, and her disdain towards some men presents a biographical sketch. She begins:
“I hate this man. Mom says to give respect to him. He is my stepfather. I could never make up my mind to respect this man. He is such a miserable creature. I don’t know why Mom doesn’t leave this man, marry someone else, or live as a widow. If I were in her place, I would even prefer to commit suicide. A life with men like this is no better than death. My mom is already dead. Literally dead. It is I who put the final nail in this wretched coffin.
A few years back, I had too much respect for him. He was very caring, loving, and compassionate. He used to bring me gifts, toys, and chocolates and accompany me for shopping. I would sit on his lap, and he would touch my body and kiss me fatherly. Now I know it was anything but fatherly touching and kissing. This monster had something else in mind. I no longer mistake his lust for anything.”
The girl shreds this page into pieces, much like the others. She heads to the kitchen and makes herself a cup of coffee. She returns to her writing table and starts again. Now, her thoughts flow like a deep stream, a stream of unconsciousness.
“These are my personal, frustrated, and scattered thoughts,” she writes. “I share this diary to no one. It’s a way to lighten my own burden. I keep blaming this man repeatedly, but it wasn’t entirely his fault. I’m too involved in one way or another.”
While writing these lines, she seems determined not to tear any more pages. Her writing continues as she grapples with her complex emotions.
“My father divorced my mom when I was four years old. I don’t know why they got divorced. Once, when I asked my mom, she frowned and said something like, “He wasn’t taking care of me or you. He wasn’t a nice father or a good husband.” Her answer was vague and unsatisfactory.
While my mom was doing the dishes one day, I was scrolling through her laptop. An email popped up, and I checked it out. Someone with the initials “John” wrote:
“All men are alike. The man you left, deserted, and deprived him of his daughter for the man you fell in love with, are the same. Now you are thinking of leaving this man, whom you loved too much and abandoned me for. I won’t force you to stay with or leave, but keep in mind one thing: all men are the same. You will never get an ideal man on this planet.”
I quickly scrolled through the entire conversation between them. They had conversed at great length about domestic issues, my mom’s relationship with her new husband, their banter, arguments, brawls, shopping trips, and more. The email I checked was a response to my mom’s firm declaration, “I am leaving this horrible man.”
She stops writing, feeling overwhelmed by the flood of thoughts. She doesn’t know where to begin or where to end. With the pen in mouth, she stared blankly, contemplating it all. Finally, she starts to write again.
“I gathered all the information about my dad, stepfather, mom, and myself from these chats. This information is scattered and in segments, so I weave it together here.
My mom was my dad’s university crush. They were classmates and fell in love when promoted to the fourth semester. I cannot tell how they were meeting, making love, or dating, as the email chatter only reveals a little. They got married after graduation and settled in New York City. My father became a bank manager, and my mom started her career as an Amazon seller.
It was the second anniversary of marriage when I was born. My dad’s love and regard for me are evident from the chat. He addressed me by my nickname, ‘Charlie.’
He had often asked my mom to convey his good wishes and sent gifts for my every birthday for a decade. However, my mom never delivered me his greetings or birthday gifts in his name. In the beginning, she would say these gifts were from my stepfather, and later on, she pretended to buy them herself. Despite my dad’s persistent pleas for telephone contact with me, for a chance to catch up, my mom had repeatedly turned down such appeals. I wonder why she chose to do so. Maybe she feared I would leave her, or my dad would entrap me. I can’t say for sure.
Much information is still eclipsed. So, I have to skip six years of marriage. My mom got divorced, and this tragic happening has two theories. My mom says, as I mentioned earlier, my dad didn’t prove to be a good husband and a good father. On the other hand, in emails, my father clearly blames Mom for having a love affair with this man. Mom is not defending her position, and it is obvious now that mom left her first love for her second love. In one of those emails, Mom had said something like, “Don’t blame me for my affair with this man. I would never have left you for him if I hadn’t caught you red-handed with that student of yours.”
So, I’ve concluded that Mom had an affair with this man, now my step-father, and my dad was also not guiltless. Mistrust simmered for years, and finally, they separated.
I can easily say that my dad was deeply hurt when they parted ways. He tried his best to avoid this fallout but in vain.
All I know about my step-father is that he’s an imported car dealer with a well-established business. He owns a house, three cars, and an office. His ex-wife had died two years before the second marriage. Stephen was only two months old when his mom passed away, and I don’t have any details regarding her demise.
Since my mom was an Amazon seller and this man was a dealer, she had to visit his office frequently, even before getting engaged to my dad. At that time, he was already in a marital relationship. When his wife died, I am sure he initiated a well-planned affair, which was not at first sight. He’s just a clever fox.”
Charlie, as we don’t know her full name and call her by this nickname her father uses, once again paused. She puts down her pen and notebook on the table, resting her face on her elbows, and shuts her eyes.
She begins again.
“A month ago, there came a climax in this tragic-comedy. I have always seen husband-wife domestic clashes but never given any importance to them. But a month ago, when I was screened as a sub-character in this melodrama, stunned and devastated as I was, I realized that things had gone too far with no reconciliation possibilities in sight.
The step-father has always had some ill designs toward me. As a child, I enjoyed his caresses, kisses, and touching. As I grew, I felt a kind of guilt or embarrassment. A few years back, when my mom was not at home, he first let me sit on his lap and then steadily pulled me toward his legs. I felt a warm, erected, rough organ touching my sensitive parts. I leapt out abruptly and stared at him awkwardly. He instantly realized that I was going to tell this to my mom. Yes. I told her, despite much persuasion, not to do so. I will never forget my mom’s weary facial expression. I regretted then that I shouldn’t have told her. When her senses were restored, she told me not to utter a word about it to anyone and warned me to stay away from him.
