This is her design. This is her masterpiece.
She had always been artistic. Taking every opportunity she had to scribble or draw something, anything. She did this as she was sad. Sad and depressed. Depressed and angry. Angry and weak.
She hated her life; her existence. She always wondered why, why she was created, why she came into this world. Her life was a mess.
She was an only child. The only child of two nefarious and useless parents. She hated them both; she hated them equally.
Her father was insane, he had to be; for that was the only reasonable explanation for how he lived his life. He was a miserable drunk. No job, no bearing in life, nothing. He came home every night, reeking of cheap beer. He would see her in the living room, usually scribbling something, and he would order her to come closer just so he could beat her and fondle with her body.
The devil; that was what she called him.
Her mother was weak. She hated her. The woman always accepted nonsense. The man would go into the kitchen, drag the woman out to the living room, beat her until she could not cry or struggle again and take her right there, in front of the girl.
The fool; that was what she called her.
She hated all men. Her father had made her believe all men were dogs, were animals, were equally wretched. And men like two of her uncles helped further intensify her conviction.
They all had to die. They didn’t deserve life. At 13, she had been known over and over again by these same 3 men.
Her plan was foolproof. She had gotten all the necessary items she would need – a large canvas, a big paintbrush, enough succinylcholine, a sharp knife, a keg of petrol and a gas lighter. All she waited for now was the perfect time.
And it came quite early. The fool had invited the girls uncles for dinner. This was her opportunity.
As usual, she prepared the dinner. Asides being weak, the fool was also lazy and made the girl do all the domestic work. The girl prepared dinner with a broad smile across her lips.
This is her cue
She announced that the meal was ready and asked that they gather at the dining table while she brings in their food from the kitchen. She had prepared rice. Rice and stew. Stew and succinylcholine.
They ate, except her. She sat and watched as they all ate and laughed. She laughted too. Not at their jokes, but at how well everything was going.
They had finished eating and she cleared the table.
This is her moment
On returning from the kitchen, she saw that they were all motionless. Motionless, but alive. Alive enough to watch as she worked on her masterpiece.
With the sharp knife, she drew their blood. Blood sufficient to start and complete her masterpiece.
All through, she didn’t say a word. She enjoyed the quietness.
She positioned their heads to face the large canvas she had brought into the room.
‘This is my work’ she said, as she dipped the paintbrush into the jar containing their blood and began to ‘scribble’.
She took her time.
She was finally done and so she stepped back to admire her work.
She had painted a little girl, one eye innocent, and the other red with fury. The little girl was looking at four words she had written on the wall.
They wished they could react, but they could not move their bodies. The succinylcholine had paralysed them.
She excused herself and left the room. Soon, she was back, dragging a keg of petrol behind her. With calmness and a smile, she poured the petrol all over them and around the room.
She brought out a lighter from her pocket.
And then she stood at the entrance of the house, flicked on the lighter, and threw it into the dining room.
As she walked away, away from the nonsense, away from the madness, away from the fire, she could hear their muffled cries. But she did not care.
She never looked back.
For this is her design, this is her masterpiece.