Confessions Of A Madman

I live a depressing life. There is nothing worth to reflect upon. The foreshadowing of events of my pathetic life began in the stinking backseat of an old beat up Volkswagen, where a new-born baby was forced out into a world of perpetual submission to a system designed for goddam yuppies. The angry infant trying to crawl back into his motherís womb was me. Itís so sick. My mother was going to take a dump, and whilst squatting over the bowl, a sharp pain overwhelmed and catapulted her into a painful labour. It was then that I knew that life stinks, and the irony of it all is that the moment I was thrust out into this forsaken world, my dad exclaimed, "SHIT!" (maybe thatís why I feel like shit all my life.) Thatís right, the very words these innocent ears heard was shit. I could still remember how it felt when shit was screamed into my auditory canal, almost bursting my sensitive eardrums while signals were sent to my empty brain that absorbed every letter, tone and sharp decibel like an eager sponge; while my head spun nauseously to the fading resonance. An evil thing to subject an infant to. However, little did I realise that my ears will be subjected to shit and its equivalent throughout my meaningless existence on this dying planet.

Childhood. Boy, it was fun. I nearly killed my little brother. It wasnít by any freak accident or any thing like that; I wanted to. It was his destiny. I neatly wrapped my little brother in an aluminium foil and placed him into the oven. If it wasnít for my baby brotherís noise-generating vocal cord, my parents would be in for one hell of a surprise. I guess my mom felt something wrong about the way my little brother was crying his little lungs out, so she made her way into the kitchen at warp speed.

The look in her petrified eyes said everything, She just stood there, hunching slightly towards the little window on the oven. Her motherly eyes almost went blind at the sight of her precious son dancing in the blistering heat of the oven. She looked at me. I thought her eyes were going to burst out of their sockets or something.

"YouÖ.." my mom whispered nervously. She was in a state of mind where she could only utter one word in between a couple of breaths, a couple hundred of short breaths, that is. I couldnít remember if I had a stupid smirk on my face, or if I had a smile. All I knew was that my mom had her hands pressed up against the little window and fainted.

My mom laid on the kitchen floor. There was something about her motionless body and still face that appealed to me. She looked peaceful, as if some heavy burden was lifted off her tired shoulders. I have seen dead people before. Usually on the television, but I rarely had the luxury of seeing someone die before my eyes.

Is she dead? I thought about the sweet possibilities on how Iím going to live my life without any annoying parental supervision. I could eat whatever my hearts desires, watch television till the end of time, exclude myself from being a passive victim of compulsory schoolingÖ. And the list goes on. Basically, I will not be told what to do and how to do anything. At last, FREEDOM!

I turned to look at how my lovely little brother was doing. Through the window, I could see him clawing the hot air, watching how he twisted and turned, trying to wriggle his pathetic self out of the aluminium foil that I had wrapped him in. Listened to his annoying and piercing cries. As I listened closely, the cries sounded like short blasts of laughter and muffled giggles. Iím glad that my dear little brother loves this moment as much as I do, it was not always that I get to spend some good quality time with him. I touched that little window on that oven with one hand. It was warm. I could feel his hands, although we were separated by fairly thick piece of glass. That touched me. I could feel the intimate bond we had. Oh my dear baby brotherÖ.I then turned on the oven on full blast.

I turned to my mom. Are you really dead? Donít play with me now. She didnít move. Suddenly, I thought I saw her breathe, and that scared me. In a panicky state my eyes searched the entire kitchen for something to kill my mom with. Nobody, I mean nobody is going to interfere with my destiny. FreedomÖ.I could almost smell it, or was that the aroma of my baby brotherís burning flesh?

I almost killed my brother. My mom too, if it wasnít for my dad. I forgot all about him. Daddy was just in the other room, when fate guided him into the kitchen. He cancelled baby brotherís appointment with God and revived mom. My only consolation was the thrill of watching daddy slapping mom vigorously to wake her up, whereupon I imagined blood spurting out of her mouth and her choking on her vomit.

Haider Bachtiar

Generation Terrorists