March 25th 2020, Amay sat hunched in the dimly lit corner of his office, the weight of his sorrow palpable in the oppressive silence. His eyes were fixed on his phone, scrolling through photographs of his late wife, Amala. Each image tugged at his heart, flooding his mind with bittersweet memories.
His fingers paused on a photo of Amala laughing naturally, a rare moment of unguarded joy. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I'm so pathetic, Amala," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I can't even muster the courage to end it all. I'm... I'm scared, Amala. I... I just can't go on without you."
The room seemed to close in on him, shadows encroaching from every corner. A knife lay ominously by his feet, a bottle of Polonium-210 poison and a noose hung from the ceiling fan, both stark reminders of his despair. As he smiled, tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks, his silent sobs echoing in the stillness.
The sudden ring of his phone shattered the quiet. He wiped his tears hastily, glancing at the screen. An unknown number flashed. He answered, his voice hoarse. "Yes? Who is this? ... Yes, it's Amay. ... Yeah... Okay, I'll be there."
The call was from the forensic department. They needed him to sign some documents, and the doctor had urgent information to share. He stood, wiping his face one last time, and began to methodically tidy his office. The act was almost mechanical, a temporary distraction from the gnawing pain.
He took one last look at the photograph of Amala before slipping his phone into his pocket. The journey to meet the doctor seemed a world away, each step a reminder of the life he was now navigating alone.
As Amay entered the hospital, the sterile smell of antiseptics mingled with the faint murmur of distant conversations. His gaze fell on a young man pacing in tight, anxious circles, his hands clasped together and his steps rapid. The man's expression was etched with worry, but Amay barely noticed. His own thoughts were a cacophony of dread and anticipation.
Lost in his mental turmoil, Amay was jolted back to reality by a persistent voice. "Sir!... sirrrrr!..." The nurse's calls had been an indistinct hum until she finally touched his shoulder. Amay blinked, momentarily disoriented, and looked at her with a vacant stare.
"Sir!... YOU ARE AMAY, right? I've been calling you for a while now, but you didn't seem to hear me!"
"Yes, yes, I'm sorry," Amay responded, rubbing his temples. "I'm Amay. How can I help?"
"The doctor is waiting for you," the nurse said, pointing toward a doctor engaged in conversation with another staff member. "He's over there."
Amay moved toward the doctor, but the man raised a hand, signaling him to wait. He sank onto a nearby bench, his gaze fixed on his feet as he sank deeper into his thoughts. The sterile environment around him seemed to blur, his mind caught in a maelstrom of grief and anxiety.
"Amayyy!.... Amayyyy!..." The doctor's voice broke through his reverie, sharp with urgency. He shook Amay's shoulder, pulling him back from his spiral of thoughts.
Amay looked up, startled. "Huh?! What?! I'm sorry, doctor. I... I'm just not feeling well." His voice was barely a whisper, his face a mask of sadness.
The doctor observed Amay closely, noting the deep lines of sorrow etched into his features. It was clear to him that Amay was struggling with the aftermath of his wife's death. The doctor hesitated, weighing the gravity of his next words. Revealing the full truth now might provoke an unpredictable reaction, but withholding it could lead to greater complications later. It was a delicate balance of fairness and responsibility.
"Doc!," Amay prompted, his voice low and weary. "Why did you call me here? What do you need to discuss?"
The doctor's internal struggle was visible as he prepared to speak. Just then, his student, Rohit, approached with a stack of paperwork. "Sir! Nilesh sir!" the student said, his voice interrupting the tense moment.
The doctor turned, visibly irritated. "What is it, Rohit? Can't you see I'm in the middle of something serious? And When did you arrive?"
"Just a few minutes ago. I need your signature on this document," Rohit said, extending the file toward the doctor.
"Alright, alright," the doctor said, taking the document. He turned back to Amay, who was growing increasingly impatient. "Give me a moment."
Amay stood up, his face a picture of resignation. "Doc!, are you going to tell me why I'm here or should I leave?"
"Yeah! Yeah!" The doctor took a deep breath and said, "I need to inform you that the cause of your wife's death is..." but was interrupted by the sound of three men approaching. "Are you Mr. Amay?" one of them asked. Amay turned to see three figures standing behind him. He nodded in acknowledgment.
