My dad carried me out of the room. He held out a balloon to me and asked me to wait outside the room. He went inside, and all I could hear was the sound of his belt and my mother’s cries. The door opened after an hour, and he strode out. I could see my mother lying on the floor, with the marks of the belt all over her body. She looked at me staring intently at her. She smiled and said that she was okay. But I knew that she was not.


I could take it no more. I took the knife from the kitchen and walked discreetly towards my father, carefully measuring each step and weighing the pros and cons of my action. By the time I reached behind him, my hand shoved the knife right at the nape of his neck. He was too startled to react. In no time, he dropped down dead. He did not get the chance to beg forgiveness.



It has been a decade since I killed my father. My mother fled with me to another city. I commute to work by bus. Today, I reached my office about an hour late. My boss called me to his cabin and chided me for my irresponsible nature. He always calls me into his cabin for the sole purpose of insulting me. The entire office laughs at me and mocks me for being his punching bag.


He always goes to the terrace of our twenty-storied office building to smoke. I followed him today. I assured myself that I could do it. There he was, smoking in a care-free manner by the railings. One push and he was sent falling down. That was the end of him. He did not deserve forgiveness.




I have been married for about six years. I have a four year old son. My husband used to love me. But now, I suspect that he is in a relationship with someone in his office. I have tried asking him about it, but he tends to get rather abusive when I bring that topic up.


Today, he went to the extent of questioning my character when I asked him about it again. I handed him a glass of soda to calm him down and to end our argument. He apologised for his behaviour and gulped down the soda in just one sip. The moment he apologised, I had second thoughts about killing him. But it was too late. He was already down on the floor, gagging and clutching his throat. The poison had started taking its effect. He was dead soon. Forgiveness was not a virtue that I could claim to possess.




It has been twenty-five years since my husband died. Since his death, I have been raising my son on my own. He is in love with a girl, and I don’t want him to marry her.


Today, he came home drunk and thrashed me. He reminded me so much of my father. I tried to console him; I tried to knock some sense into him, but in vain. While he was sleeping, I took the knife and pushed it into his heart. His eyes flew open momentarily, and then he died. I could have forgiven him, but he did not apologise even once.


I pulled out the knife and slit my own throat. I was guilty enough for not being able to forgive a single man in my life.



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