Dear Alvie,
Hatred is a strange emotion, isn’t it. It is a strong emotion that make people weak. They hide themselves behind many a charades, often burst anger with a shower of tears, or crack laughter with an ounce of crookedness, or the worst, the treatment of silence with a quintal load of selfishness hoarded in the mind.
Stranger is the fact that I’ve been through all and have finally settled myself cosily into the last one. It is very comforting. I love the way I hate you and father. Yet, I find myself writing these letters to you every now and then in my diary. Maybe, it is my way of letting you know how it feels, instead of actually letting you really know. Oh, How will you know, little cuckoo? You’ve always been like that. And me, I was just another victim of father’s unending devotedness towards the sickening misogyny he and his forefathers nurtured. You were an exception. Somehow, he sympathised you, not just him, even mother. But there were days when she sympathised for me as well. But was it enough. Well, I will never know. Coz, hating dead doesn’t make any sense, right.
Poor Maria. She fell victim to Philip’s dark secret. Did he kill Mumma, Alvie? I think you know but you are the little cuckoo, right. I was sent a week before as a prized possession to someone’s home in the deal of a wedlock and a week later, I hear the news of Mumma’s death. And Noah just left. Or did he? Did Philip kill Noah as well? Is that why Maria is imprisoned at that house, serving father like a slave under the mockery of a marriage. But how will you know all this Alvie?
You are nothing but a privileged insane human being, right. You cost me my childhood, my teen and even…
Noah…. I wonder where you are. You do write letters to her, but not to me. Or do you? Maria, I call you every month without fail. I wish you could just tell me the truth dear?
-Shira
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Peter was kind to me always. I have never been good to him yet he treats me well. The kind of respect that I deserved but never got at my own home was well and maybe overly compensated by this beautiful guy. yet, I harbour secrets from him. We lived together under the same roof for these many years, but that was all it was. We just lived.
I kind of lingered at the imprisonment of my home even though I was out of it. Father still held the keys to my freedom and I was locked up in that dungeon of his. Alvie’s thoughts still got on my nerves. The little one , born a little strayed off mind. She was treated well and good, but me. I was the servant Dad transferred Mom’s responsibilities with. I was jealous of her and I hated Dad.
And when Noah came, he became the prized possession of father, the son he never had. And when I fell in love with him, I wanted to tell him what I felt. But he was auctioned off to Alvie. She just got away with everything. Even mother opted to be the silent spectator.
Poor Maria alone empathized at my state, though she was in a darker phase than I was. Another victim to another father’s misdeed. I wept the week before my wedding with Peter. I wept the day I watched Noah among the crowd as Peter tied the rope around my neck. I wept a week later when I heard my mother’s death.
It was Alvie all along. She should’ve been shut long before in an asylum, but the pride of Philip never allowed that. Ruined my life and everyone else around. I have heard stories of Alvie being seen in blood near mother’s lifeless corpse. But who follows up to the miseries and mysteries of rich man’s house? Nobody.
Peter’s rope was a blessing in disguise. I was at peace at this distant house in a distant land. But I have not learned to love anyone. Such a pity. Hatred brews in me like a strong concoction, ready to burn anyone who dare taste a drop.
Maria duly attends the call every time, Alvie tries to talk with me but I never budge. The little one who killed everyone in the house.
“You are supposed to pick the call, Maria”, I was angry.
“Sorry”, she mumbled.
“Is father gone?”
“Not yet”, she answered duly.
“So have you decided to tell me this time?”
It was dead silence for another minute. I then shut the phone and walked away.
Another waiting period till the next call. Another time period to hate. Another duration of never ending miseries. Where the hell are you, Noah? Are you dead or alive?
..to be continued
Scribbles of a caffeinated psyche 