I did stay away for a few days. His approach with new gifts, money, and fatherly behaviour entrapped me sooner than later. He also changed his tactics. Now, he would show me some bold videos: a step-father kissing his step-daughter, slowly undressing her, and then going for lovemaking. Initially, I used to protest, wearing a scornful and rebuking expression and going away. I once threatened him to tell my mom, but I didn’t. However, soon found myself enjoying those porn videos. Whenever I was fully engrossed in those clips, he would gradually draw closer to me, touching my body and caressing me. These bold videos had immense pleasure in them. I started to enjoy them, and whenever I found my dad beside me, touching and rubbing his organ with my sensitive parts, I no longer resisted and remained indifferent to. Gradually, I started to enjoy it and voluntarily presented myself to this man.
One more thing to mention: the stepfather had many other illicit relationships with women. His secretary was one of them. I smelled it a year ago when Mom was throwing things at him, cursing, and crying. My dad rushed out, and when I asked Mom when he had left, Mom remained like a stone image and never said anything. I was not a child then, had already discerned.
I was talking about the climax but drifted away. My step-father lured me, or it was me who chose to be seduced, but the thing is that we started lovemaking in the absence of my mom. I lost my virginity to a fifty-year-old monster with guilt and pain. This happened exactly 26 days ago. During this time, before Mom sent me here, we had five sexual intercourse. The first one is remembered as a painful new venture. The last one is recalled as a tragedy when we were caught red-handed.
Mom and stepfather left home early in the morning. Today, Mom had an appointment in New Jersey, later exposed as a fake hide-and-seek game. After my examination, I stayed home. All day long, I would watch TV, play online games, and read romantic novels.
It was 10 am when I saw the door cracked open, and my step-father hurried upstairs. I knew why he had come this time. He had a shopping bag in his hand, which he threw at me before lying on the sofa. He had brought chocolates, a ring, and a pair of shoes. I was putting on my boots when he drew me toward the couch, saying he was late and “do it” now. I was ready and, without saying anything, undressed and lay down. He was, too, hastily putting off his shoes and pants.
My face was toward the door and main gate and his toward the wall. Hardly a minute had passed when I saw Mom at the doorstep. She hadn’t opened the main entrance; she was hiding in the next room.
I can’t describe what happened afterwards: how we dressed, how we rushed out of the room, or what the expression of that statue at the doorstep was.
Mom didn’t say a word. I saw no anger in her eyes. I had always seen her crying, throwing things, and cursing. Today, she was completely calm, composed, and in her senses. She was deadly silent, but deep inside, a vendetta was brewing.
Mom began packing my things without saying a word. I was sitting in the bedroom with pursed lips, my head in my elbows, tears flowing down. She entered, and I didn’t raise my head to look at her. She placed a note on the table along with some money. In the note, she formally directed me to go to my dad’s home. She had written the address and contact details. She asked me to leave within ten minutes.
After reading it, I started screaming and yelling loudly. I didn’t want to come here. I didn’t want to leave my mom, my friends, my school, and my home. I searched every corner of the house to find my mom. I wanted to kneel before Mom, plead with her, and promise never to do this again. But she was nowhere. I stayed as I wanted to put my case before her and hoped she would forgive me as soon as she returned.
I stretched out on the sofa, shutting my eyes, heartbroken and guilt-ridden. All of a sudden, an image appeared at the threshold before my eyes: a woman standing there, bloodthirsty, a firestorm in her eyes, giving me a piercing stare. It was my mom’s ghost. With a loud yell, I jumped from the sofa and ran toward the door. I never looked back and arrived here five hours ago.”
The girl felt relieved and lightened when she finished recounting this arduous tale as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders. Her mobile phone had been in silent mode, and when she picked it up after two hours, the screen was filled with missed calls. During this time, she had received numerous calls from unknown numbers. A new call was coming in. She answered it, though reluctantly.
“Oh no, no,” she yelled and went pale, aghast and thunderstruck. First, the mobile fell to the ground, and then she fumbled and went unconscious.
As she regains her senses, she rushes to the kitchen in search of some tools – a gun, a knife, or some poison. Finding none, she paced upstairs to the top floor. Charlie is going to be Charlie’s first hunt.
The woman slowly moves towards her prey. The man lies long dead, motionless, with crimson blood still spilling out, absorbed slowly by the dusty ground. She proceeds to the lower part of his body. The main gate is closed. As she hears ambulance sirens and police calls and hears the public outrage at the door, she quickens her pace to complete the task.
Leaving the lifeless body behind, the child retrieves the discarded gun from the yard. He takes careful aim, showing no signs of haste.
“The bitch has killed my dad,” he mumbles to himself.
The woman puts aside the knife and unclasps his leather belt, sliding it out of the loops. She stares down at his bare body and picks up the knife. As she starts to cut, the sharp crack of a gunshot suddenly shakes the yard. She crumbles to the ground. The pool of blood is spreading fast; the dusty ground has already quenched its thirst, absorbing it slowly. Only one bullet is shot, hitting her in the chest with great precision, as if some seasoned warrior fired it. He is not a warrior. He has not killed an ant in his entire life. This woman is going to be his first hunt.
