𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

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𝐈 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧.

⋆˙  ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Age : Nine.

And without wasting a second, I stabbed.

On the right side of his neck.

He gasped. A short, broken sound. His eyes widened, blinking as if he didn’t believe it. Neither did I.

"Papa?.." My voice barely made it out my throat, watching him fall over beside me.

"P-pa-papa.." I sat up on my knees and nudged him.

"No-no-no!" I muttered, watching his blood cover all over the floor.

"Papa..." A sob broke out from inside of me.

"Wake up.." I begged.

"Wake up!!" "I cradled his head, trying to lift him. 

Suddenly the door to the room creaked open and my hands shot back to myself, causing Papa's head to again collapse on the floor.

"Bhaiya.." A tear rolled down my eyes as I watched him step inside with his school bag on his back.

His uniform was neat, his shoes slightly dusted from the playground.

He had his last exam today.

I glanced down at my little yellow dress. He had gifted it to me. He bought it from his savings for today. For my birthday.

All I saw was red. Red splattered across the yellow fabric.

But he wasn’t looking at me.

His eyes. His dark, blue eyes unblinking—were locked on Papa.

I swallowed hard, my heartbeat pounding in my ears as I looked back at Papa.

His eyes wide open, he wasn't blinking. He can’t be dead. He can’t be.

"I—I didn’t mean it…" My voice cracked, barely a whisper.

"I didn't mean it." I repeated, turning back to my brother.

He still didn’t speak. His expression didn’t change. No fear. No shock. Just… quiet.

Too quiet.

My breath hitched. "H-He can’t die—"

"Angel."

The way he said it froze me.

Not with anger. Not with sorrow. But with something… calm.

Cold.

He stepped forward, kneeling beside me. His school bag was still on his back. He looked at me—at my trembling hands, the blood staining my fingertips.

Then, without hesitation, he reached out.

"You must be hungry."

The air around us was thick with the smell of iron. The floor was red. My hands were red.

But Bhaiya just picked me up, carrying me like he always did when I scraped my knee. Like nothing had happened.

We walked past the blood. Past Papa. Past everything that should have mattered.

The kitchen was quiet, except for the clatter of spoons.

We ate.

I don’t remember what.

Then I slept.