Considering
everything that had happened, the last person I expected to see when I walked
into the room was her
father. The flash lights from the camera made the room appear as if it was
amidst a thunderstorm. Her father stood in front of the press teary eyed.
“I’m
sure the Lord will show us a way and I’m hopeful that she is fine and well.
With all your prayers, I’m looking forward to the day she will come back to us”, he was saying to the press. Fine and well. Well, she was - a few
days ago, until I cut the steel through her throat. I leaned against the wall
in the corner of the room and watched the drama unfold.
She has been reported missing for
five days now. #PrayforSara had become a Twitter trend. It’s funny how the
social media reacts to sensational news. Their “Sherlockian” guesses crack me
up. One such investigative theory was that she was the adopted daughter of the
President, and she was forcefully sent to Nepal to avoid the truth from being
let out! Why don’t people come up with the simplest guess? Cold blooded murder. Girl stabbed by her lover. That would make a
great headline.
“Do
you think Sara is still alive?”,
asked one of the reporters. Of course, not. Her blood dripped through my very
hands. It flowed down her throat, dripping down her curly brown hair, the
beautiful curly hair that I loved, tracing its shape and finally falling on my
hands. I still remember the smell of her blood. She should have known. I’m sure
she knew. I have been stalking her for over a year. Of course, she must have
known. Yet she decided to stalk someone else, instead. That tall, dark and
handsome colleague of hers. I was doubtful of him from the very beginning. But -
I loved her. Was it really love?
I still remember that warm
afternoon, I stalked her and found her sitting at one of my favourite cafes.
She was sitting alone with a book, smiling to herself. As her long slender
fingers turned the pages over, she gave me a quick glance and I knew for sure
that the smile, that came after, was not for the book. That night I dreamt of a
life together with her, raising a family, having kids. She was the reason I
felt alive every day.
There was a sudden hustle among the
press now. Her father let out a huge cry. Cameras flashed again. Uh-oh, I guess
they’ve found the body. It must be in a bad shape by now, under the bridge
where I left her. I was afraid of being engulfed with guilt and regret when I
stood next to her, five days ago, watching her lifeless body. I’m surprised I
wasn’t. How can someone kill a person? Let alone after having loved them? Am I a
psychopath? Maybe. But something in me tells that she deserved it.
I felt she deserved it, when I
closed her mouth from behind and slit her throat. I felt she deserved it when I
thought about the day her colleague left her home late in the night. How could
she? Even after knowing that I’ve been after her for a long time, even after
exchanging those smiles and knowing glances, even after “coincidentally”
meeting at the same spot for months? She deserved it.
The crowd was settling down. I
decided to move across the room and exit the building. I got to know what I
wanted to. Although I didn’t expect to see her father today along with the
investigative officers, I was kind of relieved that it finally happened. As I
moved across the room, a voice called out to me, “Oh! You’re the last person I expected to see now”. It was her
father. My legs froze. I stood still. I felt paralysed. I slowly turned around.
“Um..I didn’t know you knew me,
Sir”, I managed to start talking. “They just found Sara”, her father leaned on
my shoulders and wept like a child. He composed himself, and wiping away his
tears, continued, “Of course, I know you. Sara has told all about you. I hope
you have met her few times?”
I panicked. What is he doing? Is
this some sort of trick to get the truth out? “Uh.. we might have happened to
be in the same place, quite often, Sir. It was the reason why she was very
familiar to me and why I even started following this case. It has been very
unfortunate. I’m really sorry for your loss”, I tried to sound as genuine as
possible.
“Well, I guess she mustn’t have
told you then. You didn’t happen to be in the same place. She was stalking you.
For months, actually. She liked you a lot, my son. She has told me about you
and even sent pictures of you. I was hoping she would have talked to you. Oh
dear. I guess she really liked playing the stalking game with you. Didn’t you really
not talk with her, ever?”
“No. We… we…
didn’t get to... talk ”
I slowly moved away as the
reporters surrounded her father. I ran across the hallway and entered the
restroom. I put my hands into my coat pocket and took out her blood stained
mobile phone swiftly. I switched it on and opened WhatsApp with my shivering hands. And there I found, in her conversation
with her father, along with two heart smileys, a picture of myself
sipping coffee at my favourite café.
