George felt relieved for the first time in months, thanks to the ‘demon drink’ he gulped an hour ago. He could even smile now. He smiled at the clock, at the framed photograph, at the idol of a deity that looked straight at him.
“It’s not an ordinary idol,” the shopkeeper had told him. He almost spat a mouthful of liquor when he had burst out laughing. Barely wiping-off the liquid dripping from his mouth, he stumbled up from the floor and walked like a ‘Bambi’ towards the idol.
“The idol is as powerful as the deity itself,” he mimicked the shopkeeper as he picked it up, and held it close to him. Annie had bought it in Bangkok during their honeymoon. It was almost a decade ago. Yet images, solid like the idol, remained unscathed in his memory. In Bangkok, Annie had bluntly refused sex. Though he was upset, he felt close to her. It made him happy. Thinking of it, his smile became broader now. Thinking of his wife, he ran his fingers all over the idol. The grin shrunk as he hit a dark turn in his memory corridor. George flung the idol against the wall, and watched it shatter to pieces. It was satisfying.
“If you are as powerful as that fool said, you would have given me all of Annie’s love. Wouldn’t you? Anybody even a bit powerful or willing would have done that. It's not that difficult. But you are powerless, and Annie is unwilling. Let…” A noisy burp killed-off his words mid-way. George closed his mouth with the back of his hand and waited patiently for it to settle.
“Now, I will help myself,” he said, as he furiously kicked liquor bottles lying on the floor. The empty ones rolled to corners, and two full bottles hit the wall and burst, forming a pool of booze in the room.
He slumped on the floor and sat on the pool, amid glass shards. He quickly grabbed a broken bottle and took a desperate swig from what was left of its contents. A moment’s pause. Then with all the strength his hand could muster, he drove the bottle’s jagged end into his throat. His eyes teared up. Yet he felt relieved and satisfied. He smiled wide as he collapsed. He smiled as a pool of blood formed beneath him. He smiled at everything his eyes fell on, until they landed on the tiny human peeking at him from a photograph. His smile turned into gloom. His heart throbbed with pain, tears streamed, and his eyes struggled to stay open. As the realization settled in, he surrendered. Lying there transfixed by his daughter’s memory, he let sweat, tears, blood, and booze to merge in an unlikely union.
George coughed back into consciousness, and took a deep breath amid coughs. His eyelids were heavy. When he opened them, a blurry confusion greeted him. His attempts to focus faltered. When a mumbling voice hit his ears, he tried turning his head towards it. But he couldn’t. He gave up when he realized he couldn’t move an inch of his body as he wanted. He sweat profusely when his limbs moved involuntarily. He immediately remembered his aged mother, and how Parkinson’s made her lips twitch, and her body tremble.
“People told me it wasn’t hereditary. But did I get it from there?” he said aloud, widening his eyes in utter shock. He inhaled deeply, holding his breath for a moment when he felt he was hanging by a thin string. His body felt heavy, but his head felt light. His hand ached, vaguely reminding of the broken bottles. When the memory of blood pool resurfaced, a black fog engulfed him. He froze but let his eyes close and larynx emit a sound. George would never know which happened first. Later, as he walked down the memory lane, all he would remember was the fog’s weight on his face.
It didn’t take long for George to find a ray of courage within his dark soul. He was able to lift an eyelid, just a crack. As regret set in, he squeezed it shut. The fog was so close that it brushed his nose gently. The tip of his nose tickled. He giggled and wanted to scratch it. But his hands wouldn’t obey. When he felt himself thrown into the air, he giggled uncontrollably, but panic quickly pulled him down.
“Help! Please, help me! Someone threw me from somewhere,” he yelled, flailing his limbs hysterically.
He gasped in relief when someone held him at his armpits. But it was the fog again. He screamed until his lungs felt like they were collapsing.
“Please, help me, God. Please, save me from…” he stopped mid-sentence as he felt gentle pats on his back. Though the touch surprised him, what came next stunned him even more. He was rocked softly, as though in a cradle. As his panic started to fade, he even started sinking into comfort.
