"I hope nothing happens." After saying that, he turned and moved towards Usha's school. His legs moved as fast as they could, but every step he took sent a jolt of pain through his battered body. His jaw ached, his lip throbbed, and bruises pulsed across his ribs and stomach.
"I need to pick up Usha… I can't be late," he said as he dragged his legs.
By the time he reached her school, his chest heaved, his breath labored, and sweat clung to his brow and forehead. When he looked around the grounds, it was empty. The courtyard was quiet, the gate half-closed, not a single child in sight. His heart sank.
He hurried inside, looking for someone to ask about his sister, and soon he spotted a female teacher who was locking up her office.
"Excuse me, ma'am," Shiv said, his voice hoarse, "my sister—Usha—she should still be here. Did she leave already?"
The teacher paused, looking at him with mild surprise. "Usha? Ah, yes. No one came to pick her up, so I called her uncle. He took her home," she said, looking at him.
Relief washed through him as he heard those words. He bowed his body slightly. "Thank you."
"Ah…" the pain returned, which he had forgotten momentarily. His body ached all over.
"Are you alright?" the female teacher asked, worried.
"Yes, I am fine," Shiv said and bowed once again before leaving.
.
.
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He hurried home, trying to ignore the throbbing in his jaw and the sting of his lips. Before reaching the door, he paused, crouching slightly, and brushed the dirt and smudges from his clothes. He straightened his hair as best as he could, trying to look presentable, though the bruises on his face were impossible to hide completely.
He took a deep breath, lifted his hand to the doorknob, and opened the door.
"Bhaiya!"
A small figure darted across the room and clung to his legs. Usha's laughter rang bright, her tiny hands hugging his legs tight. For a moment, the pain dulled. But then she looked up at him, her smile faltering.
Her big eyes scanned his face. "Bhaiya… what happened? Why are there bruises?" Concern filled her voice.
Shiv crouched down, forcing a smile despite the sting. "Ah, nothing. I just… tripped and fell." He placed his hand gently on her head. "You know me—clumsy as ever."
But her brows knitted together, not believing his words. "Liar," she whispered.
He blinked. "What?"
"You always say that. But you don't fall that much." Her gaze didn't waver.
Shiv's chest tightened. He couldn't answer. Instead, Usha hurried to her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper, waving it proudly. "Look, I made a drawing today!"
Closing the door, Shiv walked toward her and leaned closer, curiously looking at the sheet of paper. But when he saw it, his smile wavered. The drawing was crude, clearly made by a child but clear enough—a tall man with big, hollow eyes and a creepy wide smile on that face, holding the hand of a small girl with pigtails.
"Who's this supposed to be?" Shiv asked softly.
"That's me," Usha said, pointing at the girl. "And that's you, Bhaiya!"
Shiv's eyes widened. "Me? That doesn't look like me at all. This man… he looks like a devil. Like someone who kidnaps little girls."
Usha puffed her cheeks, crossing her arms. "Hmph! You don't understand."
Shiv chuckled faintly, ruffling her hair. "I really don't."
She looked at him suddenly, her expression serious. "Bhaiya… are you strong?"
Shiv blinked, caught off guard. "Of course I am."
"How strong?" she pressed.
"Probably… the strongest there is." He said while grinning.
Usha laughed, clapping her hands. But then her laughter faded. "If you're so strong, then why do you always come home with bruises?"
The question cut deep. Shiv looked at her, his heart twisting. Forcing another smile, he answered, "Because I'm too clumsy. And because… if I fought back, they would get seriously hurt. So I let it go." He said proudly, looking at her with a thumbs up.
Usha tilted her head, studying him for a moment. Then, suddenly, she burst into laughter again. "Stop lying, Bhaiya!"
Shiv stared at her—and despite the weight in his chest, a small, genuine smile tugged at his lips. For that brief moment, everything that happened earlier in the day faded, as though it had never happened.
Then Usha placed a finger on her lips, her eyes thoughtful. "Bhaiya, what will you do… if something happens to me?"
The smile drained from Shiv's face. His hand reached out, ruffling her hair roughly.
