A short story by Prashant C. Trikannad
The old proprietor of the country liquor shop dropped the coins in the drawer and handed Kiaan a bottle of hooch wrapped in newspaper.
"Now you be careful with that, kid," he said, leaning over the counter and pulling the young boy's raincoat together.
Kiaan nodded without looking up.
"Tell your father I said hi."
"He's not my father," the boy said.
"Uh, okay. You take care," the barman said. "The rain gods are in a foul mood tonight."
Kiaan gripped the bottle by the neck and went out into the night. Rain was falling hard and the narrow bridge leading to the other side of the creek where he lived was deserted. His shoes made a sucking sound as he walked through muddy water.
The night was eerily quiet. The storm had taken out the street lights. Another kid would have shivered with cold fear. Not Kiaan. All he felt was a burning anger towards the man who beat his mother every night and had made life hell. He shook involuntarily and his fingers tightened around the bottle of cheap Feni. Tonight would be the last night his stepfather sent him out to fetch the bottle. As he walked across the bridge, he looked at the ghostly shapes of trawlers bobbing in the distance where the creek joined the sea.
His father had died when he was six. Four years later, his mother had married his father's school friend. She'd told him she took the step for his sake, because he needed a father figure in his life. His stepfather turned out to be a violent alcoholic whose physical abuse of his mother started almost immediately after they returned from honeymoon. Night after night the boy hid under his blanket to drown out the loud sounds from the other room and cried himself to sleep.
Kiaan crossed the creek, turned into a dark lane, and stopped. The rain was coming in torrents. Lightning and thunder rent the air. He looked down and found himself in knee-deep water. It felt cold against his skin. He waded through long shadows of dilapidated buildings on either side. Suddenly, he gave a startled cry when he felt something crawl across his legs and crawl back again. Terrified, he ran, splashed, ran as fast as he could through filthy water and floating garbage, clutching the bottle to his chest.
When he reached the end of the lane, he turned left, clambered up the uneven footpath and entered a building. Light from a ceiling bulb danced in the pool of water on the floor. Flecks of yellow paint peeled off the walls. An ‘out of order’ sign hung on the metal-caged lift. Pigeons cooed in the ventilation above the doorway. And the storm cut through the stillness in the dingy hallway.
The kid pushed back the hood of his raincoat and carefully removed the bottle from the newspaper wrapping. He went back to the entrance, dipped the bottle into the water, and smashed it as hard as he could against the wall. It broke on the third blow. When he lifted it again, he was holding the neck of the bottle with jagged edges dripping blood and water. Tears rolled down his face as he pulled out a piece of glass from his hand. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his wet raincoat and hurried inside.
He waited at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes searching for movement. Finding none, he began to climb, one step at a time — holding the bottle away from him, like a blood-stained knife after a murder.
Kiaan stood outside his door at the end of a dimly-lit corridor. He was breathing heavily and his heart was racing. Just like it did every time his stepfather returned home reeking of cheap liquor and stale smoke, and went after his mother. For the first time since he'd left the bar, he was frightened. He knew what awaited him on the other side of the door. What he didn't know was what would happen after he went in.
With tears in his eyes and a shaking hand, he inserted his key in the lock and turned it slowly when the door opened and slammed against the wall. Kiaan pulled back with a start and dropped the bottle. The storm drowned out the crash of splintered glass. No doors opened. He stood there, frozen.
His stepfather was just inside the door, swaying on his feet. He was clutching his throat with one hand. Blood, the colour of dark red cherry, oozed through his fingers and trickled down his arms and bare chest.
“Kiaan, my dear boy!” he croaked, like a raven, and fell on his face at the boy’s feet.
At that moment, lightning flashed through the living room. At first he thought he was seeing a ghost. Then he saw it was his mother, in an avatar he'd never seen before.
“It’s over, Kiaan, It's finally over,” She said and reached out with both her hands. "I love you so much.”
The old proprietor of the country liquor shop dropped the coins in the drawer and handed Kiaan a bottle of hooch wrapped in newspaper.
"Now you be careful with that, kid," he said, leaning over the counter and pulling the young boy's raincoat together.
Kiaan nodded without looking up.
"Tell your father I said hi."
"He's not my father," the boy said.
"Uh, okay. You take care," the barman said. "The rain gods are in a foul mood tonight."
Kiaan gripped the bottle by the neck and went out into the night. Rain was falling hard and the narrow bridge leading to the other side of the creek where he lived was deserted. His shoes made a sucking sound as he walked through muddy water.
The night was eerily quiet. The storm had taken out the street lights. Another kid would have shivered with cold fear. Not Kiaan. All he felt was a burning anger towards the man who beat his mother every night and had made life hell. He shook involuntarily and his fingers tightened around the bottle of cheap Feni. Tonight would be the last night his stepfather sent him out to fetch the bottle. As he walked across the bridge, he looked at the ghostly shapes of trawlers bobbing in the distance where the creek joined the sea.
His father had died when he was six. Four years later, his mother had married his father's school friend. She'd told him she took the step for his sake, because he needed a father figure in his life. His stepfather turned out to be a violent alcoholic whose physical abuse of his mother started almost immediately after they returned from honeymoon. Night after night the boy hid under his blanket to drown out the loud sounds from the other room and cried himself to sleep.
