Of Silence: Suicide and Murder

A cup of tea, and a newspaper headline "Boy, 18, Kills Himself". Usual news it was. Forensics confirmed of suicide. No words of clemency around. Blasphemies from many mouths, a pair of eyes though shed hushed tears, as if asking for forgiveness.

Boy. Thick rimmed glasses- a show-off they called, dissembled bulk of hair-careless they called, un-ironed pants-lazy they whispered, class topper-cheater they claimed, name- Munal they loathed. Lower middle class family. Raised by father, hated by his stepmother and her daughter. He lost his mother when he was five and together with mother, he lost his voice. Sole but jovial soul, bright one he was. Physics he considered his heart. He revered Hawking, and loved relativity as much. Discoursing with guitar, frets and chords soothed him. He bled ink, for pen was his only voice. His stories spoke of stars and vanished souls.

Being mute had no rewards. But petite did his lost voice affected him. No grievances he had of his infirmity. Neither he had whatsoever to ask for, nor any elucidations. Lone he was, and without complaints.

"Shameless fellow" shouted one. "He tried to rape his own sister?", whispered a girl to another. "I had always hated him. His dark eyes always stared at me. That made me feel so uneasy." said the girl he cherished to her best friend. "I knew he had wicked intents behind the silence." accused another one. It was much more than he could bear. He have had adequate from his father. He found that neighborhood was not a good idea. He thought, the world was not a good idea.

Annulled. His mind-void. He could not scream, he could not screech. He neither could defend himself, nor could explain. He could not bear of what he was accused. All these years of complain less silence and he hated this time the most. He could have bled the ink again, but for what he had been blamed, it would seem mere plea. With no help around, he took the blade. Three analogous cuts below the left wrist. Off the cuts, drizzled the red fluid like hurling river water, painting the floor. He left no notes, for his purity would mean nothing to anyone.

He was home early that day. Parents were up in their room, and he went to his room, without a noise. Hunger no longer concerned him, for he had trained himself on two meals a day.

He changed and went to freshen himself up. He smelt something unusual. He followed it and reached to his stepsister's room. The door was not closed, so he peeked inside. Cuddled in the bedside corner lay his sister, sniffing something with fire of lighter underneath a paper. With reference from documentary he had seen earlier, he identified his sister doing drugs. He was just about to divert when abruptly, he felt arms clamp around chest. It all happened within the blink of an eye. His sister had flung herself to the floor, torn her clothes off and started shouting. The drugs had been hidden somewhere in split second. Munal could not decide what to do, neither could he understand what was coming. His father came rushing in and without any utterance, hurled him to the wall.  Stepmother, found the bull's eye. She shouted and assembled people around.

It does not take much effort for a murder does it? Or can forensics differentiate suicides and murders?




I am really grateful to my friend Rajshree Karki for editing this piece.

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