Tuesday, February 8, 2011

MURDER ON VALENTINE


Jude looked at his bloodied hands dazed beyond words. As though he were in a trance, he paced the room, seeing nothing and hearing nothing except the blood on his hands and the groans which echoed and re-echoed in his skull.

“Today is supposed to be valentine”, he wondered aloud. He paced a little bit more and stopped at the crumpled figure before him. Then he looked down unseeing. A little storm began to build up in his head.

Suddenly, his phone rang and that brought him back to consciousness. He picked up the phone and switched it off. It was no time to pick calls. The devil has really gotten him in a tight corner.

He peeked at the figure again and caught a glint in the twin iris, they were gazing at him. His heart skipped two beats. “Could she be alive”, he wondered.

Sobered, Jude knelt beside the corpse of his girlfriend, his valentine until some moments ago. She was still very dead. Blood had congealed around her temple. The cut was deep. Two hours ago, he wouldn’t have believed that Temi would ever lie immobile for more than a minute. Even in her sleep, she was always a restless one, her tantrums were unequaled.
It’s been over an hour now and Temi was still, dead as a piece of beef. Jude picked her hand. It was cold and his hands grew misty as big drops of tears dropped on her face, on her sightless eyes. Temi, the same Temi with whom he had planned the most memorable valentine ever.

Something liquid seeped through his trousers. It was the wine from the broken Champagne bottle, they were supposed to be toasting with it. He glanced ever so casually at the upturned table. Beside it was a squashed valentine cake and beside the cake was the ring. Yes, the engagement ring he had planned to give her and now she was dead. Reflexively, he looked at her middle finger and wondered how the ring would have looked on it.

He shook his head as if to clear the clouds in his skies and tried to make meaning out of the events. Temi had come in looking as gorgeous as ever that afternoon but she was moody and he had asked her what the problem. She had declined offering any response. He had gotten pissed off and as they argued she spoke the words that sent his world crashing: a three months old fetus was breathing inside her.

Pregnant? Three months! He had slapped her thrice in the space of a second. How could she be pregnant? He had never touched her; she was the ‘special one’, she bore the forbidden fruits that would be untouched until she became his wife. That was their agreement. Now she was pregnant.

Temi was the first girl he had really loved, before then, all he was after was sex and more sex. but with Temi, he found the consuming spark and fell in love. Temi, vivacious, likable and beautiful, she had taken him away from alcohol, women and hemp. She had cleaned him up, literally. She was his idea of a woman, a saint in the making. How could she then be pregnant?

It wasn’t until she told him who was responsible that he got really mad, it was Mike, his bosom friend. It was too much to take. He forgot the bottle of wine on the table, he forgot the cake yet unwrapped and forgot the diamond ring he had bought for her. The dream was too bitter to wake from and in his blindness, he had pushed her down.

Her head had struck the marble floor with a resounding, sickening crack and she died quickly without a sound. As blood flowed from her head, she twitched like someone being electrocuted. He had rushed to her side alarmed but nothing could have been done for her. She died. It was murder, murder of mother and unborn child, unborn bastard.

His other phone rang jolting him back from the subconscious. He picked it and terminated the call; this was no time for calls. Not when there was a murder, a murder on valentine.

Mind made up, Jude dialed 911. It was best that way he thought. A voice came over the line.

“Hello, you have reached the police emergency number, how may we help you”.

Without responding, Jude terminated the call. He had a better thought of how to handle the situation. If the police got him now he would surely rot in jail. There was no point, he had to escape the murder. He remembered the bottle of local rat poison in the cupboard. He went there and emptied the bottle down his throat without batting an eyelid.

He had no time for a suicide note. Let the world wonder. He walked back to the corpse and kissed the stiff lips for the last time. As he sat down beside her, he began to feel the first pangs. Death was calling.

There was no better way to get away with a valentine murder than with a valentine suicide.


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