He was always terrifying, that man at the food seller’s junction.
Everyone called him a madman, struck with madness after a mob killing at the market in which he stirred the contents of a fifteen year old girl’s womb with the thorny branch of a small tree.
They said she cursed him, laying there screaming while her teeth were kicked in by faceless feet and he grasped her by the hip, a crazed excitement in his eyes as he twisted the stick into her, not minding the catches of the thorns on her inner walls or the blood that coated his arm while he performed his task.
She swore by her virginity, they said, that the womb that she would never get to use would forever birth evil for him until the day he died a death more gruesome than hers.
This was pure bullshit to me, even though they said, that after that she went mad, laughing and moaning to the torture, until the people got scared and only he was left to deal with her, while they stood watch.
She spat on him, a direct hit to the eye, with some of her teeth in the bloody mix. It was like he was possessed, they claimed, as he dragged her by her faux locks, now dirtied with sand and blood to the stack of tires and placed her through two. All by himself, he doused her with gasoline. All by himself, he set her ablaze.
According to them, she laughed even while she burned. I think it more likely that she screamed, but they insist she was laughing. I wasn’t there, I wouldn’t know.
Three months after the incident, his neighbor ran into the street screaming, crying in uncontrollable sobs. He raped her five year old daughter, she said. He ran out after her, dazed and apologizing, claiming that he had no idea when he did it. The young men in the area were on him in seconds, giving him blows from different directions.
It would seem that they were not surprised, only intent on dishing out punishment. My guess is that they already figured that he had some sick, twisted sexual urges from what he did to the mob victim. In five minutes he was dirtied and bloodied, meticulously beaten by one young man who was a soldier. The soldier was the dead girl’s boyfriend. They say the soldier would have killed him if not for the fact that he ran mad at that moment.
He grabbed the soldier by the foot, and tossed him into the crowd. The rest of the boys cleared away after that. While everyone watched in shock, he undressed. He began to run around, and when the crowed cleared to make a path for him, he made a beeline for an orange seller. She screamed and ran like a frightened rabbit.
He didn’t want her though, he wanted her knife.
I wasn’t expecting it, but they say he castrated himself. With the dull blade of the orange knife. The locals say it was not pretty.
They called the police, but they couldn’t find him. He escaped into the nearby bushes. The people say the girl’s spirit didn’t want him found, so she hid him from their eyes.
A year later he emerged from the bushes, with whip marks covering his entire body, and took residence at the junction. Nobody called the police again. They felt it’ll be futile. I joined the community a little after his reemergence.
Now three years later I’m standing over the madman, my ax going chop, chop, chop in time to the gurgles he’s making as blood spills out of his neck and mouth unto the ground of rotten leaves.
His eyes still hold mirth as they film over with the whiteness of death, and I can’t help but smile back at him.
The man who killed my sister.