The shattered glass of love, spilled water of guilt

‘The operation can be fatal’ said the doctor. ‘A girl child would be worse’ he replied.

It had been a hard day, exhausted and torn, he returned home. With the creak of the door she got up. He couldn’t still himself. A forlorn day without uttering a word, extending well into the dark hours. He was trembling with dread and fear. Tear swollen eyes, tired steps, heavy breath he needed her. The mind was tormented by thoughts. Were these haunts, dreaded warnings, signs of fate? The thoughts clouded him and then slowly arose… guilt. Was it all his fault? Had he murdered his own … had he claimed a life? How could he live with the pounding guilt in his heart? But what else could he have done? What else … The eye lids seemed too heavy with tears. The heart had been broken, the mind clouded. She came towards him; he could sense her smell, her touch, her feeling. Still out of his mind, he took the glass of water she extended. It was cold… She was cold. And that was when he realized, how it could be. How could she be…she had been killed before her birth. It could not be his daughter, his unborn legacy. It was impossible.  Numbed by her touch, his body went still, eyes content and relieved. He didn’t dread the end as much as the life.

The police knocked open the door. He was lying there. Cold.  The glass broken, the water spilled.

Advertisement