"Bhaiya! Stop!" she squealed, trying to escape his hand. But Shiv didn't stop until he finally lifted her into his arms. His voice was firm, almost trembling. "Don't ever say that again. Nothing will ever happen to you. Ever."
Usha giggled as he spun her around, though she caught the seriousness in his eyes.
.
.
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Later, after playing with her for a while, Shiv asked, "Where's Uncle?"
"He went to buy dinner for us," Usha replied cheerfully. "He'll be back soon."
As if on cue, the lock clicked and the door opened. Their uncle entered, carrying bags of food. "I'm back," he said, setting them down on the table. "Come on, let's eat before it gets cold."
They sat together, sharing the simple meal. Laughter mixed with stories, Usha chattering about her school, Shiv listening quietly, adding his own bits here and there. For a little while, life felt almost normal.
After a while, Usha's eyes started to feel heavy. "Sleepy?" Shiv asked in a soft voice.
"Hm…" she nodded slowly, her eyes closing. Shiv picked her up and laid her on her bed, then gently caressed her head. After that, he headed back to the hall.
"I didn't ask earlier—what happened to your face?" his uncle asked, worried about him.
"It's… nothing. I just fell." His heart ached a little as he lied to his uncle.
His uncle looked at Shiv, dark circles and wrinkles visible under his eyes. "It's okay if you don't want to tell me, but if you ever feel like you need to talk to someone, I will be there for you," he said with a soft smile.
Shiv looked at his uncle, his body thin and his cheeks sunken. "You should stop worrying about me and take better care of yourself," he said, concerned. "Every time I see you, you become thinner."
"Ha… ha… don't worry about me. Your uncle is just getting old." He looked at Shiv. "And you should stop falling so often."
"Well, I will try," Shiv said as he scratched the back of his head.
"Be careful, Shiv. People have been disappearing lately. The streets aren't safe, especially after dark. Don't stay out longer than you need to."
Shiv nodded slowly, the weight of his words sinking in. "I know."
The uncle sighed, patting his shoulder before leaving for his own home.
Alone in his room, Shiv sat by the window, watching the faint glow of streetlights outside. Thinking of what had happened today, the fight in the cafeteria and the incident with the girl.
"That girl, Maya... she didn't attend classes after lunch." Memories of what happened between him and her flashed through his mind—how terrified she was after seeing his eyes. "I hope she won't tell anyone else, or my already messed-up life will become even more messed up."
With a sigh, he laid on his bed. "I just hope… tomorrow will be better. That nothing else happens."
But deep down he wasn't so sure.
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.
.
Thuk.. Thuk.. Thuk...
In a secluded alley, hidden in darkness, the sound of metal hitting against wood echoed.
Steady and rhythmic.
Thuk… Thuk…
Inside a small old withered room, a man stood barefoot on the cold cement floor. His figure was bloated, his shirt tattered, barely clung to his body. His neck swollen, barely recognizable.
A lone red bulb hung on the wall, barely lit the room, its glow flickering, painting the man's figure in its red and casting the man's flickering shadow on the cement floor.
A tall wooden table stood in front of him, reaching the hem of his pocket, and a bent cigarette hung from that pocket.
Thuk…
He pressed something very firmly on the table with his left hand, something which twitched once then went still. And he held a rusted metal cleaver with his other hand high above his head.
Then the cleaver fell heavy on the table with a thuk sound, mixed with another sound—something wet, a crunch.
He raised his cleaver high above his head, and it fell heavy on the table again. With each strike, its edges chipped.
The cleaver struck again and something wet splashed on his cheeks, but he didn't flinch. His cleaver struck again and again—and more wet splashes painted across his face.
The warm liquid dripped from the wooden table onto the cold cement floor, chasing away its coldness.
The single bulb flickered in that dark room, but with each strike its light dimmed until it went dark.
Thuk…
But it didn't matter.
The man stood in the room alone, hidden in darkness, lost in the secluded alley, and his cleaver struck true every time.
The sound of the cleaver hitting the wooden table echoed, breaking the silence of the night.
And its rhythm went on.
Thuk.
Thuk..
Thuk...