Autobiography of an Avenger

 

''Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.”

― Walter Scott, The Heart of Mid-Lothian

 

 

Madness, anger,

Sadness, terror inflicts the mind

As I stand over,

Stand over the body of my son.

Dead upon the attack of a knife

My son, lies here,

Lying dead,

The murderers have run away…

 

(They got off!

They ran away!

The devils ran away!

Can anyone see them?

They ran away!

They shattered me

Shattered and threw me into a void

Void of never-ending red hell!)

 

The wood had reduced to ash long ago,

But the birch it up again fifteen years later,

As I saw, saw my prey

Standing in the alleyway

Beside the spot, the spot

Where he lay, my son

My son who wished me that day

Saying, ‘Happy Father’s Day!’

 

(They took him away

Demanded a ransom, which

I could not give. For 5 days

After bloodbathing everything,

I got the amount. But they,

They did not return the ten-year old

Instead, found his dead self

Eyes wide open, with a knife

Stabbed into the heart

They killed my son!

The devils! They killed him!

They got off!

They ran away!

And I just go,

With nothing

Nothing!)

 

The eyes of the man lit up,

Not with rage, but with fear,

Like an antelope standing still,

He got attacked by the lion,

The king who had been exiled

Exiled from everyone fifteen years ago,

He slaughtered the deer just like it had done

To his cub

He stabbed, stabbed till blood flew,

And stained the path with red…

 

They are coming now

Coming to take me away,

Possibly for death, or

To rot away in a cell – (those iron bars holding the soul in)

I laugh, oh the irony indeed!

When I thought I was free, and instead

Find myself captured, yet again…

 

I now stand in the dark room

Writing this confused account

Of how my son got murdered by beasts

Beasts who prey on money and crimes,

And how I teared up the man

A man who shattered me,

Made me fall into a void of never-ending darkness.

Here I now hold up the lantern, throwing down with a crash

The flames burn up my wooden floor…

Rather dying in the fire of the morgue

(that iron machine reducing bodies to ash)

 But be burnt in my own flame of happiness,

The flames of my revenge.

 

And here lies an autobiography

An autobiography of an avenger, who

Didn’t matter about murder,

Didn’t matter about imprisonment,

Didn’t matter about death,

Didn’t matter being damned to hell,

But only thought of how to tear apart the persons

Who took away his son from him

And so, I sit upon my chair

The same chair, on which the ten-year old

made the card – my favourite sovereign

entitled, ‘HAPPY FATHER’S DAY’

 

I put in the cyanide. The chorus

of wood burns and glass breaking surge.

The night lights up in blood-red,

Farewell, world! I now rest…

***

 

M.Macabre

20.06.2021

 

Writer’s Notes: The idea of writing an account of a revenge had been occurring to me for the past three days. On the occasion of Father’s Day, I finally gathered my thoughts, and wrote it down in the form a poem.

 

I really don’t know whether to call it a poem, a really bad story with no sense, or an account of a confused and madman. What do you think?