"Yeah it's me, What's the matter?" Amay asked, his curiosity piqued.
"I'm Officer Prem," the man in the center said, extending his hand. "And on my right is Officer Akshay, and on my left is Officer Pratik." Each officer shook Amay's hand in turn.
The atmosphere thickened with tension as Amay's anxiety mounted. The doctor's face was a mask of conflicted emotions, and Amay's pulse quickened with the impending revelation.
Officer Prem's voice was somber as he addressed Amay, his face etched with seriousness. "We came from the scene of the incident. During our investigation, we found something significant, which is why we reached out to you."
"Okay, what do you want to tell me?" Amay's voice and expression convey a profound sense of indifference.
Reaching into his jacket, Officer Prem produced a small plastic pouch containing a grayish-black substance. He held it out for Amay to see. "We found this in your house, in every room, and most concentrated around your wife's body. Do you know what it is?"
Amay took the pouch, his brow furrowing as he examined the contents. "No, I have no idea. What is this?"
"It's CaC₂, known as Calcium Carbide."
A wave of shock washed over Amay. His eyes widened, sweat beading on his forehead as his body trembled. The doctor beside him seemed equally stunned. Rohit, broke the tense silence. "Sir, what is Calcium Carbide?"
The doctor, still processing the revelation, explained. "Calcium Carbide (CaC₂) is a chemical used for various purposes, primarily to produce acetylene gas for welding and cutting metals. When water reacts with Calcium Carbide, it generates acetylene gas, which can cause explosions or large fires. Adding more water intensifies the reaction, creating more acetylene gas and escalating the fire."
Officer Prem nodded, his expression grim. "Exactly. The firefighters reported that the more they tried to extinguish the fire with water, the larger and more intense the flames became."
Amay's mind raced, struggling to comprehend the implications. The word "fire" echoed in his thoughts, mingling with the image of his wife's charred remains. Rohit's voice broke through his reverie. "How did they eventually stop the fire?"
"They used dry sand, soil, and a Class D fire extinguisher," Officer Prem replied.
The doctor, examining the pouch, shook his head in disbelief. "The body was barely recognizable; it burned that intensely. The killer must have had extensive knowledge of chemicals."
"Killer?" Amay's voice was barely a whisper, tinged with fear and disbelief. He turned to the doctor, his face a mask of horror.
The air was thick with tension as Officer Prem fixed his gaze on Amay. "Yeah, Amay, it's not an accident. It's a planned murder."
Amay's face drained of color, his body trembling uncontrollably. Fear danced in his eyes, clouding his usually calm demeanor. "Yes, Amay, it's a brutal murder, and that's what I need to tell you." The doctor placed a reassuring hand on Amay's shoulder, his expression grave. "Your wife was already dead before the house was set on fire. Amay listen.... What I'm about to say next, you have to be brave to hear."
Amay's breath hitched. "Huh? What is it, Doc?"
The doctor took a deep breath, his eyes reflecting a mixture of sorrow and resolve. "The killer... they murdered your wife by slashing her throat brutally. And it doesn't end there. The killer cut her stomach, pulled out the child, and... also cut the child's throat before burning down the house. Such brutality... it can only be the work of a psychopath or someone who holds a deep-seated hatred towards you. Do you have any enemies, anyone who might harbor such animosity?"
The room fell silent, the gravity of the doctor's words settling in. Amay's mind raced, sifting through memories and encounters. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, each beat echoing the horror of the revelation.
Amay stood, paralyzed, as the sight of his wife and child's lifeless bodies filled his vision. Blood pooled around them, soaking the floor, a macabre scene that refused to release its grip on his mind. His wife's voice echoed in his head, her words a haunting refrain.
"Why? Why, Amay? What is our fault? Why did you kill us? Amay... you killed us! You killed me... you killed your own child... why, Amay? Why?"
His heart pounded as he tried to make sense of the horror before him. His breath came in shallow gasps, his vision blurred, and his head spun with anxiety and dread. He could barely hold on to consciousness as the room swirled around him. Finally, the pressure, fear, and tension overwhelmed him, and he collapsed.
Chaos erupted around Amay as he fell. People rushed to his side, voices overlapped in urgency. A doctor called for a stretcher, and within moments, Amay was whisked away to a room where they worked to stabilize him. After half an hour, Officer Prem approached the doctor.