“So, you are not the devil and I am not in hell, right? Am I in heaven? Are you an angel or am I just delirious?” he asked with half-a-smile, his voice trailing off as he began to drift into sleep.
“Were my sins forgiven? Wait, did I commit any sin at all?” he asked with a smirk. Though the answer came as a soft hum, he didn’t understand it. His eyeballs moved in time with the music before his lids lowered slowly. His body loosened; mind relaxed but the smile stayed fixed.
Visions of Annie carrying Emma on her shoulder frequented George. “Annie, do you know how much I love you?” he muttered, broadening his smile. But it shrunk quickly.
“But you never loved me as much as I did. How could you avoid me like that? How could you make me your last priority? I just couldn’t take it, Annie,” he mumbled in sleep.
“I just couldn’t accept the distance between us. That’s why I killed myself. To help myself and teach you a lesson. This will indeed teach you a lesson,” he screamed, puffing out his chest.
“What happened, dear?” Annie’s voice interrupted his self-important rant. He blinked, confused, adjusting his head to hear better. When the familiar hum of ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star’ hit his ears, his mind snapped to attention. Without opening is eyes, he looked at his
surroundings attentively.
Annie used to hum nursery rhymes to lull Emma to sleep. She would cradle her daughter against her chest, dancing slow-motion to the rhythm. The hum would go on without skipping a beat even if it takes over an hour for Emma to finally fall asleep. He used to watch it, half in awe, half in envy. Though the scene brought him comfort, it also made him feel like a third wheel. He wanted her to himself. But Emma had made it clear the she was more important in the family. The bond he had with their daughter was a complicated mess of love, pure anger, and unfiltered jealousy.
“But I loved her more than I could ever love myself. That’s why I didn’t kill her to win Annie over. Instead, I made an ultimate sacrifice, and that is heroism at its finest. That’s why I was granted a ticket to heaven,” he said aloud.
“Emma, is everything alright with you?” Annie asked with a gentle pat on his back. His eyes shot open with a thud, like a man who just realized he had left his house open.
“Annie, is that you? Are you in heaven with me?” he screamed at the top of his lungs, sending echoes everywhere. Before he could swallow the flood of spit threatening to escape his mouth, the fog appeared again. It engulfed him, lifting him gently, holding him close like it was his long-lost comfort blanket. He almost melted into it.
The hum started again. As his heart melted even more, his mind stiffened like a board. “Annie, answer me, please. Why are you here?” he called out, his voice half-desperate, half-confused. He waited patiently for his wife to answer. But the silence dragged on. It somehow reminded him of their game dates. They used to spend hours hunched together over jig-jaw puzzles. Annie loved solving them, and he loved watching her. He would sit next to her paying no attention to the game but to her. He enjoyed every bit of their game night. A tear leaked from his eye and a hand wiped it softly.
“Amma,” it was Annie’s voice again.
“Who is she calling?” he wondered, straining his ears. When he heard nothing, he felt a strange mix of anxiety and numbness like headache and constipation he never asked for. He strained his eyes, but all he could make out were blurry patches. He would have enjoyed it, had it been a painting on canvas. He wanted to rub his eyes, but his hands had other ideas. This only shot up his cortisol level faster than his patience. He imagined the worst.
“Annie, please. What happened to you? Did you kill yourself to be with me?” his words staggered and fell. A terrible, unrelenting pain stabbed him deep. Tears flowed, his throat went parched like he had swallowed sandpaper, and his stomach twisted like he had just gone on a bad rollercoaster ride.
“Amma, Emma has been crying non-stop since morning. What do I do? She has never been like
this before. I don’t know what to do,” Annie’s voice cracked with worry. George, thinking of his next move, did nothing. He strained his ears again, but everything fell into an eerie silence. All he could manage to say was, “I am George, Annie. Your husband. Not Emma, the little witch.”
“Maybe, yes,” Annie voice came as response.
“Isn’t it? Do you also agree with me? Isn’t she the little witch who separated us?” he asked, full of enthusiasm, forgetting everything else.
