Murdered

Chapter I

It was 2:35, practically the middle of the night. There wasn't a single person in sight; the roads were still and calm, undisturbed save for the slight rustling of wind through the trees. It was a serene, peaceful night, and the inhabitants of Male', capital of Maldives, were sleeping, resting in blissful oblivion.

A scream of pure pain rent through the air. It was coming from M. Spectular, a rental apartment in front of a very famous landmark, Bisburu. Scream after scream rent the air, pleading for someone's aid. Yet it was a time of night where no one was awake. Only the blank, unhelpful lens of the CCTV witnessed the horrendous scene playing out in front of it.

The 29 year old, 6"1', dark complexioned young man entered his house, after a long, tiring day at work. There hadn't been any taxis, and there had been a couple of shady figures lurking around his office, so despite it being uncharacteristic of him to go home late at night, he had walked back to the apartment.

One. No sooner had he entered the cramped, unlit space leading to the elevator and stairs, did he feel a sharp pain in his shoulder blade. A blade had embedded itself in the bone. He let out a startled, pained hiss and tried to turn around, looking for the person who had ambushed him.

Two. He didn't even succeed in turning around completely, when he felt another blade, this time just above his hips. Knowing that there were more than just one of the delinquents, and that with his injuries, he couldn't hold them off, he screamed, "Help me!"

Three. His scream was followed by another attack to his uninjured side, but some part of his brain was getting over the shock. He stuck out his hand, instinct kicking in as the need to survive grew by the second. The blade met his hand, instead of the intended side. His attacker must have expected that, for the blade twisted in his hand, tearing into his flesh.

Four. His arm was wrenched back, and he realised that someone was twisting his other arm as well. His eyes widened in horror as he caught the glint of metal in the faded light coming from upstairs, aimed for his chest. He struggled, screaming, in hope that his mother and siblings, sleeping upstairs, would hear his desperate cries for help. "Don't!" The blade entered his chest with a distinct crack as it smashed his ribs.

Five. His vision blurred for a second; as the grey cleared, he felt the blade strike almost the exact same spot on the other side, puncturing his lung.

Six. Another blade flashed, and he braced for the pain that soon resonated within his chest.

Seven. Again. Were they carving him like a hunk of meat? How would his mother cope with this?

Eight. Again. He knew she couldn't cope. She was too frail of heart. He needed to be there for her. So once again, using whatever strength he had left, he screamed for help. Despite the blurring vision.

Nine. Again. Damn. If not him, who would support his mother? His elder sister's husband had been poisoned, and she was looking after her son as a single mother.

Ten. Again. The pain intensified as he thought of his only brother. He was an introvert, mainly because he needed hearing aids, and people didn't accept him. Who would be there for his little brother?

Eleven. Pain sliced through him like a knife, but he somehow forced himself to stand. His younger sister. Who would protect her if he was gone?

Twelve. The pain had almost become a part of him. He found his voice again. "Don't! Someone help me!"

Thirteen. The soft, manic laughter seemed to fill the nerves that his attackers were slicing open.

Fourteen.  Damn. He was going to die. How long did he have? Would anyone find him before he died?

Fifteen. He screamed in pain as the blade went through his cheek, tearing through the flesh.

Sixteen. Blood from the wound filled his mouth, as his opposite cheek was mauled similar to the first one.

Seventeen. This one came near his ear. He felt a little disoriented for a bit, the pain getting to him.

Eighteen. Belatedly, as the knife nearly took off his ear, he realised that no one would wake. He was wasting his energy using his voice, so he didn't.

Nineteen. He remembered the death threats that had flooded his sms, mail and twitter. Irony, he wasn't scared of them then and he wasn't even now.

Twenty. If he was going to die, he might as well do it as late as possible. He thought back to a few days ago. He'd promised his cousin he would visit her...

Twenty-one.  The scream was never heard. Guess she wouldn't be seeing him. Or not the way she'd hoped. They had cut the area where his neck and shoulder met. He could feel his vision dancing in front of him.

Twenty-two. Another silent scream as they replicated the wound on the other side. He staggered.

Twenty three. He caught the knife with his uninjured palm, only to have his hand mutilated by it.

Twenty four. This time it barely missed the base of his throat. He screamed. But no sound came anymore.

Twenty five. A part of him wanted that blade to be sent through his heart, ending the misery. Instead, it was embedded in the middle of his forehead. He wrenched a strangled gasp, blood pouring from his mouth, nose, ears, hands and torso. He might as well have been a dead man walking.

And finally, two pairs of rough hands grabbed him, shoving him headfirst onto the wooden staircase. As he lay there, breathing laboriously through collapsed lungs and a smashed ribcage, he thought back. Twenty five different places, those cowards had mauled him. How long would it take before he was found? Who would find him? Would he live to see the sunrise?

His fears faded as he heard shouting from afar, and the unmistakable wailing of a siren. Relief flooded through his battered body, as he finally allowed his eyes to close, slipping into welcome darkness.