I Wish You Were Dead

“I wish you were dead,” is something I grew up hearing.

Don’t feel sorry— I’m used to it.

I suppose I was four the first time I heard it. It was my princess-themed birthday party when Dad forgot to bring my cake, and my mother was furious. One thing led to another, and my dad ended up with a heavy blow to his head. That was also the day my mother told him, “I wish you were dead.”

Or perhaps it was when I was five years old, in a garden, playing house with my friends, while my parents, who were supposed to supervise me, out of nowhere started arguing. Dad said it was Mom’s fault that I was becoming like this. One thing led to another, and my mother ended up with bruises on her neck. That was also the day my father told her, “I wish you were dead.”

Or was it when my grandparents, who were supposed to love everyone unconditionally, were at each other’s throats because of someone’s infidelity from decades ago? One thing led to another, and ever since then, they’ve been estranged. That was the day my grandfather and my grandmother screamed at each other, “I wish you were dead.”

Whenever it was—it was like a thunderstrike to the ocean. The currents still carry the weight of those words.

Tonight, my father came home late. He laid on the old brown sofa with springs sprung up on the side. He let the faint glow of the television envelope him as he consumed his third beer bottle of the day. He reeked of liquor. He fell asleep after his third sip, and then I had to clean up after him. I always do.

My mother sat on the floor, rolling chappatis on the pan. Her black hair, streaked with grey, was damp with sweat. Her eyes had a little too much kohl around them. The kitchen walls had water seepage all over.

She smiled, as if to reassure herself and not me.

I pretend not to notice when she mixes a few drops of rat poison into one of the doughs.

Life wasn’t always like this.

We didn’t always live in a slum-like house. I suppose it started when my father’s company plummeted, when he was labeled a whistleblower. Or maybe it was when we spent more time at the district high court than in our own home. The lawyers drained all our resources.

They drained all our money. And if that wasn’t enough, the country’s judicial system labeled my father guilty. Which not only buried us in an endless debt, but also drained my mother’s last remaining affection for him.

My mother kneads the dough like she’s done it a thousand times before. Her hands press deep. Pushing, folding. Pushing, folding.

The poison is already in there.

She doesn’t hesitate.

Doesn’t blink.

She just keeps going, like it’s routine.

The air is heavy. The ceiling fan whines above us, stirring heat that sticks to my skin. The TV glows in the living room, throwing broken light over my father’s body. He’s slumped back, head tilted, throat bared to the dimness.

His chest rises.

Falls.

Rises.

Falls.

Alive. Still.

I should tell her to stop. I should scream, throw the dough out, spill the secret onto the floor and watch it soak into the cracks of this dying house.

But I don’t.

Because the truth is—deep down, in the place I never let myself look too long—

I don’t know if I want to.

I watch her fingers press into the dough, rolling, shaping. It shouldn’t feel this normal. It shouldn’t feel like just another night, like just another meal.

But it does.

In the living room, my father shifts. His breath stirs, thick with sleep, with liquor. The bottle beside him wobbles, almost tipping over before settling back down. My eyes snap to his face. His mouth is slightly open. His brow twitches, like he’s dreaming.

I wonder if he dreams of the life he’s burned down.

If he dreams of us.

I wonder if he even cares.

My mother hums under her breath. The sound grates at me, like nails dragging against a wall.

I wonder if she even knows she’s doing it.

I wonder if she ever hums when she’s happy.

I don’t remember the last time I saw her happy.

A lump forms in my throat, thick, choking. I don’t swallow it down. I just stand there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the life I’ve been born into. The life I’ve been forced to carry.

My mother tears off a piece of dough and starts rolling it between her palms.

This is it.

This is the moment.

I could stop her. I could throw the entire plate to the ground. I could shake my father awake and tell him, you don’t get to die like this.

I could do so many things.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t know who I’m saving anymore.

And I don’t know if they deserve it.

Somewhere in the house, the television flickers.

A low murmur from the screen—someone laughing, soft and distant.

The sound barely reaches us.

I watch my mother press the dough into the pan.

And I wait.