Voices
There is no way I could do it face to face. Leaving some form of note or letter was also out of the question, as it would risk Naomi finding it and reading it. This had to be over the phone. I’d hang up until he picked up if I had to. Thankfully, his work van parked on their driveway carried his mobile number. I would wait outside their place until it was home – and he was home.
What I would say would also be of the highest importance. If his death (however it would occur) entailed a police investigation, the last thing I needed was any sort of conversation that would stand out as suspicious and/or lead them to me.
At first, I considered adopting the character of a telemarketer.
This was a easy option. Those bastards tend to call in the late evening, so receiving a call from one wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. The conversation would be potentially short and would not require nothing more than a cheesey Indian accent. That I could do. The problem came when faced with the distinct possibility that the conversation would not be short. I didn’t want to risk inadvertantly revealing information about myself and a prolonged conversation would do that. Also, if the call was ever analysed, it’d be clear that it came from a non-business number. It would be suspicious unless I made it sound like a blatant prank. There was a substantial margin for error.
The idea I settled on was that of a ‘wrong number’ call.
As much as I was tempted to embed this event with some sort of poetic script, social commentary or entertaining banter; it was clear that simplicity was needed. This was no easy task and over complication would not be a wise idea. I would call his number, from my own mobile (on private number), and pretend to ask for a friend. A wrong number call from a mobile would be easily shrugged aside by anyone investigating. I’ve always liked the name Michael, so I decided to use it this once. I had to be definite about who I was looking for. I invented an Adam.
Once twilight began to creep in, I began a slow walk to Naomi’s. The van was parked outside. Most of the house was in darkness save for one lit room, the curtains concealing two figures pacing the room. Their physicalities were instantly recognisable: Naomi and The Brute.
Beauty and the Beast.
What suffering was she enduring at that moment? There was no noise, but I could only imagine with a due sense of dread, disgust and concern as to what was transpiring. Every instinct in my body urged me to bolt through that shaky decripit door and tell The Brute to go to hell. I could not stand to wait.
But I had to focus on my plan. That urge would amount to no form of immediate reprieve.
I jotted the number down and returned home.
My phone had been on silent for the past few weeks, sitting in a dark corner on the charger. So it was quite a shock to find ’22 Missed Calls’ and ’53 Unread Messages’.
Had to stay focused. I’ll look at them tomorrow.
It took me an hour to make the call. I dialed several times, but cancelled during the dial tone.
I was affraid.
Could I actually do this? I had told myself I could, but still I was in doubt. Though, I knew I had to. My reasons were clear. I numbed my mind, the prospects of what I was doing were silenced. I’ll deal with them later – I thought.
This had to be done.
I used dad’s computer mic to record the call off loudspeaker, hoping that I might save any accidental glimpses of Naomi’s voice.
Unfortunately, he picked up the first time around.
My day was spent planning this event, yet it lacked preparation for the conversation that actually took place.
Lily – was that her name?
The call confused me to say the least.
He was clearly drunk - possibly drugged beyond a fragment of reality. I had seen Naomi inside with him earlier, so how could she have left him? There was no way she could have left him within that hour between my visit and my call. He was incoherent, so what he said could not be the case. ‘Lily’s new ex?’ It just made no sense.
But I’m a firm believer of intoxication bringing out the true thoughts and worries of people. Slurred as he was, there was some truth to his emotion.
My guess? He was paranoid that Naomi would leave him, possibly paranoid that she was cheating on him. It made more sense than what he was actually saying. Here is a woman who is clearly detaching from her husband, being abused and, if my first sight of her weeping at the park was anything to go by, she was often going out to escape from him. His paranoia would be rational for any person.
What struck me most oddly was that I felt sorry for him.
Yes, I felt sorry for The Brute.
His paranoia had him in distress. He clearly could not stand the idea of being abandoned, to the point where it was fueling his anger and working against him. He was in dire fear of losing Naomi. I feared and dreaded losing Irene, but he was stuck in a tragic cycle that made him the cause of this ill-fated marriage. Halucinated voices whispered his paranoia to him at every moment, these voices drew him into misery.
Often, I tell my self many things to comfort myself. A few work, most do not. In spite of all that has happened today, I have one more to add:
Perhaps I have saved two from their suffering.
For being in such a position, I pitied him.
But what is done is done. I cannot look back on it. I cannot give into pity and care for such a Brute. I refuse to do so in fear of guilt. Even now, I am testing the very thresholds of how much guilt I can stand to carry. I teeter on the edge.
If I am to carry on, I must pretend that this day washes away with the blood it has created.
For those regarded as warriors, when engaged in combat the vanquishing of thine enemy can be the warrior’s only concern. Suppress all human emotion and compassion.
- Hattori Hanzo