"Doc! What happened to Amay suddenly?" Prem asked, concern etched on his face.
"It's nothing serious," the doctor replied, reassuring. "He just couldn't handle the pressure of fear and anxiety. He had difficulty breathing due to the suffocation of his panic. He's fine now. After a few hours, he'll wake up."
"I see. It's been too much for him. We'll do whatever we can to find the killer. For now, we're leaving. Let Amay know I need to talk to him when he wakes up. Okay, Doc?" Prem said, shaking the doctor's hand.
Later, Amay found himself standing outside his house. He glanced around, then at his hands, trying to ground himself in reality. As he stepped inside, he saw his wife, Amala, seated on a chair, engrossed in her crochet work. She looked up, noticing him.
"You're here! Give me some time; I'm getting ready," she said with a gentle smile, her voice soft and warm. Amay remained silent, unable to shake the foreboding feeling. Suddenly, Amala's expression changed, her eyes filled with an eerie numbness.
'Why, Amay? Why did you kill us?" she asked, her voice void of emotion.
The room darkened, shadows engulfing the space, with only soft moonlight streaming through the windows. Amala's body lay on chair before him, blood covering her, her throat and stomach brutally slashed, and beside her, their child lay motionless, equally mutilated. Amala pointed a bloodied finger at him, her eyes wide and terrifying.
"Why? Why, Amay? What is our fault? Why did you kill us? Amay... you killed us! You killed me... you killed your own child... why, Amay? Why?"
Amay's vision blurred, her words a relentless echo in his mind. He looked down at his hands, now stained with blood, a knife clutched in his left hand. His hands shook uncontrollably, and the knife clattered to the floor, the sound echoing through the room. Amala's face twisted into an evil, creepy smile as she screamed, "Amayyyyyyyy!""
Amay jolted awake, drenched in sweat. The doctor stood beside him, trying to rouse him from his nightmare.
"Amay, what happened? Are you okay?" the doctor asked, concern evident.
"Nothing... just a bad dream," Amay muttered, staring at his hands, the weight of the dream still pressing on him.
"Alright, you fainted. You need to stay in the hospital for at least one night," the doctor advised, placing a reassuring hand on Amay's back.
Amay nodded absently, his gaze still fixed on his hands. Half an hour later, he left the hospital, his mind a tumultuous storm. He wandered to a nearby park and sat on a bench under the glow of a streetlight. The silence around him was almost suffocating, with not a soul in sight.
He pulled out a photograph of himself and Amala, taken when she was pregnant. His fingers traced the image as memories surged, both sweet and bitter.
"Amayyyyy! Honeyyyyy! Are you ready?!" Amala's voice from the past echoed, a stark contrast to the silence enveloping him now.
Amay paced anxiously around his room, muttering to himself like a madman. "It's okay, Amay… it's completely fine. It's just a family photo, nothing to get nervous about… calm down, Amay, just calm down." His whispered scream of frustration broke the stillness. "Fuck meeee!"
The tension twisted his features into a mask of awkwardness as he stepped out of the room. In front of the mirror, he forced his face into strange smiles, hoping one might look genuine. Amala's annoyed gaze caught his attention, her eyes boring into him.
"What is going on?" Her voice carried a hint of anger.
"What?! Don't stare at me like that! I can't help it. I don't know how to do a genuine forced smile."
"I see. You don't have to force yourself," she replied, exasperation evident in her tone.
"I'm trying, but it's just not coming naturally today." He continued to contort his face.
"Trying? It's a smile, not rocket science," she snapped.
"Ahhh! You're being so mean to me today… I don't know, I just feel overwhelmed with everything going on. It's hard to force a smile."
Amala grabbed his ear tightly, pulling him towards her. "You don't have to force it. But a little effort wouldn't hurt. It feels like you're not even trying." She led him out of the house, locking the door behind them.
Amay's thoughts swirled as he carried her to the car. "I'm sorry. I know it frustrates you. I just need some time to work through things." His voice was tinged with sadness.
Amala looked at him, seeing the anxiety and sadness etched on his face. "Look at me, and listen. Don't force yourself. I understand you don't want to ruin our family photo. So don't be nervous, and don't worry about it. Just smile from your heart." She adjusted his shirt collar as they prepared for the photo.
