Have you heard the phrase, standing between two rocks? Yes, this is me. Standing between three rocks, three immovable rocks, a rock itself, and two human beings who are like rocks. A crying rock with sharp edges, and a cracked one that dares death right on my face. I hope you get the picture. Right?
She is down the stairs, blood oozing from some place of the head I cannot really spot. Her eyes are turning red, popping out, her breath is increasingly fast and hasty, looks like she is going to succumb any minute. I try to talk, to shout to scream for help, but who is willing to come to my rescue? At a distance, on the stairs, I look at a moving figure. I am not sure whether to ask it to give me a hand in this.
All matters related, I will have lost something, may be a friend, nope…I had already called her a slut… may be my child…yes, my first baby. My heart is beating, torn at a level, I am sure my blood pressure is beyond control and some string of vein is forming on my head, sending signals of danger, confusion, perhaps death if I cannot get a proper solution. Someone is lying on my carpet, blood socking on my precious, very expensive, African designed carpet.
Whoever has caused this is my wife. Really? it’s me…but I can’t admit it as at now… I don’t want to blame her, I still love her. But what about this person who has built a bridge between us with my baby? Where do I put her on? She deserves an upper hand, because the law says so, and I have to be the sole contributor in her life now.
All of a sudden, a phone rings. It’s my neighbor, a very old man in the estate. Sometime last year, he fought three thieves who had broken into my house while I was away for my vacation with my wife in Bahamas. He really saved me a great deal as he recovered some pricey curtains I had bought my wife to pimp her house. And now, he is calling, most likely to ask what is going on in my house, or to confirm whether I am available. I snob the call. Energy has departed me. Someone is dying in my hands.
Thought and thoughts fight my head. If I call the police, either of us has to go to jail. Definitely my wife. So, I resolve the otherwise.
I hold my wife, who is now shaking, trembling, not sure whether what she is seeing is true. I try to get her attention, “Hey! Hey!! look at me! Forget what’s just happen…we are in this together….” I tell her to help get some water…and some bandages ready. That she understands. It’s pretty simple to save yourself off some trouble…
She runs up the stairs to the bathroom to fetch some water and bandages. I try to lift the felled soldier to the sofa. Ooh! No!! My leather sofa will be covered with blood. But I am saving life… she is crying…painfully crying… part of her head is swelled, creating some funny looks. She is not beautiful anymore. I even wonder how I ended up letting her into my house. Her bruises are still flowing with blood. Neither my wife nor I, is equipped with any skills of nursing wounds. Hers are cuts. They are deep and big.
The water is brought. The once upon a time wife I used to know is now some crazy, arrogant and shaggy woman I don’t know. If anyone came to ask what had happened, I won’t even tell whether I know her…
The doorbell rings. I haven’t even started nursing this woman’s cuts. She is crying and when I ask her to be silent, she adds up the snobs. I know she is in pain, but she should at least try to cool down the heat, make someone believe nothing is trouble around. Silence!! Then a knock again. This time, more harder and sounds serious. Some people are conversing at the door. Darkness is knocking by the dying sun.
I remember something. Why hadn’t those people arrived at first when the house was on fire? Why are they coming now, when it has burned, and some of us in here feel like we are in hell? Why? Why just choose to come when trouble has been smashed on the door, just to say, “keep away, house in fire!!” why? Why do I just receive this kind of dissonant comes to my life at this time, and has never before for the last 25 years? Do I deserve this?
My wife gets to the door, not sure whether she will manage. Her eyes look lit, her face shiny as if she has been smoking some weed, her hair is out of place…. She opens the door.