An innocent kill


668..670..672, she muttered to herself , now safe in the darkness of her room. 674..676..678..the sweat drops glistening on her forehead flowed down to her neck and were now forming dark patches on her cotton shirt. 680..682..684..the voices grew closer. There was a thud on the door and then a sharp turn of the handle – Amina shrieked, shivered and swooned.

 

Amina had woken up that morning to the sight of four strange men in suits, looking at her.  Her parents stood in a corner like the curators of a museum where she was the only showpiece.

She scorned at the men while they smiled. She collected her bed cover closer to her body and reclined to the farthest corner possible.

One of the men moved closer, “Hey Kiddo, isn’t it a fine morning?” She inserted her tiny fingers into her ears, deep enough to touch her ear drums.

While the temperature outside dipped, Amina’s body gave in to perspiration. She started counting numbers – multiples of two. This usually calmed her down. “It’s like being back in the womb,” she would say.

The men had now receded. It was the turn of the ‘curators’.

“Relax Ami. They have just come to visit you,” her mom said. Amina hardly paid attention and kept looking at the mosquito which sat on her mother’s wrist. Snap…It now lay smashed in a tiny patch of blood. For a second, she imagined herself in the insect’s place – limbs twisted at odd angles, broken teeth and hair smudged with blood. She quivered.

Amina was just nine – a fact that would appear as a joke to someone who saw her personal library. Stacked on the shelves were works of Srinivasa Ramanujam, Wu Wenjun, Andrew Wiles, Fibonacci and others – a collection that could boil the brains of any ordinary human.

But she was far from ordinary. A child prodigy, she had cracked the code to the most perplexing math and physics paradoxes and was now a research specimen for the biologists. Doctors say she has “savant syndrome” – something which her family read as “being utterly genius” syndrome ignoring the deficiency.

Picture source : tvtropes.org

Picture source : tvtropes.org

Amina was staged before people like a gorilla in chains, while her parents in their prettiest dresses, bowed, gleamed and flaunted their property. The audience sighed with admiration and later sniffed with sympathy.

That morning the cage appeared again – the cage that would take Amina to one of the wretched exposing lawns, where a million eyes would tear through her body to find an answer to why she is unique. She could already feel the bright neon lights blinding her. The applause at the end of it, which would remind her of axes trying to fell a tree.

The mosquito’s blood was now turning into a dark shade of maroon. Wiping it off, her mom said,” Now you should get cleaned too.”

“For what?”

“We have to go, another glorious moment for you.” said her mom, and left to get herself dressed.

Amina followed her. She stared while her mom chose the best of clothes, tried different accessories and rehearsed her laugh, walk and handshake in the mirror.

Surges of hatred consumed her. She took to counting. 2,4,6,8 ….

660, 662, 664, 666… Amina stopped.  Her eyes went to the pesticide near the bedroom window.

“Oh honey…..”

Unable to finish the sentence, her mom fell – unconscious and lifeless.

668..670..672, she muttered to herself , now safe in the darkness of her room. 674..676..678..the sweat drops glistening on her forehead flowed down to her neck and were now forming dark patches on her cotton shirt. 680..682..684..the voices grew closer. There was a thud on the door and then a sharp turn of the handle – Amina shrieked, shivered and swooned.

 

 

 

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