"Sir! Ma'am! Please stand in the middle! Yes, Yes, perfect. Get ready, okay? 1… 2… 3… SMILE."
The photographer's voice echoed as the flash went off. Amay's heart lifted slightly, seeing Amala's reassuring smile beside him.
sitting on a bench under the streetlight, Amay gazed at the photo in his hands. "You really made me smile that day… and today, Amala," he whispered, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"That's a beautiful family. It will be even more beautiful after the child is born, don't you think?"
Amay looked up, startled by the unknown voice. A figure stood before him, face obscured by shadows, dressed in black pants, a white shirt, and a black tie.
"Who are you?" Amay's voice was slow, sadness and suspicion in his eyes.
"Me?" The figure paused, then continued with slower voice, "I'm The One Who Exploded Your House… And Killed Your Wife And Child."
Present Day: August 1st 2020 – 2:05PM.
Yash, Aman, and Shruti sat on a bench in front of their college, shaded by an old tree. The dark clouds overhead cast an eerie gloom, adding to the quiet tension in the air. While Yash and Aman chatted animatedly, Shruti was engrossed in her phone, oblivious to their conversation.
"Aman, check out 10 o'clock. Yellow dress, long hair," Yash said, using their code language to point out a girl without being obvious. They were in a predatory mode, assessing girls by their looks, body figures, fashion sense, skin color, and more. They used the clock and colors to discreetly discuss the girls' positions.
"Yeah, bro, she's alright, but she's got tomatoes, and we're looking for melons. Still, she's acceptable. Oh, motherfucker! Look at 1 o'clock by the entry gate. Damn, man! Damn! That's a hottie; everything's perfect on her," Aman said excitedly.
"Holy shit, bro! She's both beautiful and cute. What would it take to get her?" Yash responded, equally animated.
"Death, because in this life, it's impossible," Aman replied, his tone suddenly serious.
"Yeah, man, you're right. Hey, look! Look! 12 o'clock, under the tree. The red dress, she's cute," Yash said, nudging Aman with his elbow.
"Yep, she's really cute. She's from the biotech department. She's like a red Porsche, that cute," Aman remarked.
"Oh yeah, I forgot to ask you, what's your favorite car?" Yash asked, his curiosity piqued.
"The Pagani Huayra is my favorite because it combines incredible sound with a plethora of advanced features and stunning looks. The interior of the Huayra feels like a jet cockpit, complete with numerous toggle switches and meters that make you feel like you're piloting a supercar. The car includes a dedicated compartment for bags, ensuring practicality along with performance. Under the hood, it boasts a twin-turbocharged V-12 engine that generates an impressive 791 horsepower and 775 lb-ft of torque, delivering extreme pickup and acceleration. This power is complemented by its advanced electronic systems and launch control, which make the ride incredibly smooth and responsive," Aman explained, sounding like a car expert.
"Damn, bro, that's a lot of detail. I only asked which car is your favorite, not for a full review," Yash said, his disinterest evident.
"Motherfucker," Aman muttered, annoyed.
"Anyway, look at 3 o'clock. White dress, Kalpak would be perfect for her. Don't you think?" Yash changed the topic.
"Yeah, she's cute. By the way, where is that fucker? Call him," Aman said to Yash.
"Don't call him. He doesn't have his phone. He went to meet a teacher and handed his phone to me before he left. He'll be here soon," Shruti said, showing them Kalpak's phone.
"Oh, I see. Yash, whose turn is it to pay for lunch today?" Aman whispered to Yash.
"It's our turn to pay," Yash whispered back.
"Fuck! Listen, bro, I have a plan. We have Kalpak's phone here, so let's change the date and make them pay for the meal, okay?" Aman suggested, leaning closer.
"I'm not handing over the phone to both of you," Shruti said, not looking up from her phone.
"Shit, bro, she's such a killjoy," Yash muttered, disappointed.
Suddenly, Aman's phone rang. He glanced at the unknown number, picked up the call, and walked away from his friends to talk privately. "Yeah?... yeah... today?.... okay, OK... what time?..... 7:45 PM.... Alright.... I'll do it, but when will you release her?" his voice and face is serious.