When the bell rang at the front door last night,
I was prepared for it.
I was prepared for the long impending fight.
He has been doing this for months now.
The coming home late, the drinking beyond capacity,
the sliding memory that I wait every night, to have dinner with him.
But, this was it today. I wouldn’t let one more night pass.
I looked at my mother, who looked back at me through the garlanded frame,
just above the door.
Her eyes begged me to forgive him, one more time.
Or did they say, one last time?
It was only when I opened the door and
saw my drunk father bathed in blood,
I knew she said, one last time.
Abantika, a literary voyager who effortlessly travels through the realms of both words and mountains, finds her sanctuary in the layers of human emotions and the majestic peaks. A fervent reader, she discovers liberation within the pages of books, and explores the boundless landscapes of imagination. Her writing reflects a delicate dance between the tangible and the intangible.