Yes, I had killed our respected trainer. He was a disciplined man. He had served us throughout the years. He was a doctor by profession, a psychiatrist. His strict rules and regulations were always obeyed without any single groan of protest.
He was the medical equipment supervisor and an amateur trainer in the mental hospital in which I was boarding. He used to appear in our cell block almost every morning. Our hands were put in the small bed side lockers by the nurses. The inmates of our ward were regularly imparted with skills, trades and crafts by him. But he might be suffering from hearing problems as he never listened to us. I never heard his lectures. I just used to gaze at his animating figure. That's why, might be, I was his favourite prey.
I always wanted to tell him a lot of things. The heaps of embedded voices inside my heart longed to enter his ears. But he was hardly interested in my quests. After every trial the injection always made me unconscious and thus I was prohibited to express my melancholy.
That day I just couldn't tolerate his refusal anymore. I broke the lock chain and stroke him hard with the intravenous therapy pole that was attached to my bed. He lay there, motionless. I checked the courtyard. No, there's no nurse-maid present at that time. After that I caressed his face and spoke my heart out.
"I am not a psychiatric patient, doctor. I am an avid reader of books and I just can't stop myself from behaving like the character I read about."
To my surprise he listened to me honestly and didn't utter a single word. I checked his breath in fear. My fingers didn't detect any blow of air across his nose. I kissed his forehead and bade him a decent goodbye.
I had lost my identity by then. The individual cell of the prison embarrassed me a lot. Moreover I was kept in a lockdown. Meals were served through the chuck holes in the cell door, and allotted only one hour of outdoor exercise per day, alone. Normally we are not permitted to contact with other inmates and were under constant surveillance.
All I knew was that I am a killer. The incident never agreed to leave me alone. It never allowed me to sleep in peace. Oftentimes I was called as a murderer by the jail authorities. Not only me but every prisoner was addressed as rapist, pirate, corrupt, thief, etc. instead of using their real names.
I used to spend the whole day looking at the scratchy wall and writing some lines on some pieces of paper. I scribbled a lot while sitting useless inside my cell. Several thoughts aroused in my mind. I yearned for freedom, not from those bars but from the unfair life that I was living. I spend there almost a decade but I never got an opportunity to commit suicide.
At every interval of three months she used to visit me. Being a widow she was acutely poor. She was the only one who stood by me through my hardships. The visiting areas were always full of crowds but she never hesitated to push them away and meet me. We exchanged glances and she used to put her palm on my face and sob voraciously. After that she always handed me the tiffin which contained some delicious home made food items.
One day I handed her the bunch of scripts that I had written. She was suffering from asthma and didn't have enough money for better treatment. I asked her to publish my work and earn some penny out of them. She agreed and went away. Little did I know that there's something wonder awaiting for me in future.
The book earned her too much and quite enough to hire an expensive lawyer. It finally helped in freeing me out of imprisonment. Later that year I was declared normal by the mind care unit after several tests.
"My son, you are born to write. The world is fond of your scribblings. Tell them with all your love. And believe me, they will listen to you this time." She said as she patted my back.
My mother's words brought a sort of trifling smile in my lips. But I didn't smile because I don't know how to. I almost forgot when I did that last time. Did I want to be called as psycho once again? Never.
Tags:
Fiction