His risen hopes touched rock bottom at once.
“I will feed her now,” she said. When they turned and walked away, he saw two tall black fog-figures standing next to each other, at a short distance from them. They no longer bothered him as he was busily baffled.
George was still firing questions at Annie when he was gently put down. She groped his face and mumbled something before kissing his forehead. She even took time to put his hair into place with her hands, all the while he stared at her in utter confusion.
Cupping his face with both her hands, she said feebly, “I always want you to be happy and smiling, Emma. I don’t like to cry. I know it’s impossible to smile always. But your dad, he smiled always. I loved your dad’s smile. It was the loveliest of all.”
“You love my smile? You never told me this before,” he feigned anger.
“I am sorry. I am sorry,” she said in a hurry, moving clumsily. When he opened his mouth to let out his exasperation, something was shoved inside, choking him instantly. A violent cough erupted, but there was no room to escape. He could feel his stomach’s contents crawling up his chest, burning it ruthlessly. Even breathing, that he had earlier taken for granted, now felt like a task.
Summoning every ounce of his energy, George tried to push her away. The only thing that moved was that something in his mouth. Just a tiny, barely noticeable shift. He paused, before using his tongue to push it back. This time it did not move. Instead, something spilled out. Before he could even think about it, it slipped down his throat. He pushed it a few more time and more liquid spilled out. It was not water, but was very watery. It was light but did not taste sweet. He pushed it again, and his mouth got filled again. He kept it there for a moment, analyzing it, before gulping it.
“It is a bit spicy?” he wondered, as he continued pushing and filling his mouth.
“Is it booze? Annie, are you feeding me booze? Why didn’t you do this before?” his mind yelled with a mix of confusion and happiness, as he swallowed it in hurry.
“No, no. It is not booze. It doesn’t taste like it. What is she feeding me?” he asked himself. His desire to scratch his head was immediately overtaken by the strange sensation. He kept pushing his tongue and gulping the liquid until his jaw ached and his stomach felt it would burst. Yet the liquid eluded him. Despite his mind refusing to admit defeat, his body had already surrendered.
Before George could make up his mind, the mysterious thing disappeared from his mouth. He was immediately lifted up and held dearly. Then came the series of pats on his back and the all-too-familiar hum. Though it felt as weird and unsettling as it could be, the comforting rhythm wrapped around like a warm blanket, giving him warmth. Before he knew it, he sank into sleep.
Sleep slipped away when the wetness under his neck and arms grew, like his body had turned into a walking sponge. Keeping his eyes closed, and pretending the world didn’t exist felt oddly comforting. But then, the orangish-red light that flooded his vision irritated him. He shivered and suffocated; his body couldn’t decide which discomfort to settle for.
“It looks like in heaven people don’t breathe,” he said, gasping aloud for air.
“Then why am I even breathing? Maybe, I am high in the order of angels,” he said and felt proud.
Stifling the urge to smile, he declared, “Thank you God, for taking me to heaven. I will always be your loyal servant.” He kicked his limbs in triumph, and it accidently shifted the sheet covering him. A cool breeze brushed across his skin. He kicked once more, as if trying to summon more of it. The breeze obeyed and his body started to cool. He even took a deep breath.
“High-ranking angels always take deep breaths,” he mused, his mind drifting to church-time stories. “I knew there was a reason I paid attention to those sermons. But I should have paid more attention. Or maybe this is one of old-age’s things. Who knows? And who cares? At last, I am in heaven living the life of an angel,” he said with a dramatic sigh of relief.
“Now what will I do in heaven, God? Do I have to bring souls to you? Since I am a high-ranking angel, I think I will be allowed to bring you the evil ones. It is going to be fun to watch them suffer as I snatch their souls away,” he laughed and swallowed hard.
“What happened, Emma? Why are you not sleeping today?” It was Annie’s voice again.
“Oh!” he cried in irritation.
“Why don’t you just answer me, Annie? You are ruining my time here,” he shouted, opening his eyes to complete blackness. In no time, he started sweating, and the heat felt like he was sitting on a stove.
