Wanted

• Aastha Mukhra , Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2022

The street sings in serenity.
An aroma of coffee beans and coconut water flushes through the house's open windows, like a rupture of water unclogging from the knot in a garden hose. Wasps buzz around flickering lamps, rain drizzling softly upon the pavement, forming puddles reflecting my greedy eyes. I want to feel wanted, and to do that I needed to do something I'd never done before. I want to feel wanted and I am willing to do anything to achieve it.
My obstacle is staring back at me; a colossal two-story building, its front windows translucently dressed behind trimmed bushes.
Before I can resume, my eyes blur; and I feel myself depersonalising into derealisation. Is it the rain or my sweat? I'm not sure - but I can fill a pool containing all the moisture from my hands, allowing myself to drown in it with my deviant desires if I wanted to. Meanwhile, my heart throttles inside my head like a harras of horses languishing to be released from enclosed stables, pumping from under my skill as if it would burst.
This, perhaps, boils my blood with striking animosity. If my own blood is not settled, I can not allow anyone elses' to run free.
I want them dead.
I want to feel important enough to be in newspapers, on television screens, living inside peoples' fears. I want to become so powerful that they wish I was buried instead of their loved ones.
Resuming, I take the bayonet from my satchel, piercing it deeply into the glass door. Fragment pieces scatter across the 'welcoming' mat. Kicking the glass door open, I cannot help my mouth curl upwards from the sides as they shriek at my sight. One by one… I begin to slaughter them all.
And soon enough, the gentle droplets of rain pierce through the blanket of air like lethal arrows. Soon enough, the wasps drop dead; and the lamps no longer flicker. Soon enough, the gushes of aroma drain through the gutters revealing only a fading mist of faith. The world awakens.
Sirens wailing, tires screeching, and heavy footsteps downstairs. Police charge in, paramedics agitating to save the people lying helplessly on the ground.
They are too late. The people are dead.
Perhaps I am a hedonist pursuing pleasure in a society of barbarism I model with my bare hands. I slaughtered them, and they are after me. I favourably prefer that sort of adrenaline from being wanted.
Sitting on the rooftop of a nearby house, I laugh hysterically at the mayhem I have caused. It is a pleasure, I speak softly under my breath, positioning the stained bayonet back inside the satchel. Indeed, it is a pleasure, as the moonlight is more reassuring than ever, particularly on this blood-shedding night.