The Oppressed

Part 1

The Oppressed - Part One

On that night, only a single star twinkled in the pitch blackness; I whispered to it,

"Consume Me."

My head lowered down to the feeble body, as a faint tear of regret trickled down my blemished skin. The soundless body lay over the grass like a demented doll as the sky hung above me like an eerie ominous blanket. It made the green trees look charcoaled, and the brown soil look like tar. Coldness brewed onto my shivering skin as his repulsive odour dispersed around me like a dancing curse. I grabbed his body and carried him near an empty hollow pit. Silence. I half hoped he would start laughing, as he always did, but he lay muted. I took the innocent, fragile body and howled from within; my lungs burst ferociously as I stood alone with a breathless body.

The briny rivers gushed down my swollen eyes; my thick lashes stuck together as if I'd been drowning in my palms. My throat was locked in my chest as I began sobbing overpoweringly in the midst of a deserted forest. I could not believe what I was about to do as I looked down at the corpse. What was wrong with it? The body would just not leave my hands! Then I noticed my arms; they were shaking uncontrollably, and the body was shaking with them too. It was as though it was clinging on to my dark soul... I forcefully dropped the lifeless, rigid boy and covered it with pure earth which wept with the rain.

My hands quivered. They shook in horror as I began opening and closing them, rhythmically clenching them as though there'd be some violent solution to the pain. If only I could find it.

The image replayed like a melody in my head; the thought of his dead body buried deep underground, decaying and mouldy, flashed through my mind. I never imagined this for my dear younger brother...

Psychiatric therapy is a confidential process. Before my brother I had done this to others, but it was only when he died, I felt the contamination manifest in me. My guilty conscience was to be unspoken of, and this therapy was something I offered myself. Every day, at noon, I went to an apartment in a desolate area, and I would meet my therapist, John.

John sat sedate. His shoulders were curved and his back lay lying on the velvet rocking chair. His glasses sat on the round table beside him, but it comforted me for I felt unknown to him. It was easy to confide in him, and it was like the disease from my head was slowly eradicating. On this day I announced to John that after the three years of searching, the results for my brother's death were inconclusive, and he was proclaimed as 'missing'. Yet we know he's not missing. He's dead. I killed him, with my dirty hands - strangled him in the country side lake because he knew my secret. He knew I was mad. And when he died, he knew he wasn't the first...

I never knew my father, and even if I did, I doubt he could've prevented the monster I've become today. My older brother, Ash, was never with me - we were very distant. Even when the news of the death of my younger brother came, he comforted only my mother- she was turning frail and helpless, developing dementia, and only saw herself as a burden in our eyes. Therapy was my only friend.

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