Raghav found him piled up at his doorstep, as he stepped out
to pick up milk one chilly morning. He slammed the door shut in half an
instant. A hundred thoughts started racing through his mind as randomly as the
bees that have been forced out of a broken beehive.
Standing with his back still glued the door, he sensed a queasy
feeling creeping up to his chest. His heart was thumping right into his throat,
his mouth dry, breathing heavily, his arms trembling and knees suddenly gone
weak. He barely managed to hold himself up as he stumbled onto the cold floor
below his bare feet.
A quick glance into the peephole and he was sure it was Arya.
There was no mistaking those same tiny hands that clenched tight at the
slightest exposure to cold, lovely long eyelashes – a tad too big for his small
face, cheeks flushed with the redness of a dozen roses and pink lips that
pursed while he slept – just like now. And wait. Wasn’t he wearing his favorite
shirt – the plain white one with tiny blue and red checks only at the collar
and cuffs?
Raghav panicked. He could not understand this. How could Arya
be here? Tears streamed down his cheeks as his mind raced to the day Arya was
born – as he lifted into his arms the fruit of his loin, his own blood. Glimpses
of Arya’s childhood flashed in front of his eyes – one after another in an
endless current that he couldn’t interrupt. It all ended in a sudden, frightening
shriek. The listless body of a drowned child floated on the surface of the pool.
Raghav shuddered as he opened the door once again. A lonely bottle of milk was
all that stood there.
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This post is in response to the Trifecta Writing Challenge - Week Seventy-Six.
