Thick velvet curtains barricaded even the shadow of a breeze from entering the room. Darkness was defied by the singular lamp, which cast oscillating shadows on the opposite wall of the rocking chair and its lone occupant.
He sat there, rocking to and fro, watching silence descend into the cracks of the worn out walls. The chair grated with a steady rhythm against the floor. The floor an unwilling participant of a sexual intercourse, groaning against the gyrating intrusion of the solid wood of the chair.
Yes, it was a disgusting thought which lingered in his filthy mind. But it smelled way cleaner than the other thoughts which otherwise occupied the gray crevices. He looked at the ageing walls and wondered how many stories would they tell, only if they could.
Was his ‘problem’ genetic? Had perhaps, some forlorn ancestor who felt as wretched as he did now, beaten a confession out of himself, with only the walls a testimony to the dirty dredges of his mind.
He was a good man. He kept telling himself that. He was good man, who sat in the middle of the night, in an isolated room, rocking in an ancient chair, with a revolver in his hand, loaded with just one bullet. He was a good man, who was driven to hard choices, thanks to the Hyde which controlled his mind. But beneath all that filth, he was a good man. Honest and loving.
Loving, the word ricocheted against the walls of his mind and heart and landed with a plush in a pool of red. The splash of crimson startled him and then he knew no more as he got enveloped in nothingness.
The shot though muffled, traveled upstairs to the ears of his half-asleep twelve year old daughter. She scampered out of bed and climbed down the stairs.
“Daddy?” she called out in apprehension as she followed the path she had seen him take a couple of hours ago. When she was treated with only silence, she slowed her pace, dragging one foot after the other. When she reached his door, she knocked on it.
“Daddy?” she called out again. She turned the handle on the door. Then she screamed. Screamed like she would never stop screaming. Sprawled on the floor was the lifeless body of her father. On the desk beside the lamp, lay on sheet of paper on which was scrawled with an unsteady hand, many times over a single line, “I don’t want to be a pedophile”
The chair continued its obtrusive rocking to and fro