Memories of
his inglorious past erupted in Chris’ head again. This time more strongly than
any night before. The helpless cries of the victim, the piercing sound of the
breaking glass on his head, the blood that splattered on his face like a Holi of a different kind; the kind that had
destroyed faith and instilled fear. He woke up once again fighting those
flashes that were as good as real, wiping the beads of sweat that had lined his
forehead with his trembling fingers, fleeing his mind from those images like
how he had fled after the act that night; that night of the Twenty Fourth Day
of the month of October, Year 1991.
It was their
night of graduation from St. Lauren’s College of Arts; the night when the two
fraternity groups, in their last attempt to establish their supremacy over the
other, engaged in a brawl that ended in a brutal fight. About 40 young men in
their mid-twenties, with fire raging in their hearts, and a sense of
belongingness that felt even stronger in their drunken stupor, ravaged the
dingy dimly lit pub, arming themselves with anything the place could offer from
wooden chairs, to glasses, to bottles, to Swiss-knives that many carried in
their pockets, flicking them open and charging the faces that appeared suddenly
from the darkness. Swollen faces with bloody distributaries running crisscross
on them. But it wasn’t enough. There was much to be done. Much more harm before
they proved themselves invincible.
Chris
continued too, anger and hatred rushing out in palpable waves through his
supple limbs. The smell of fresh blood, mixed with sweat had filled the place.
The sounds of destruction and anguish echoed from the walls. Broken pieces of
glass and wood lay on the floor along with the defeated souls wincing in pain.
The warriors continued though, bravely, determined, with a sense of purpose, as
if their reason for existence was that night.
As he stood firmly
on the ground, looking out for attackers, his rival emerged in front of him,
weak and injured. His eyes couldn’t hold a steady glance, and he kept rolling
them. Chris could sense he was vulnerable but had not yet accepted defeat. He
kept uttering words that died in the mayhem before reaching Chirs’ ears and he
believed they were acrimonies that he hurled in defense. Without a second
thought, Chris thrashed a half consumed bottle of bear onto his head, and the
victim collapsed. This time his eyes were steady, fixed straight into Chris’
brown eyes. The frothy bear had washed his face that lay on the ground along
with his motionless body. With the coup de grace, his blood had splattered on
Chris’ face and he could feel the metallic taste of blood on his tongue. Chris
stepped back, as his mind comprehended the situation despite the chaos around.
He turned around and fled. He ran until his cold feet and shaky legs could
carry him.
Twenty two
years since that day, Chris still has nightmares about it. For the nation the
incident was an outburst of college animosity. Those who were severely injured
had long recovered, and were living a life without guilt. The one death which
was reported that night was lost in their memories over the years. The cries,
the pain, the taste of blood – they didn’t feel it anymore. The newspapers had
reported the death to be an outcome of repeated abuse to the victim and had
held no single person guilty. Twenty two years later, the truth still was left
untold. Twenty two years later, Chris was still battling the guilt, serving a
lifetime of imprisonment in his nightmares.
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