If I plunge this screwdriver into the back of your head, will your skull obstruct the thrust and ensuing death?
Probably.
But that’s not the only reason this is a bad idea.
If I stab you from the back, I can’t see your eyes widen in shock, your forehead crease in confusion, your lips curl up with a scream of terror.
Maybe I can pull a Catherine Tramell and stab you repeatedly with an ice pick while we’re having sex. Oh, that would be a sight! Maybe your body convulsing in pain is what it’ll take for you to make me climax.
I smile at that last thought. Freedom of pent-up emotions. Bliss.
‘Honey, can you pass the screwdriver?’ Your nasal voice pulls the chain on my train of thought. Your hands are held out in my direction, and right before I hand you the tool, I picture stabbing it into your hand and watching it dangle through your palm.
‘What are you smiling at?’ you ask.
‘I’ve always had to do such chores by myself. Fixing the squeaking hinge in the door. Changing the lightbulb. Installing a new showerhead. I’m just forever grateful to have you in my life.’ I fake.
You smile, and then to my disgust say, ‘Maybe after this, your personal handyman can show you how his drilling machine works?’
Flawed, I know from first-hand experience. I faked it the first couple of nights, and then you took for granted that you did it right no matter what you did, the lethargy of domesticity.
‘Mmmm,’ I feign lust, thinking of using an actual drilling machine to nail you upside down by your cock to the wall and then watching gravity slice it in two. Mmmm, indeed.
***
On my eleventh birthday, I was on my bed, watching a movie. The blinds were drawn, but moonlight was spilling in through an open window, along with nippy air. My parents’ voices also infiltrated the room, leaking between the cracks in the walls, getting louder by the minute.
Have I already shared this memory with you?
I turned up the volume on my iPad to drown them out, but I could still hear the anger seething in the room. If my sister were here, she’d give me her earphones, but she wasn’t.
I heard glass shatter and then a thud, muting the screaming contest.
I hugged my Pooh bear tighter, feeling his soft belly against my quivering one, my tears disappearing into the cotton of his head. I tried to focus on the pumpkin magically transforming into a carriage and not on the wailing and benign gaslighting from the other room. I startled when I heard twigs snapping outside the window, leaves rustling, branches swooshing, even though, like the other noises of the night, they were familiar. I hastily rubbed my face dry as my sister climbed into our room.
‘What are you mopey about?’ she asked, roughly.
‘Nothing.’
Minutes later she said, ‘A few more years, and you can stay out as long as you want. Just make sure not to be so gloomy all the time or you won’t make any friends.’ Then, she threw her earphones at me and climbed into her bed.
That night, I watched a princess falling in love while dancing in step with a prince, who saved her from her evil stepmother and stepsisters. I fell asleep dreaming of a prince for myself.
***
On my twenty-first birthday, a social clock started ticking to the beat of my heart.
‘Why aren’t you seeing anyone?’
‘We’re only getting older, and we just want to know you’re taken care of when we pass on.’
‘We’re going to set you up with someone soon.’
I was confused. Why was my mother thinking of getting me married? She was deeply unhappy in hers. Didn’t she want me to have a better life? Wasn’t that why she consistently asked me to work hard and land a well-paying job? Why did she want me to collect bruises to match hers?
‘We just want you to be happy.’
‘The longer you wait, the fewer your choices.’
‘You’re a skinny, short, average-looking girl, so you’ll have to compromise on what you want. You can’t have it all.’
I was exhausted trying to fight the battles in my mind. Why did I have to fight theirs as well?
‘Why are you being a problem child?’
‘When I think about what I’m going to do with you, I can’t sleep.’
If my family washed their hands of me, I’d be alone in this world. I was confused. I wanted to heal from everything my mom, and every women like her, sacrificed for unhealthy definitions of marriage and family. But why weren’t they being supportive? Didn’t they make these sacrifices, so their children wouldn’t have to? Then, why were they pushing me into a life-changing situation I didn’t want to be in? Didn’t they understand the turmoil and the need to live life in a manner that makes you as an individual happy?
