He had watched her dead body being taken away. His throat was sore from crying all through the previous night. Tonight, only silent tears fell from his big, brown, sad eyes.
He wondered why anyone would, how anyone could hurt a girl like her. She had never harmed anyone; no, quite the opposite, in fact. She had always done everything in her power to make others happy.
The neighbors had offered their sympathy and expressed their inability to understand the atrocity. But, that was it. They did not feel the emptiness, the loss, that he felt. Obviously. They had never known her the way he had.
He had heard from the cops that she was killed in what seemed to be a racist, cold-blooded murder. There was no other motive. And, having been born and raised in Australia, he knew what exactly it meant. That girl was not a native Australian.
So what? He himself was an Australian; he had never felt the urge to torment her. She was a gentle creature, better than many Australians. She had loved him and cared for him when no Australian had ever bothered about him.
He felt his heart break as he thought about her; the memories of the moments they had shared, the time they had spent together...
Fresh tears streamed down his face contorted with pain. Those cruel people had snatched her from him. She had been most gruesomely murdered- stabbed with a butcher's knife, eleven times, all over her delicate body; each stab deep enough to rip up her internal organs.
Sharp, pointed things had always scared her. She never could bear any pain- her own or of others. She was like a child whose heart brims with innocence, compassion and love.
He shivered and shuddered, wondering how much suffering those monsters had caused her, and found himself frantically hoping that she died the very first moment the damned knife had slashed her body, making her oblivious to the rest of the torture.
He let out a heart-rending wail that pierced the deathlike still and silent, cold June night; like the hatred that was piercing the hearts of men.
They said that he was man's best friend. He was nauseated. He did not want to be a best friend to the new man who is so intent on killing his own kind.
The dog howled again, unable to take the agony that was wrenching his heart. He set off into the night; back to wilderness, back to innocence.
Racism, they called it? It’s insane-ism.
This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.