“Why do you do this to me? Were you assigned to torture me? God, please tell me if that’s the
case. I will resign from this gig, my rank among, and head off to hell right away,” he yelled as dramatically as possible. Answer came in the form of pats on chest, and the familiar hum.
“Annie, please! There was a time when I was jealous of Emma. But I am over it. Please let me live my life, and you live yours with Emma. Don’t you see, this is no time for rocking and humming. I have my angel’s duties to attend to,” he said.
“What happened to you today, dear?” Annie asked, sounding both concerned and indifferent. Without missing a beat, she quickened her rocking. When irritation was still visible on his face, she cradled him in her arms, twisting her body to the maximum limit. George’s world started spinning. A wave of dizziness hit, followed by nausea so sharp it felt like it came with a side of emotional whiplash.
“Annie, I don’t understand. Why are you torturing me? There is absolutely nothing for which you could be taking revenge of me. I did nothing other than loving you. If that has caused you pain, then I am sorry. But please don’t do this to me,” he said, increasing his pitch. Before he could complete his sentence, she cranked-up her rocking even more. The fog around him swirled like a magic trick gone bad, and the mysterious liquid he had gulped some time ago traced its way back to his mouth. The twisting and twirling stopped only when the liquid expelled itself violently. He felt immediate relief, but it was short-lived. The next moment, his stomach seemed to throw a tantrum, and his arse politely reminded him it was part of the party.
The fog took its sweet time to settle. George let out a deep breath, completely unaware of what came next. When a dark fog loomed over him, for a brief, unsettling moment, he thought it smiled at him. He awkwardly returned the gesture, unsure of how to deal with his formless friend, then waited eagerly for the next move. But what followed made him freeze, before he let out a horrified cry. The moment hot liquid splashed across his chest, his body felt like it was on fire. The pain only worsened as something began rubbing his searing skin. The torture climbed a notch, and George wondered if he'd somehow been mistaken for a very unlucky barbeque.
“This is hell for sure. I know I will be in hell for my sins. But please don’t fry me in burning oil. Please, let me go, please…” he shouted in panic, convinced he was getting high-ranking treatment in the fiery depths.
“That’s okay. I am almost done,” Annie’s voice echoed, and fear rattled him.
“Annie, is it you who is frying me? But why? Whatever it is, I am really sorry,” he begged, as fear and sorrow twisted together.
“That’s okay. I am just cleaning your poop and puke, that’s all. We are done with the bath now,” Annie said casually as she poured another mug of hot water over him. It made him scream in pain, adding a new layer to his misery.
“What? Are you bathing me? Is this how you bathe Emma? Is this what I was jealous of?” he howled, half-angry, half-in agony.
“It’s all over now,” Annie replied, her voice cracking between coughs.
“Yes. It’s all over now. But I don’t understand why you are treating me like Emma,” he said, trembling, a little more confused than ever. In response, he felt himself lifted gently with strong hands, his body surrounded by something soft. Annie’s hands glided over his body, gently applying lotion and occasionally massaging. It was relief he had experienced in what felt like years.
“Does it mean you forgive me? I really love you, Annie” he said softly, his voice tinged with hope.
“Are you hungry, Emma? Why have you been crying since morning?” she asked, lifting and holding him to her face level.
“Why are you calling me Emma? I am George, your…” his mind froze when he saw a tiny fog-figure peeping out from behind the larger one.
“Are you missing, daddy?” she asked gently, kissing him on his cheek, and cradling him.
“I am missing him terribly,” she continued in a calm but firm voice.
“I have decided to go home tomorrow. Grandma says I should stay here for at least a month since you’re not even a month old. But I just can’t stay away from Dad. I love him so much, and he is our rock. With Daddy around, everything will be fine. He’ll make everything right,” she said and kissed him again, making her affection clear.
A fresh stream of tears silently welled up in George’s eyes, trickling down his cheek and onto the fog as he recalled his earlier words: "If you are as powerful as that fool said, you would have given me all of Annie’s love."
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