‘We’re all just so worried about you.’
I grew extremely tired of explaining, crying, fighting, fighting, fighting. Every conversation the start of an argument. It didn’t matter to them that I was working a job where I felt valued; that when I tried to find love, I got manipulated, emotionally abused, misunderstood; that I was trying to love myself so I could accept someone loving me; that I was working on becoming a wholesome person. No, my only measure of value would be my adherence to the clock.
I couldn’t hold on to my blunt swords alone.
Consequently, I said yes when you out-of-the-blue asked me to get into a marriage of convenience with you. How bad could it be to marry your friend of over a decade, I thought. A marriage of convenience would, of course, be convenient!
That’s when a bomb in my brain went off.
***
When I told my parents that you and I were getting married, they were ecstatic! Thrilled I was getting married to someone they’ve known since I was twelve. For a minute, I was content as well, but soon I hated that they were happy. How could they be happy, when I was so unhappy I got physically sick every time I ate? I was sacrificing what I knew to be love and partnership for a convenience to make them happy. Couldn’t they hear me crashing and breaking? I hated them for being joyous over the fact that they raised me to be weak enough to fall prey to outdated expectations and traditions.
They made me hate being alive.
As we circumambulated the fire at our wedding, I pictured it blazing brighter and higher and consuming everyone around, sucking everyone, their tawdry jewellery and silk sarees and layers of make-up and conditional blessings, into a heap of ashes.
Everyone screaming to translate the exploding voices in my head.
***
You. Let’s talk about you now.
We got along well as friends, didn’t we? We made each other laugh, and we enjoyed the same movies, shows and music. We loved reading. You were always there when I wanted to explore a new restaurant in town, a new art exhibition. You cheered me up as I cried about my parents fighting, my relationship with my sister, the boys who broke me. You were like a brother to me.
But if you knew you wanted more, why didn’t you voice those feelings before we agreed on a marriage of convenience?
Because you’re a spinless coward.
We’d agreed on a small wedding. We can save up all that money and buy a house instead, you’d said. But then you stared echoing what our parents demanded. ‘Let’s just do this for them.’ But didn’t you know I was already sacrificing everything for them?
A few weeks into our “marriage”, you tried to brainwash me again. Sometimes such marriages can be the start of a true love story, you’d said. There are marriage-of-convenience tropes in romance novels for a reason.
You knew I wouldn’t leave, didn’t you? My weaknesses and insecurities and fears that I shared with you in moments of vulnerability, you used them all against me by reaching over to unbutton my shirt. You knew I didn’t have anywhere to go. What would I tell my parents? That I wanted to leave because you say you love me? I knew what they all say about divorced women: ‘used goods’.
I wanted to spit on you! How dare you feel entitled to ask for more of me when I trusted you? You were just like all the others. What I could give would never be enough. You were no prince.
My skin crawled when you touched me, as if the fire at our wedding was burning on my body.
***
Today is my thirty-first birthday, and we’re in the kitchen. It’s been a couple of days since I handed you that screwdriver. I am smashing ginger and garlic into a paste with a pestle and mortar, when your nasal voice pierces through my calm.
‘They really want us to start thinking about a family, honey.’
Leeches, all of them. They’ll suck you dry till you’re a mummy. I chuckle at the unintended pun.
We’d decided we weren’t going to have children, but I’m not surprised you’ve broken your word, yet again. You continue to annoyingly yammer on about how we’ll be great parents. We’ll learn from our parents’ mistakes. We’ll read books and educate ourselves. Are there any parenting classes we can take?
Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof.
I picture myself smashing the pestle against your mouth so you’d stop barking for just one second!
A thud against the counter snaps me out of my titillating vision.
You’re on the floor.
Blood trickles down the pestle.
I stare at you as time goes by.
Finally, quiet.