* * *
Kiaan crossed the creek, turned into a dark lane, and stopped. The rain was coming in torrents. Lightning and thunder rent the air. He looked down and found himself in knee-deep water. It felt cold against his skin. He waded through long shadows of dilapidated buildings on either side. Suddenly, he gave a startled cry when he felt something crawl across his legs and crawl back again. Terrified, he ran, splashed, ran as fast as he could through filthy water and floating garbage, clutching the bottle to his chest.
When he reached the end of the lane, he turned left, clambered up the uneven footpath and entered a building. Light from a ceiling bulb danced in the pool of water on the floor. Flecks of yellow paint peeled off the walls. An ‘out of order’ sign hung on the metal-caged lift. Pigeons cooed in the ventilation above the doorway. And the storm cut through the stillness in the dingy hallway.
The kid pushed back the hood of his raincoat and carefully removed the bottle from the newspaper wrapping. He went back to the entrance, dipped the bottle into the water, and smashed it as hard as he could against the wall. It broke on the third blow. When he lifted it again, he was holding the neck of the bottle with jagged edges dripping blood and water. Tears rolled down his face as he pulled out a piece of glass from his hand. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his wet raincoat and hurried inside.
He waited at the bottom of the stairs, his eyes searching for movement. Finding none, he began to climb, one step at a time — holding the bottle away from him, like a blood-stained knife after a murder.
* * *
Kiaan stood outside his door at the end of a dimly-lit corridor. He was breathing heavily and his heart was racing. Just like it did every time his stepfather returned home reeking of cheap liquor and stale smoke, and went after his mother. For the first time since he'd left the bar, he was frightened. He knew what awaited him on the other side of the door. What he didn't know was what would happen after he went in.
With tears in his eyes and a shaking hand, he inserted his key in the lock and turned it slowly when the door opened and slammed against the wall. Kiaan pulled back with a start and dropped the bottle. The storm drowned out the crash of splintered glass. No doors opened. He stood there, frozen.
His stepfather was just inside the door, swaying on his feet. He was clutching his throat with one hand. Blood, the colour of dark red cherry, oozed through his fingers and trickled down his arms and bare chest.
“Kiaan, my dear boy!” he croaked, like a raven, and fell on his face at the boy’s feet.
At that moment, lightning flashed through the living room. At first he thought he was seeing a ghost. Then he saw it was his mother, in an avatar he'd never seen before.
“It’s over, Kiaan, It's finally over,” She said and reached out with both her hands. "I love you so much.”
Trembling, the boy backed away till his hands found cold wall. He began to weep.
© Prashant C. Trikannad, 2016
Liked the story very much! I thought it was going to end in another way though!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Mystica. I spent days pondering over the ending, which was predictable any which way I thought about it. In the end I decided to add a little twist.
DeletePowerful, Prashant. That creepy, crawly thing going up and down his leg. Ugh. And the setting reminded me of those abandoned mills of Mumbai.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Neer. Part of that came from my own experience walking through the flooded streets of Bombay, on my way to school and back. Of course, my circumstances were entirely different, and certainly happier than Kiaan's.
DeleteVery good story, Prashant. With a terrifying ending.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Tracy. A story can be written and rewritten in a hundred and more ways, and that's my dilemma.
DeleteVery nice work, Prashant. The child’s rising anger was well done. The storm, the lightning, and the rain and running water were vivid.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Elgin. I appreciate your feedback. Improbabilities in a story bother me. For instance, can a ten-year-old actually be in this situation? From what I have heard people tell, he can. The next questions is how best to capture it. Well, one writes and learns.
DeleteWhat a powerful story, Prashant! You really convey the boy's feelings effectively, and I like his sense of protectiveness about his mother. Even the small part of the shopkeeper is done well. I'm impressed with your use of atmosphere, too. I really felt the boy's mix of fear and hatred and determination.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Margot. As I noted in my reply to Mystica's comment, I struggled with the ending, and frankly, I'm still not happy with it. I'd love to know how published writers, like you Margot, would've ended it. The boy sets out to kill his stepfather and is suddenly confronted by the horror of seeing his mother do the deed, and he can't accept it. It is not easy to draw human emotion, especially children's.
DeleteTop story, Prashant - well done! Great atmosphere to it.
ReplyDeleteThree big scores for me — thank you, Col! The problem with flash fiction or short story are ruing over elements that don't go into the story because there isn't enough space. Everything seems important.
DeleteWow, this is really good. excellent details. I could feel it all.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Charles. I appreciate your positive feedback. Next I want to try my hand at fantasy or science fiction. But first I'll have to oil my imagination really well, and then the writing, of course.
DeleteTerrific story, Prashant and a nice twist at the end.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Oscar. I'm happy you liked it. The twist is in the tail — how do I end it? — which, for me, is the hardest part of writing a story.
DeleteEndings are tough,but you did fine on this one.
DeleteThanks, Oscar. I feel encouraged; of course, to do better in my future stories.
DeleteI'm with Charles. Like the details.
ReplyDeleteThank you, David. I feel like an explorer in the realm of short stories, discovering something new as I go into uncharted territory.
DeleteTerrific, Prashant. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Patti. I have been inspired by your own short stories as well as those by our blog friends, Charles, Margot, David, Oscar, and many others.
DeleteThe best of yours I've read Prashant - incredible atmosphere, and details, and tension. I could picture it all. Really excellent.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Moira. That means a lot to me. I need to introduce Indianness in my stories. Somehow that isn't coming through, perhaps because I'm far too influenced by Western settings and atmosphere.
Delete