//Did you really just say, she didn't mean anything, oh
I'll remember those words, when I come for your soul, your soul
Know that you, you dug your own grave, now lie in it
You're so cruel, but revenge is a dish best served cold.//
The lights are blaring and the people are screaming their heads off, my fingers become numb as the colour drains from my face. It had been 3 months since I had been out in public, 90 days of trying to understand what I did, of long hours staring hopelessly into a mirror, of random episodes of crying and laughter, 2160 hours of guilt eating me inside out, but simultaneously a teeny-tiny sense of satisfaction, faith in knowing in some universe, what I did was right.
As I stepped on the stage, the lights dimmed and the audience began to go silent. I wondered if they were nervous too, or just overwhelmed with emotions. My brain tried to comprehend what I was feeling but my emotions felt as though they had been turned off, like a switch which was controlling that side of me was no longer on.
I thought being on stage would give me more clarity as it was all I had ever known, being in the spotlight 24/7 had been something I had forever been comfortable with; but this time, all standing on the stage did was cut that last thread that the smallest shred of my humanity was hanging on to.
They feel sorry for me. I am the ‘singer who lost her husband at such a young age’ or, ‘the singer whose husband was found brutally murdered in their very own house’. But, what amuses me the most is the fact that they think I am innocent.
I can still feel the iciness that ran through my heart when I saw her. She was pretty, you know. Tall, red-headed, wrapped around my husband like a leech; your perfect stereotype. She saw me at the doorway and ran. What was I supposed to do, stop her?
He walked towards me, his eyes full of guilt. He loved me, right? So why couldn’t he look me in the eye?
I laughed. It was funny and it was bound to happen. Small town business man marries a famous singer and they lived happily ever after? Jokes.
There is no happily ever after.
I thought I could forgive him, thought I could forget. He apologised over and over again. Brought me flowers, took me out on dates, but how was I supposed to ignore the betrayal? I was fighting for something that didn’t exist at all. I was fighting for disappointment, fighting to be taken for granted, fighting to be hurt again. He knew what he was doing, then why didn't he stop?
So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I couldn’t wait for karma to rescue me from the unending misery, right?
I could feel my heart beat out of my chest. Gods, what was I thinking?
I stared at the gun in the bedside drawer. It looked almost elegant. I held it carefully in my hands, gliding my fingers over its smooth exterior. I was holding power, prestige and revenge. He looked so peaceful sleeping next to me, like his hands hadn’t been on someone else. I was expecting love from someone who knew nothing but hate.
So, when I pulled that trigger, I felt nothing but satisfaction. The red of his blood was almost refreshing. Like I was Atlas and had been released from holding up the celestial heavens. His neglect was abusive and I just couldn’t take it anymore.
I smiled at the crowd as I walked on stage. They were waiting for me, and I was waiting for them to hear my story. I found pleasure in the chaos. The lyrics escaped my lips as if I was living that night all over again. The adrenaline, the rush, the pain coursed through my veins as I sang my heart out.
The audience lost their minds. But as the song went on, realisation dawned upon them. Every line of the song turned their excitement into fear. This wasn't the person they'd come for; this was the shell of a person that was left behind.
But I didn't care, someone had to know, so why not the whole world? Besides, “What’s one less person on the face of the earth anyways?”
As I began the last verse, the heartbeats of everyone resonated to the stadium. The sound was almost rhythmic, as if everyone's thoughts were synchronized.
“How could she?”
I am the victim here and this is my scream for justice.
I can feel the red lights on me. I can feel the glowing red sirens nearing. I can still see the red hair of the girl who ruined my picture-perfect life. My red claws gripped the mic as I threw my head back in maniacal laughter and yelled out, “I see red.”
Authors: Charu Sabharwal & Nathania Do Rego
Editor: Adwita Chaure